Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting golden light across the polished floors of the study. Rain falling outside. You sat curled in one of the deep armchairs, legs tucked beneath you, a worn book resting in your hands. Every so often, your eyes wandered from the page to the man seated at the desk nearby.

Diluc was still, focused head bowed slightly as he sifted through yet another stack of papers, his red hair catching the firelight like embers. The only sounds in the room were the turning of pages and the occasional soft sigh from him as he dipped his quill into the inkpot.

You didn't speak. You didn't need to. There was a comfort in the quiet; a kind of unspoken understanding that this moment, shared in silence, meant more than any words could.

You turned another page, but found yourself reading the same paragraph twice.

He hadn't looked up once, but you knew he was aware of you. Just as you were aware of the way his presence always made the room feel warmer more grounded.

You were enjoying the book. Really, you were.

The story had all the makings of something you'd normally devour in one sitting clever prose, soft romance, a dash of adventure. And yet, as your eyes moved over the words, your focus kept slipping. You'd read the same line three times now, and it still refused to sink in.

It wasn't the book's fault.

The truth was, as peaceful as the room was, and as content as you should have felt, a part of you couldn't stop thinking about him.

Diluc sat across the room, posture upright but clearly worn from the weight of responsibility. His expression was unreadable, as always focused, serious. But you'd come to know him well enough to notice the way his eyes moved just a little slower than usual, the slight clench of his jaw when a document frustrated him. He was tired.

You wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like if he let go of the ledger for just one evening.

No patrolling. No paperwork. No brooding over what he couldn't fix.

Just... a quiet night spent with you. A walk through the vineyard. A shared glass of grape juice. Maybe even a small, rare smile.

The thought tugged at your chest. And before you realized it, you were staring book forgotten in your lap.

Across the room, Diluc's quill stilled.

His eyes lifted slowly, meeting yours.

For a second, neither of you moved. The only sound was the fire cracking in the hearth and your heartbeat, suddenly louder in your ears.

"What is it?" he asked, voice soft, but edged with curiosity. "You're staring."

You blinked, caught but you didn't look away.

"Just... thinking," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. "About how I'm reading this book, but I'd rather be doing something else."

One of his brows lifted, just slightly. "Like what?"

You closed the book gently and stood.

"Like spending time with you."

Diluc's eyes lingered on you for a moment longer and something in his expression shifted subtle, but unmistakable. The guarded edge eased, just slightly, as if your words had nudged something loose behind the clothes he wore so well.

He set the quill down with care, the movement deliberate. "You already are spending time with me," he said, his voice low, but quieter now... more present.

You tilted your head, giving him a look. "You know that's not what I meant."

He leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to the fire for a beat. The shadows caught along the sharp line of his jaw, but there was warmth there too, like the firelight was softening him from the inside out.

"I don't always know how to... stop," he admitted quietly. "Even when you're here. Especially then."

That confession made your heart ache, just a little.

You crossed the room slowly, until you stood beside his desk. "Then let me remind you how," you said gently, extending a hand.

For a second, you thought he might hesitate. But then he looked up at you—truly looked—and the corners of his mouth lifted into the faintest, rarest smile.

He took your hand.

You guided him away from the desk, to the armchairs near the fire. No more ledgers. No more ink stained hours. Just the quiet crackle of flame, the softness of your shared space, and the feel of his hand in yours.

For the first time that evening, Diluc let himself exhale. And for the first time in a long while, he let himself just be with you.

The armchair was just big enough for two, if you didn't mind being close. You settled into it first, curling into the cushions with a blanket draped over your legs. Diluc followed, a bit hesitant at first, until you gently tugged his hand again.

"It's alright," you said softly, patting the space beside you. "I don't bite."

That earned the tiniest huff of amusement from him, almost a laugh. He sat down carefully, his movements stiff, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself in a moment this... quiet. This normal.

