Chapter Text
It had been a few weeks since that day. You hadn’t meant it to be that long — really, you hadn’t.
You’d told yourself you’d stop by. Just to check in, see how he was doing. Ask how the bird was healing, maybe bring something useful – more salve, extra feed, or even just baked goods from the Good Hunter. But the days kept slipping past, each one swallowed by errands and commissions, late nights at the blacksmith, the guild’s endless paperwork, or just… hesitation.
You hadn’t meant to stay away. Yet, you did.
As if the universe was playing a cruel joke on you, you kept being reminded of him all the time . A flash of red on the street that made you turn your head too quickly. The smell of smoke and wind in the folds of your coat. Quiet nights when the fire crackled a little too loud, and you caught yourself staring into the flames, recalling the weight of silence between you – the way it had felt almost comfortable.
You should’ve written. Should’ve sent a message. Something to explain. But you didn’t.
Finally – finally – your workload had ceased. It was summer now, and the decrease of suspicious activity always seemed to correlate with the warm weather (Why? You had no idea. But you weren’t complaining). Now, the path stretched ahead of you: familiar dirt beneath your boots, grass swaying easily in the wind. The late afternoon sun painted everything gold and green, warm and sticky against your skin.
The heat had become heavy in the past few days – summer settling in with its usual stubbornness. Cicadas buzzed in the distance. A few clouds drifted lazily overhead, slow and content, like nothing in the world was urgent.
Your bag felt lighter without your usual gear. You’d come empty-handed, no excuse in tow. Just the clothes on your back, and a hope that maybe it wasn’t too late. You weren’t sure what you’d say when you saw him.
The quiet of the vineyard greeted you like a held breath. You started down the familiar path–
Then you heard it – a distant cry, sharp and unmistakable.
You stopped mid-step. High above the vineyard, a shadow swooped through the sky. A sleek shape riding the wind, wings gleaming in the late afternoon light.
You tilted your head up, shielding your eyes from the sun.
“...No way,” you whispered.
Before you could think better of it, you gave a short whistle – two rising notes and a soft click of your tongue. There was a beat of stillness. Then–
A sharp chirp, and the bird veered in mid-air.
He dove toward you, wings tucked, and landed with a practiced flutter on your outstretched forearm. Lighter than you remembered, but stronger, more confident in himself. He puffed his chest, preened once, then let out a pleased chirp that almost sounded smug.
You laughed, quiet and startled, brushing your fingers gently down his neck.
“Hey, Tempus. You remember me, huh?”
From a short distance away, a flicker of red caught your eye – this time, it wasn’t the universe playing tricks on you. Diluc stood at the end of the row.
You hesitated. Then, slowly, started walking. The bird remained perched on your arm, feathers rustling with each step. As you approached the outer edge of the row, Diluc didn’t move, but his gaze tracked your progress – not unkindly, just… careful. As if bracing for something he couldn’t quite name.
You stopped a few paces away, giving him the same space he always seemed to need. The wind stirred between you.
“He’s grown,” you said, voice soft. “Stronger.”
Diluc nodded once, eyes drifting back to the bird. “He flies every morning now,” he murmured. “Sometimes in the evening, too.”
You looked at the bird, then at him. “I wasn’t sure if he’d remember me.”
“He did,” Diluc said, quiet but sure. “Right away.”
The bird gave a happy chirp, then launched off your arm and circled overhead, wheeling once before landing on a nearby fence post. He ruffled his wings proudly, chest puffed like he expected praise.
“I guess he’s his own creature now,” you said, watching the way his eyes gleamed in the light. “Doesn’t need me.”
“Still came to you.”
The words caught you off guard.
You turned your head toward Diluc, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes were on the bird, thoughtful.
There was a pause, and then he added, “He’s taken to following me sometimes. When I’m on patrol.”
You smiled faintly. “Little sentinel.”
Diluc hummed. “Annoying, sometimes. Distracting.”
But the corner of his mouth tugged upward. Barely – but it was there.
“He seems to like you,” you said.
“I haven’t done anything special.”
“Maybe that’s why.”
Silence settled again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The bird preened on the post, content, and the sun dipped lower behind the trees, casting gold over the fields.
