You hadn’t expected Wriothesley to be such a painfully good teacher.

He wasn’t the type to yell or criticize. No snide remarks, no “you’re doing it wrong.” Just calm, clear guidance—grounded and steady, like the fists that kept the entire Fortress in line.

“If something happens to me or I’m not there…” he murmured one afternoon, hands on your hips to fix your stance, “I want to know you can at least buy yourself some time.”

You'd rolled your eyes. “Who would even try anything with you around?”

“That’s the point,” he said. “I won’t always be.”

That landed heavier than you expected.

So you let him teach you.

And he did, patiently—until you got cocky.

You’d finally managed a clean dodge, smirked at him like you were ready to take him on one-on-one—and he blinked once before that wolfish grin spread across his face.

“Oh?” He moved in a blur. Leg swept yours out from under you. Your back hit the floor in a second.

He crouched beside you, no teasing in his voice—just calm.

“Confidence is good. Overconfidence gets you flattened.”

He was a tactile teacher. Always touching, always adjusting. His presence a steady hum behind you—one hand at your spine, the other guiding your arm until your weight sat just right.

Sometimes his breath skimmed the back of your neck. Sometimes he leaned in so close you could feel his chest against your shoulder blades. But he never crossed a line.

Except for maybe your brain’s line. Because it was really hard to focus when that low voice murmured, “Bend your knees,” in your ear like a damn promise.

By the end of each session, both of you were drenched in sweat—muscles aching, skin flushed. He always collapsed first. Sprawled out in the center of the ring like he ruled it, one arm draped over his eyes.

“Done?” you’d ask, crawling over to him.

He’d peek from under his arm, lips twitching. “Not until you’re here.”

And sure enough—you ended up on his chest every time, curled against him with your cheek against his heartbeat, his arm wrapping around your waist with practiced ease.

Sometimes he’d run his thumb along your spine, other times he’d tilt his head to kiss your hair, murmuring nothing—just being there. Quiet, content.

You once tried to get up, all sweaty and sore.

He grabbed your wrist.

“Stay,” he mumbled, eyes barely open. “I’ll shower after. Just… let me hold you.”

If you were the one too tired to move, he didn’t even ask. Just scooped you up, bridal style, and carried you out of the ring without a care in the world.

To the couch. To the bath. To wherever he could rest you down and take care of you next.

He washed your hair with maddening gentleness. Kissed every bruise with a reverence he didn’t show in public. Fed you water like you’d fought a war—because in his eyes, you did.

And the best part?

He loved how strong you were. Not just physically—but when you stood your ground. When you challenged him, matched his wit, fought him with words and will. He never said it—but that was his Roman Empire.

The echo of your voice. Your fire. Your fight.That spark behind your eyes when you refused to back down.

That’s what played in his head at night, when you were fast asleep on his chest, and his arms held you like you were the only thing worth protecting in the world.

And maybe… you were.