You shifted closer, tucking yourself beneath his arm. He stilled as your head came to rest against his shoulder, your hand finding the space just over his heart. His breath hitched slightly, but after a few moments, you felt him relax muscles easing, tension melting into the warmth you offered.

His arm slid around your waist.

"You're warm," he murmured, his voice low and a little surprised.

"You're always cold," you replied with a soft chuckle, pressing your cheek against the fabric of his coat. "Ironic"

He was silent for a while after that, but you could feel it that slow, careful way he was letting his guard down. Letting himself enjoy this.

Eventually, you felt his head tilt slightly, resting against yours. His thumb traced idle circles against your side. The fire crackled, the storm outside had quieted, and for once, there were no urgent duties pulling him away.

Just this moment.

Just you.

And in the hush between heartbeats, he whispered, almost too quietly to hear:
"I could get used to this."

Your eyes fluttered closed as you leaned into him, breathing in the scent of smoke, cedar, and something uniquely him. His fingertips were still tracing gentle shapes against your side, slower now, more thoughtful than restless.

You didn't say anything. You didn't need to.

But then you felt it his lips brushing your temple. Featherlight. Careful.

Your heart skipped.

You tilted your head just slightly, looking up at him. His gaze met yours, and for a moment, the whole world seemed to quiet even further. The firelight caught in his eyes, warm and amber and full of something unspoken.

He hesitated but only for a heartbeat.

Then he leaned in, and kissed you.

It was slow, tender, and barely more than a breath—but it held more weight than any grand gesture could. It was a promise, spoken without words. A thank you. A stay.

When he pulled away, you were smiling.

"About time," you teased quietly.

A rare, soft chuckle escaped him. "I was waiting for the right moment."

"This one feels perfect."

His arms tightened just a little more around you, and the silence that followed was full of something whole. Safe. Real.

Eventually, the fire burned low, and the warmth between you grew heavier—sleepier. Your breaths slowed in time with his, your head tucked beneath his chin, your fingers resting lightly over his heart.

And there, in the soft hush of the winery's study, wrapped in Diluc's arms, you drifted off to sleep peacefully, finally, together.

The room had gone still.

The fire had long since faded to soft embers, casting a dim, amber glow that barely touched the edges of the room. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving behind only the occasional drip from the rooftop and the hush of night settling over the vineyard.

You stirred gently, eyes blinking open.

For a moment, you weren't sure what woke you. Then you realized it was nothing. No sound. No sudden movement. Just stillness.

And warmth.

Diluc's arms were still wrapped around you, one draped across your waist, the other cradling your shoulders. His breathing was slow, even. Deep. You tilted your head just slightly and saw his face peaceful in a way you rarely got to see. The tension that usually lived between his brows was gone. The quiet lines of exhaustion softened.

He was asleep.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

You stayed perfectly still, not daring to move, afraid even a breath too loud might pull him from this rare, much needed rest. You watched him, heart full, a gentle ache blooming in your chest—not of sadness, but of something quieter.

He deserved this. A night without patrols, without burdens, without ghosts.

Just sleep.

Just peace.

Your fingers brushed his hand lightly under the blanket, and you let your eyes fall closed again, finally, knowing that for once, he let himself rest. And that he did so holding you.

-

Thank you for reading my first published one shot!

Chapter Text

Liyue Harbor glitters like a dragon's hoard below you, gold lights flickering across the water. The sky is heavy with mist, but you can still make out the rooftop where she stands, arms crossed, red hair pulled back, gaze sharp as a blade.

You've heard whispers of her before. The Fatui's crimson shadow. The woman who smiles while she fights. You just never thought you'd be the courier unlucky enough to meet her alone.

"You're late," she says without turning. "And unarmed. Either brave, or stupid."

You set the small package on the ground between you. "Depends on who's opening the box."

Finally, she looks at you. And smiles.

You hesitate. Her smile is too easy, too knowing. The kind of smile you only see on people who win even when they lose.

"I was told to deliver the package. That's it."

