Wriothesley knows love because he knows you. That’s all there is to it.

Morning light filters through the frost-laced window, casting a quiet glow over the kitchen as you move about, the scent of breakfast filling the air. The gentle sizzle of eggs, the rhythmic scrape of a spatula—simple, familiar sounds that make the room feel warmer than it is.

A steady presence draws near before a solid weight leans against you, Wriothesley resting his forehead against your shoulder with a quiet sigh.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep. He lingers there, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple before pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft with something unspoken. “Smells good. You always know how to start the day right.”