Diluc’s eyes lifted, meeting yours.
“I’m glad you’re back.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest ache. Just honest. Open, in a way he rarely was.
You didn’t say anything right away — just held his gaze for a moment longer, then gave a small tilt of your head.
“Come inside,” he said, voice low. “It’s getting late.”
You followed him up the worn path toward the winery, the bird circling once overhead before finding a perch near the window ledge, out of the way. The doors creaked open under Diluc’s hand, and you stepped back into that quiet warmth you remembered so vividly. The familiar scent of hearth smoke and aged wood wrapped around you — grounding, steady.
He didn’t lead you to the sitting room, or the kitchen. Just glanced back once as if to ask are you sure – and when you nodded, he continued down the hall, soft-footed and silent, until he reached his room.
The door shut with a quiet click behind you. You stood there for a moment, not quite knowing what to say. But Diluc moved slowly, deliberately, shrugging off his coat and setting it aside, the motion calm but tense in a way that betrayed everything unspoken.
“I kept thinking about you,” you said softly, breaking the stillness. “More than I meant to.”
He paused, hands still. “I didn’t want to hope.”
You crossed the space between you in a few slow steps. “But you did.”
He looked at you – tired, maybe, but open in a way that caught your breath. “I did.”
There wasn’t a rush to it. No sudden movement, no pull of urgency. Just… a slow reaching. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone like he was still unsure if this was real.
You leaned into it. Fingertips brushed your cheek, feather-light, like he was still unsure this was real. Then his hand curved behind your neck, and he pulled you in with that same steadiness he brought to everything. When his mouth found yours, it was soft at first: cautious, testing, tasting.
Your fingers curled into the fabric at his back — the soft linen of his shirt, the subtle tremble in his shoulders. But when you sighed into him, he kissed you like someone who didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again. And you kissed him back like someone who wasn’t going to let it slip away.
He kissed you deeper, harder. His restraint cracked like glass under heat, and suddenly your back was pressed to the nearest wall, his hands gripping your waist with unspoken urgency. Your fingers were now tangled in his hair, and he groaned low against your mouth – a sound you felt in your bones.
He trailed his mouth down your throat, across your collarbone, leaving a path of heat in his wake. His hands explored every inch of you with aching patience: slow strokes and teasing brushes. Gentle where you were tender. Rough where you needed more. His name escaped you in gasps, broken and breathless, and each time he heard it, he responded…with his lips, his hands, the low sounds rumbling from deep in his chest.
Eventually, you found yourselves on the edge of the bed – not tangled, not breathless, just close. His hands were steady where they touched your waist, your hip, the curve of your back. Every motion asked for permission. Every look told you what he didn’t quite know how to say.
You helped him out of his shirt, and he helped you out of yours. There was reverence in it, as if he was unwrapping something fragile. Skin against skin, the warmth of him grounding you, anchoring you. He didn’t press for more. Just touched, slow and thoughtful. His eyes locked on yours.
When your mouths met again, it was softer: less about need and more about knowing.
He deepened the kiss then, just slightly. You tasted the hesitation turning into want, the unspoken thoughts folding into the way his mouth opened to yours. Another low sound escaped him — something restrained, something vulnerable. And it undid you.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Is this okay?” you whispered.
His hands tightened just a little. “Yes.”
When you reached for the hem of his shirt, his breath caught. You pushed it up over his chest, your fingers tracing the firm line of muscle, the softness of his ribs. He let you explore — let you see him, not just the image, not just the stoic figure people whispered about, but him.
Vulnerable. Real.
When your shirt dropped to the floor and his hands slid over your bare sides, his touch was curious. His thumbs brushed beneath your ribs. When his lips followed, placing warm, slow kisses down your throat, and along your collarbone, you arched into him without even realizing.
You laid back, and the sheets provided a cool against your back, contrasting the heat you felt inside. He settled over you like a shield, one arm braced beside your head, the other sliding down to cradle your thigh. His breath was shallow, his eyes flicking between your face, your lips, your bare skin beneath him.
“You can still tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice hoarse.
“I don’t want you to.”
