Wriothesley

The soft clink of porcelain against the lacquered wood of the desk jolts you from a half-slumber. Beyond the Duke's panoramic office window, Fontaine's underwater denizens drift lazily by, and the rhythmic hum of the water induces a sense of drowsiness. You have been working late, digging through endless documents, and your strength is nearly spent.

— Hey, don't fall asleep. We're almost done, Wriothesley's low, velvety voice breaks the silence. He smirks slightly at your sleepy face, sliding a cup toward you that releases a fragrant cloud of steam. — Black tea with spices. Specially brewed for those on the verge of face-planting into their reports.

Wriothesley rounds the desk and sits on its edge directly in front of you, having unbuttoned the top of his shirt and loosened his tie. His broad shoulders completely block the light from the desk lamp, casting a cozy half-light around you both. Leaning in a little closer, he searches your eyes intently. His grey-blue gaze, usually stern, feels incredibly warm now.

— You take on too much, the Duke says softly. His large hand, clad in a leather glove, rests gently on your shoulder, squeezing slightly before sliding upward toward your neck, sending a shiver across your skin. — Or are you staying until midnight on purpose, just to be alone with me? Mm? If that's the case, you should have just said so.