The silence dragged, broken only by the faint sound of his spoon clinking against porcelain. Wriothesley wasn’t even drinking his tea anymore—just holding the cup, staring at it like it might give him answers.

You tried—tried—to keep a straight face, but the corners of your lips twitched. He looked so ridiculously tragic it was almost cruel to keep the act going.

Finally, with a long sigh, you set your cup down. “Are you going to keep staring at me like a widower, or…?”

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing slightly. “So you noticed.”

“I’d have to be blind not to notice,” you teased, leaning forward on your elbows. “You’ve been burning holes in me with those eyes since morning.”

Wriothesley leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose like a man deeply wronged. “You didn’t drink from my cup. You dodged my hand. You pushed me away.” His voice dropped an octave, quieter, almost sulky. “Did I…do something?”

That was it. You couldn’t help it—you burst into laughter, clutching your stomach. His expression only grew darker, more pitiful, which made you laugh harder.

Standing, you crossed the space between you and slid onto his lap anyway, ignoring the way his arms instantly locked around your waist as if afraid you’d vanish again. You cupped his jaw, tilting his face toward you.

“You,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, “are so dramatic.”

His lips parted like he wanted to argue, but then your mouth was on his, soft and sure, and all that silent pouting melted away in an instant.

When you finally pulled back, his grip hadn’t loosened a bit. “Don’t ever do that again,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual. “I nearly lost ten years off my life.”

You smirked, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “And all it took was refusing to share tea.”

Wriothesley groaned and buried his face in your neck, muffling, “Cruel, cruel woman…”