His hips pressed gently against yours, and you gasped softly into his mouth, fingers curling against his back. When he finally pressed into you, it was slow, but the stretch of him was sharp and intimate and overwhelming. Your legs curled around him, your hands clutching his shoulders, and he stilled with a groan, forehead pressed to yours.
“Breathe,” he whispered, more to himself than you. “Just breathe.”
And then he moved.
His pace was slow at first. You moved together in rhythm, in breath, in want. His hands gripped your hips like he was afraid to let go. He trembled every time you whispered his name back to him, and in between gasps and shudders, he kissed you.
Each thrust sent heat spiraling through you, building higher with every motion, every sound he drew from you. He whispered your name like a confession. Like a prayer.
Your back arched beneath him, and you gasped his name again — half a sob, half a plea. He answered with a kiss so deep it stole the air from your lungs.
When release came, it was overwhelming: a flood of sensation, white-hot and endless. You shattered around him with a cry, your whole body trembling, and he followed moments later, his breath catching, his grip tightening as he poured himself into you with a hoarse groan and a desperate whisper of your name.
In the stillness after, he didn’t move. His forehead rested against yours: his breathing, ragged. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, the other curled at your waist – not holding you down, just… holding you. As if savoring the moment.
The evening air had cooled by the time you stirred again.
The sky outside had deepened to a soft indigo, the last traces of daylight bleeding gold along the horizon. Cicadas had gone quiet, their songs replaced by the low, rhythmic chirping of crickets nestled in the vineyard grass. Somewhere nearby, a breeze stirred the trees, brushing their leaves in quiet conversation.
Inside, the room had fallen still.
You lay there, wrapped in the hush that followed, your body molded against his; warm where your skin met, content in the way your limbs fit together, lazy and unhurried. One of Diluc’s arms was draped loosely around your waist, the other tucked beneath his pillow. His chest rose and fell steadily behind you, his breath slow against the back of your neck.
Neither of you had said much — not yet. But it wasn’t for lack of feeling.
Your fingers toyed with the edge of the blanket, tracing the stitches idly. His thumb brushed your hip in small, unconscious motions, as if grounding himself, or maybe you.
“…You’re warm,” you murmured at last, voice barely above a whisper.
Behind you, you felt the curve of his smile.
“You always run cold,” he said, his voice low, still thick with sleep and something more. “I thought you might like it.”
You shifted slightly to look at him. His hair was tousled, falling over one eye, and his expression – open and unguarded – made your chest ache in a different way.
You reached up, brushing that stray strand back. “I didn’t mean to stay away so long.”
“I know.”
“I thought about writing.”
“I know.”
You paused, your hand still at his cheek. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to come back.”
He turned his face slightly into your palm, eyes half-lidded. “I did,” he said, barely more than a breath. “Every day.”
Something quiet settled in your chest at that. A softness, unexpected and sure.
You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. “I’m here now.”
He nodded once, slow. “Stay.”
It wasn’t a question. It didn’t need to be. You shifted so you were facing him properly, your forehead resting lightly against his. His hand came up again – not to pull you closer this time, just to keep you there.
In the distance, you heard Tempus let out a low chirp from the windowsill. A soft sound, like he was making sure you were still here.
You smiled, eyes fluttering closed. “I think he missed me.”
Diluc huffed a quiet breath. “He refused to sleep anywhere but near the front door for the first week after that day. Just in case.”
You blinked, your heart catching. “He waited?”
“So did I.”
He didn’t say it like a confession – only a fact. As if he had never considered doing otherwise.
You pressed closer, curling into him. He welcomed you easily, his arms encircling you like a promise. The weight of the blanket shifted slightly as you moved, warm from where he'd held you close.
And for the first time in a long while, you felt still.
Not because the world had stopped spinning. Not because your work had disappeared, or your problems had vanished. But because right now, in this quiet room with him, you didn’t need anything else.
No more running. No more wondering. Just this.
Outside, the bird settled on the windowsill, quiet now. The wind moved through the open glass, warm with the scent of sun-soaked grass and something like woodsmoke. You stayed where you were: close enough to feel his breath, your fingers still tangled in his. No words left to say, no rush to fill the silence. Just the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady weight of him beside you, and the quiet certainty settling in your bones: you weren’t leaving. Not tonight. Not tomorrow.
You were home.