Oh, Wriothesley was such a provider.

He might be away in the Fortress of Meropide for days—sometimes weeks—but not once did you go without. The house was always stocked with everything you needed. Better yet, everything you liked. New clothes in your favorite colors, accessories that matched your style a little too well for coincidence, little handwritten notes tucked between the folded fabric like: “Thought this would look good on you.”

And the tea—Archons, the tea. Fontaine blends, Inazuman imports, Sumeru spices—he sent them all. As if every new box said, I’m not there to have tea with you, but I want you to think of me when you do.

It didn’t matter if you hadn’t mentioned needing anything. That man noticed. Whether it was a passing comment or the way your eyes lingered on a market stall, he picked up on it. And he acted. Because providing wasn’t just duty to him—it was devotion.

He never made a show of it either. No grand declarations. Just quiet gestures of care. A new coat for colder nights. A pair of shoes to replace your worn ones. A silk scarf you didn’t know you needed until it was around your shoulders.

It wasn’t about materialism. It was about you. About loving you in a way that wrapped around every part of your life—even in his absence.

And really, who could complain? That man’s love language was spoiling you without reason, and you were more than happy to let him.