You try not to look nervous, but Childe, if that's even her real name, has eyes that see through steel. Her gaze flicks from the box to you. She doesn't move to pick it up.

"Did they tell you who you'd be handing it to?"

"No." You shift your weight. "Didn't think I needed to know."

She hums. "Dangerous habit."

The silence between you stretches, only broken by the low hum of harbor lanterns swaying in the wind. You glance back toward the stairs, where the rest of Liyue sleeps unaware. You could still walk away. Leave the box. Leave her.

But she finally kneels beside the package, fingers tracing the worn edges like she already knows what's inside.

"You opened it."

Your blood runs cold.

"I didn't—" you start, but she cuts you off with a quiet laugh. Not mocking. Almost... impressed.

"You didn't have to. It's old. I can feel it." Her gloved hand hovers over the seal etched into the side. "A relic. From before the Archons ruled. And the fact that you carried it here tells me you've either got nerves of steel... or no idea what you're involved in."

You stay silent. Anything you say now could bury you.

Childe straightens up slowly. She's closer now. Close enough that the blue of her eyes is all you can see and for a moment, they aren't cold. They're sad.

"You're not Fatui," she says. "Not trained. Not even armed. Which means they sent you to die."

Your mouth goes dry.

"So," she continues, cocking her head, "you've got two options. Walk away and pretend you never saw me... or come with me, and find out why they wanted that box delivered to me, and not to the Tsaritsa herself."

You blink.

She smiles again.

"Don't worry," she says, voice low and velvet-soft. "I'll keep you alive. For now."

You're not sure why you follow her.

Maybe it's the way she moves like the city bends around her. Maybe it's the fact that you've already made it this far, package delivered, secrets cracked open. There's no putting them back now.

Or maybe it's that damn smile. Crooked, confident, like she knows something you don't.

You trail her through the alleys behind the harbor, where moonlight pools in puddles and the only sound is the hush of your own breath. She walks with no fear. Not even caution. As if no one would dare stop her.

They probably wouldn't.

She ducks into an abandoned tea house, the kind that once catered to merchants until business dried up. Inside, dust chokes the air, and moonlight spills in stripes through broken slats in the roof. She gestures for you to sit.

You don't.

"So," you say, arms crossed, "what's really in the box?"

Childe shrugs off her coat, revealing a long scar down her left shoulder. Faint, silver in the light. A reminder. A warning. She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she pulls a knife slim, beautiful, absurdly sharp—and begins prying the box open with practiced care.

When the lid lifts, the air changes.

It's like the temperature drops. Like something ancient exhales.

You step back as she opens the box.

Inside, a pale, humming shard. It pulses faintly, not with life but with something older. Your stomach flips just looking at it.

She tilts her head. "Huh. I didn't expect it to be... this intact."

"You know what that is?"

"Not exactly." She closes the box carefully. "But I know people who will."

You narrow your eyes. "Fatui people."

She looks at you then calm, unreadable. "Yes."

You curse under your breath. "So that's it? You deliver it to your bosses, and they turn it into some weapon that kills half a nation?"

Her smile falters, just for a second. "That's not how it works."

"No?" You step closer, pulse loud in your ears. "Because that's exactly how it looks."

For the first time, she doesn't deflect. Doesn't charm. Her voice is low, even.

"I do what I'm told because if I don't, people die. People I care about." She meets your gaze. "I don't expect you to understand. You just had a job to deliver the box."

"So I'm disposable?"

She exhales slowly, then gestures for you to sit. This time, you do cautiously.

"No," she says. "If you were, I wouldn't still be talking to you."

The silence stretches.

"Then what do you want from me?"

She studies you. And the way her eyes linger not calculating, but searching sending a strange chill through your spine.

"I want to know why someone like you was carrying something like that."

"I don't know. I just needed the money and I was given a job."

She laughs softly. "You and me both."

Then she leans forward, elbows on knees, suddenly close. "You're not trained, but you didn't flinch when you saw what was in the box. You're scared, but not frozen. You asked all the right questions. That tells me one of two things."

