They say you can tell when a man loves you. And with Wriothesley… it’s in the smallest, quietest things he does.

Tonight, it’s freezing in the Fortress of Meropide. The kind of cold that sinks into the stone and stays there. He insisted on walking you back to his office, something about “making sure you don’t slip,” but you know better.

It’s because he hates letting you wander alone down here.

Inside his office, the warmth hits you first—because of course he lit the fireplace before you arrived, even though he claimed he “just happened” to be using it.

He lies terribly. But adorably.

You take two steps in, and just like that, he’s already watching. His pen stops mid-sentence. His shoulders loosen. His eyes soften in that way he swears he doesn’t do.

“Hey,” he greets, voice low and warm. “You’re early.”

You shrug. “Wanted to see you.”

And the way he reacts… it’s subtle. But real.

His lips twitch into the smallest smile—one he tries to hide behind his hand before pretending to reread his notes. His ears redden slightly, too, but he’d rather fall into the abyss than admit it.

They say you can tell when a man loves you by the way his entire mood shifts the moment he sees you.

“You cold?” he asks, already shrugging off his coat before you answer.

You try to protest. “Wrio, that’s your—”

“It’s warm,” he says simply, settling it around your shoulders with careful precision. “And you’re shivering.”

He stands behind you for a moment, large hands on your shoulders, thumbs brushing your collarbone in slow circles—something he does only when he’s worried but trying not to show it.

Then he leans down. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough for his lips to graze your temple.

There it is again.

They say you can tell when a man loves you by the way he touches you gently, even though he’s strong enough to crush stone.

You turn to face him, tugging his coat closer around you. “Are you done working?”

He glances at the papers, then at you.

… and immediately closes the folder.

“Yeah,” he lies without hesitation. “That was the last of it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t even finish the sentence on that page.”

“It’ll finish itself later.”

You laugh, and he steps closer—never needy, never demanding, just a steady presence that pulls you in like gravity.

His hand finds your waist, warm and firm. “I like when you’re here. Makes this place feel… less like a prison.”

And then he does the thing that always gives him away:

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closing, his breath mingling with yours. Calm. Grounded. Completely unguarded.

No teasing. No smirking. No walls.

Just him.

Wriothesley doesn’t say “I love you” often. He says it like this— in the way he shields you with his body without thinking, in the way he gives you warmth even when he’s cold, in the way he stops working just because you walked in, in the way he softens only for you.

They say you can tell when a man loves you.

And with him? You feel it every time his arms wrap around you and he murmurs, barely audible:

“Stay a little longer… please.”