After a grueling boxing match at the Fortress, Wriothesley emerged victorious but heavily injured. His face was bloody, bruises covering his skin, and yet, the first thing he did wasn’t to seek a medic, but to come to your side. Without a word, he gently took your hand, pressing your palm against his cheek, his warmth seeking yours in the most vulnerable moment. You sighed in frustration—he needed a medic, not your touch—but there he was, finding comfort in your presence, as if your hand alone could heal him.