He takes it in stride—those sharp brows lift just a little, like he hadn’t expected it, but wasn’t even remotely upset. Quite the opposite, actually.

His lips curve into that slow, knowing smile.

"That's one way to shut me up."

Your breath catches. You’d kissed him. Mid-argument. In frustration, in impulse—just to stop the back-and-forth before either of you said something you'd regret. But now, the argument was the last thing on his mind.

He pulls you closer by the waist, slow but firm, like he’s claiming every inch of space you tried to keep between you.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low and far too smooth for your own good, “just ask for a break from arguing.”

His lips brush your ear. You swear the man knows exactly what he’s doing.

“I’m happy to give you my full attention… like this.”

It’s unfair, really. How cool and collected he stays, even when your heart’s doing flips in your chest. How he always knows how to say the exact thing that makes your knees weak.

Wriothesley is dangerous like that—cool on the surface, heat just beneath. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t storm off. He just watches you with those unreadable eyes, and then, when the moment’s right, acts.

A simp? Maybe. But only for you. And only in that quiet, unshakable way that makes it all the more intense.

The argument’s forgotten. Not because it didn’t matter—but because right now, you matter more.

And he’s showing you. Inch by inch.