There was no man alive who worshiped you the way Wriothesley did. No hesitation, no shame—just pure, unfiltered adoration.

Gosh, he was your biggest simp, and he knew it.

Flirty as ever, even though you were already his. Especially because you were his.

You’d wear a black or deep red dress—nothing too extravagant, but enough to make his breath catch—and suddenly the dignified Duke of the Fortress of Meropide was a goner. His arm around your waist a little tighter, his lips brushing a little too close to your ear when he leaned in to whisper something undeniably dangerous, all because you looked too good not to touch.

You were his type—not that he had one until you came along and rewrote it entirely.

If you ever accompanied him to a formal event, it was over for everyone else. Wriothesley couldn’t keep his hands—or eyes—off you. Gloved fingers brushing your lower back, murmurs about how good you looked, how lucky he was, how he wasn’t going to survive the night with you dressed like that. Half the room could hear the affection in his voice when he introduced you. He’d show you off like you were royalty: “My partner,” he’d say proudly, voice full of warmth, “isn’t it obvious I won the lottery?”

But it didn’t take a gown to bring him to his knees.

You could walk into the room with messy hair in a lazy bun, swimming in one of his shirts—too big, barely hanging on your frame—and he’d still look at you like you were the most beautiful thing in all of Fontaine. No makeup, no effort, and he’d be ready to kiss you breathless against the wall with no warning at all.

Carried, pinned, twirled—you never knew what mood he’d be in. But you always knew one thing: he loved you out loud. Fiercely. Shamelessly.

“Mine,” he’d murmur when he stole a kiss, as if the whole world needed the reminder.

And truly… how lucky you were to have a man who made being loved feel like being treasured.