The Fortress of Meropide hummed quietly tonight — the usual rhythm of footsteps and clinking chains replaced by something softer. You had followed Wriothesley to his office again, a habit he never tried to break. He didn’t even question it anymore.

He’d merely raised an eyebrow when you asked, “Mind if I stay with you for a bit?” And his response was the same as always — a nod, curt but warm in its silence.

Now he sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, pen scratching against parchment as a soft orange glow from the fireplace painted his jawline in gold. Every so often, he’d glance up, eyes flicking to where you sat on the couch, your legs curled under you with a book open on your lap. You weren’t really reading — just watching him, quietly.

The room was peaceful. He liked it that way.

Sometimes you’d hear the faint clink of his teacup or the turning of paper, and other times, the soft exhale he gave whenever his gaze met yours by accident. He’d look back down quickly — but you knew him well enough by now. That brief pause in his writing was his version of a smile.

When you grew tired, you placed your book aside and shifted, curling up against the armrest. He didn’t say anything when he noticed. Instead, his voice came a few minutes later, quiet and low — the kind of voice he used only for you.

“Cold?”

You hummed a sleepy “A little.”

And that was all it took. He set his pen down, stood, and without hesitation, draped his long black coat over you. The fabric was still faintly warm from his body heat. His gloved fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face before returning to his desk, wordless once more.

The work resumed — steady, efficient, but gentler now. His movements quieter, deliberate. Every so often, he’d glance over his shoulder, watching your breathing even out as sleep took over. The fortress could crumble and he wouldn’t dare let anyone make noise loud enough to disturb you.

By the time he finished, the candles had burned low. He leaned back, stretching his shoulders before walking over to you. You were fast asleep, his coat sliding slightly off your shoulder. He crouched beside you, resting one arm on the couch’s edge.

For a long moment, he just looked.

You — here, in this cold place he’d built to contain chaos — looked so impossibly soft, so out of place and yet so perfectly his.

He brushed his thumb against your cheek, whispering under his breath, “Even this fortress feels warmer when you’re in it.”

And maybe you didn’t hear it. Maybe you did. But when he leaned in and pressed a faint kiss to your temple before sitting beside you, your head found its way to his lap instinctively.

Wriothesley didn’t move for the rest of the night. The Duke of the Fortress, silent and still, kept watch — not over his prisoners, not over the order of Meropide — but over you.