The scent of parchment and ink mingled with the faint chill of the Fortress. Wriothesley sat at his desk, pen moving with practiced precision, morning light tracing the sharp lines of his face. You placed the steaming cup beside his hand.

Without looking up, he caught your wrist, tugging gently until you settled on his lap. His arm circled your waist, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding the quiet. Papers rustled, pen scratched, tea cooled—minutes melting into something softer.

Finally, he spoke, voice low and rough from disuse. “Stay a little longer.”