You swallow. "Which are?"

"Either you're a spy..." she smirks, "or you've got a death wish."

"And if I'm neither?"

Her smirk fades into something quieter. "Then you're just unlucky. And I have a weakness for unlucky people."

You hate how that makes your chest tighten. "So what happens now?"

She rises. Grabs the box, slips it into a hidden compartment in her coat. Her face hardens again. The Harbinger mask sliding back into place.

"Now," she says, "I deliver this to the Fatui."

You stand up quickly. "And me?"

She looks over her shoulder. Smirks.

"You come with me. I would like you by my side a bit longer."

Hours later, you're standing in the mouth of a dimly lit Fatui command tent pitched on the cliffs above Liyue Harbor.

The camp isn't glamorous. It's wind-beaten, damp with coastal mist, and smells faintly of gunpowder and frostoil. Guards stand outside like shadows, their masks hiding any sign of humanity.

You shouldn't be here. You're not Fatui. You don't even belong on their map.

But Childe said it best:I would like you by my side a bit longer. But why? She wouldn't tell.

She stands beside you now, in full Fatui uniform, red hair tied back tight. Her voice is steady when she speaks to the man behind the folding table. He's older, clearly annoyed, and flipping through notes like he's already decided your fate.

"This is the civilian courier?" he mutters, not bothering to look at you.

Childe doesn't hesitate. "Asset. She handled the delivery, and she's with me until this is resolved."

The man scoffs. "You're getting sloppy. Sentimental, even."

Childe's smile is razor thin. "No. Just efficient. She's seen the relic. She knows enough that killing her would be a waste."

You try not to react. But her words land heavy in your chest.

The man finally looks up. His eyes are cold. Measured. "Then keep her out of my way. Make sure your work gets done, she won't be happy if you're tardy because of a 'playmate'."

He leaves without another word.

When it's just the two of you again, the wind rattles the side of the tent.

You exhale. "You didn't have to lie like that."

She shrugs. "Wasn't a lie. You are useful. Just not in the way they think. Not something they will need to know either."

You glance sideways at her. "And what way is that?"

She looks at you for a long moment eyes unreadable.

Then she turns away, brushing the tent flap open. "C'mon. You're bunking with me tonight."

You blink. "Is that allowed?"

"No," she says over her shoulder. "But neither was dragging you here."

The inside of her tent is barely wider than arm's length. There's a cot, some supplies, a lantern casting flickering shadows. You sit awkwardly on the edge of the bedroll while she peels off her coat, tossing it over a crate.

"Get some sleep," she says, crouching near the lantern. "We move early. I need to take the shard deeper into the ruins for resonance testing."

You hesitate. "And what happens to me while you're gone?"

She pauses, then looks up at you. "You're coming with me."

"That's not smart."

"That's not new."

The two of you stare at each other for a beat too long.

She speaks first quietly. "I've done a lot of awful things for the Fatui. Things I don't regret... because I had to."

You don't speak.

"But you're the first thing I've brought in that feels like a choice. My own choice."

The words knock the breath out of you more than you expect.

And for the first time, you realize she may still belong to the Fatui, but she's still human.

You don't sleep that night.

The cot's too narrow. The air too cold. And Childe lies only a few feet away on her own roll, still in her boots, one arm tucked behind her head, her eyes half-lidded in that way that makes you think she's resting but never truly off-guard.

You roll onto your side and study her.

She's beautiful, in that lethal kind of way. All sharp edges and coiled muscle, like a blade someone dared to give a heart.

At first, you thought she was just being cautious protecting her asset. But now... now you see it.

The way her gaze lingers a beat too long when she thinks you're not looking.

The way she steps between you and danger before it appears.

The way her tone softens, not when you're weak, but when you try to pretend you're not.

She doesn't flirt not outright. That's not her style. But there's something hungry in the way she watches you. Like she's fighting the urge to drag you closer and tear the world apart for trying to touch you.

She's protecting you.

