If there was one thing Wriothesley loved more than the quiet order of his office, it was having you in it.

Paperwork lay forgotten on the desk, reports half-read, ink left to dry—none of it mattered when he was stretched out on the sofa with you settled comfortably on top of him, your weight familiar, grounding. One arm stayed firm around your waist, the other absentmindedly resting along your back, thumb tracing slow, absent patterns as if committing the moment to memory. This was exactly where he wanted to be—not Duke, not Warden, not the man everyone feared or relied on. Just him. And you.

Other times, you’d lie tucked against his side while he pretended to read, glasses low on his nose, eyes skimming the same paragraph again and again. Your head rested against his chest, his arm a quiet cage around you, protective without being possessive. Every so often he’d lean his head down, brushing his cheek against your hair, breathing you in like it steadied him.

The Fortress felt different when you were there. Softer. Warmer. Less like a place of duty and more like somewhere he could finally rest.

Work could wait. The world could wait.

For now, there was only you—within arm’s reach, exactly where he liked you best.