Wriothesley was already running late.

You knew it the moment you saw the way he checked the time—sharp inhale, coat half on, keys in hand. And somehow, that was exactly when you decided to be mischievous.

You slipped away with a quiet laugh, turning the corner just fast enough to make him curse under his breath.

“Don’t—” Too late.

He caught you easily.

One second you were laughing, the next his arms were around you, lifting you clean off the floor like you weighed nothing at all. You let out a surprised sound, hands instinctively gripping his shoulders as he adjusted you against his chest, holding you like you were something precious—something soft.

“So this is what we’re doing now?” he murmured, amused, breath warm against your cheek.

Before you could answer, he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not gentle enough to let go easily either.

Just firm, warm, and grounding—like he needed to steal that moment before reality pulled him away again. His grip tightened slightly, making sure you were secure, like he had no intention of letting you slip away again anytime soon.

When the kiss finally ended, he rested his forehead against yours, exhaling slowly.

“…I really have to go.”

Reluctantly, he set you down, hands lingering at your waist for a second longer than necessary, like he needed to convince himself to let go.

Then one last kiss—short, deliberate.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, voice low and certain.

And only then did he turn to leave—already late, already smiling, completely unable to regret a single second of it.