And worse?

You're not sure you want her to stop.

You shift in the cot and hear a quiet voice. "You awake?"

A beat of silence.

You chew on your bottom lip. "Why me?"

She turns her head toward you. Moonlight slices across her cheekbone.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... you could've walked away. Let me disappear. Or killed me if you had to. That's how the Fatui works, right?"

She sits up slowly, resting her elbows on her knees. "Is that what you think I am?"

You don't answer. But your silence is enough.

She sighs. "I didn't pull you into this to keep you alive. I did it because I couldn't stand the idea of someone else touching that part of the story. Of someone else getting to talk to you again."

You blink.

"I'm not good at... explaining things," she says, quieter now. "But you looked at me like I wasn't a monster. And that's rare. Dangerous. I think I want more of that. Even if I shouldn't."

You're frozen. Because suddenly, all those strange little moments make sense.

And you're terrified to realize that whatever this is between you it's not just mutual. It's magnetic.

It's already happening.

The next morning, the fog is thick over the cliffs as you and Childe descend into the moss-covered path toward the Qingxu ruins.

She's all business again blades strapped, face set in quiet control. But now, you see it.

The way her hand never strays far from her weapon when you're near shadows.
How she glances back every few minutes, not to check for enemies but to make sure you're still following.

You reach a stone arch half-swallowed by earth. The shard in her pouch pulses faintly.

"Stay close," she murmurs. "These places don't like intruders."

She pushes open the gate.

And the darkness swallows you both.

The ruins beneath Qingxu Pool are quieter than they should be.

You walk beside her, torchlight flickering against walls worn by centuries of wind and forgotten prayers. Strange carvings twist across the stone unreadable, almost moving if you look too long.

Childe moves ahead, body low, sharp as a drawn blade. You try to match her pace, but the silence presses on you like deep water.

Then you hear it.
Click.

Not from Childe.

From you.

She turns so fast you barely see it. One hand grabs your shoulder, the other slams you backward hard. You land on the stone floor, breath knocked out of you just as a panel under your foot sinks with a heavy thunk.

Everything stills.

Then—

WhhhHHHRRRKK—!

Blades snap from the walls. Long, rusted, whistling through the air where you'd just been standing.

One slices the hem of your coat.

Another grazes Childe's shoulder. A sharp line of red blooms across her uniform. She barely flinches.

"Stay down." She yells

You nod, breath caught in your throat, heart slamming against your ribs.

The trap resets slowly with a mechanical growl. Childe's eyes are wild now—focused not on the mechanism, but you. She grabs your face with a gloved hand, tilting your chin toward her, scanning for blood.

"I'm fine," you croak.

"You're not," she snaps. "You almost died."

"I wouldn't have if someone warned me this place eats people."

Her jaw clenches. She exhales through her nose. "That was my fault. I didn't think—"

"You always think."

She's still holding your face. Her fingers tremble just barely, like the adrenaline hasn't worn off. Or maybe it's something else.

Then she says it—too fast, too honest:

"If I lost you, I'd burn this whole ruin down."

Silence.

You forget the cold, the blood, the ancient stones around you. All you can feel is her hand, the thrum in your chest, and the fact that you're no longer sure which of you is the real danger here.

"...You're bleeding," you say softly, reaching for her shoulder.

"I've had worse," she mutters.

You sit beside her at the edge of the cliff above the ruins. The mist rolls over the mountains, veiling Liyue Harbor below like a dream half-forgotten.

Neither of you speaks. Not at first.

Her shoulder bandaged, now awkwardly, sloppily. You did your best. She let you. That was new.

The relic lies quiet in her pack, like a secret neither of you is ready to carry.

She finally breaks the silence.

"You should leave this behind. All of it. Me."

You stare ahead. "Do you want me to?"

Childe's quiet for too long.

"I want to keep you. That's the problem."

You glance at her. The breeze moves her hair, catches on her cloak.

There's no softness in her face, only honesty. It's worse, somehow.

"Don't say things like that," you murmur.

"Why not?"

"Because I might believe you."

Her laugh is low. Bitter. "Maybe I want you to."

You lean your weight into your palms, fingers curling into the grass. It's soft. Real. Unlike everything else the Fatui touches.

"You can't promise me anything, can you?"

"No."

"You won't leave them."

"I don't get to leave."

Silence again. The quiet before a storm. The moment before the next mission. The heartbeat before someone makes the wrong choice.

Then you look at her, really look. Her eyes are tired. Her walls are cracked. But she's still here.

So are you.

And that's the part that matters.

"...Alright," you say softly. "Then I'll stay. Tonight."

Her head turns toward you. No smile. Just that unbearable warmth buried in her gaze like a spark buried in snow.

"Tonight," she echoes.

No future. No promises.

But her hand brushes yours.

And neither of you pulls away.

Chapter Text

The scent of osmanthus tea drifted through the courtyard, mixing with the distant sounds of a waking harbor vendors calling, gulls crying, and the soft splash of boats bobbing along the docks.

Chongyun sat stiffly at the stone table, a cup of tea cooling in his hands. He had arrived fifteen minutes early, as usual. The early morning air was still cool, the sun barely beginning to peek over the mountains. Perfect weather, he thought. Calm. Controlled.

Then he heard the faint sound of skipping footsteps.

"You're early," Xingqiu chirped, stepping into the courtyard with a small bamboo basket tucked under his arm. "Or am I late?"

Chongyun gave him a Look. "You're exactly seven minutes late."

"Ah," Xingqiu said, completely unbothered, "then I'm precisely on time. Seven is my lucky number today."

He set the basket down with a flourish and opened it. Steam wafted out.

"I brought breakfast," he said. "Lotus leaf rice and almond tofu. And I may or may not have bribed the innkeeper's son for the last two sweet rice balls."

Chongyun blinked. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to," Xingqiu replied, sliding one of the rice parcels toward him. "Besides, I had a feeling you'd forget to eat again."

"I didn't forget," Chongyun mumbled. "I was... focused."

"On exorcism plans that involve sitting motionless in a courtyard with cold tea?"

Chongyun sighed and took a bite to stop himself from responding. The rice was still warm, perfectly soft.

They ate in companionable silence, the morning unfolding gently around them.

After a while, Xingqiu leaned back, brushing his fingers against a low hanging camellia bloom.

"Days like this feel like poems," he said.

Chongyun arched an eyebrow. "Poems don't have weather."

"Not true," Xingqiu countered. "This morning is definitely a sonnet. Peaceful. Balanced. Maybe even a little romantic, if I'm allowed to say so."

Chongyun coughed into his tea.

Xingqiu smiled, the mischief in his eyes soft rather than sharp. "You're blushing."

"It's the steam," Chongyun muttered.

They watched the petals sway in the breeze for a while. Then Xingqiu, very casually, nudged his hand closer across the stone table.

Not enough to touch but enough for Chongyun to notice.

"Would it be strange," Xingqiu asked, voice quieter now, "if I said I look forward to these mornings more than I probably should?"

Chongyun looked down at their near-touching hands. His heart was calm, oddly enough. No heat, no panic. Just a soft fluttering in his chest.

"I don't think it's strange," he said slowly. "I... like them too."

This time, he moved his hand.

And didn't pull away.

The air was warmer now, but not yet heavy. The sun had fully crested the hills, casting soft gold light across the courtyard tiles. The tea had gone cold, but neither of them moved to refill it.

Their hands rested side by side, pinkies just barely brushing.

Xingqiu glanced at their fingers, then up at Chongyun. "So," he said, as if he hadn't just gently wrecked the exorcist's emotional equilibrium, "what do you normally do after breakfast?"

Chongyun hesitated. "Training, usually. Or paperwork. Sometimes I go ghost hunting, if there are reports."

Xingqiu leaned his chin into his hand. "Let's not do any of that today."

Chongyun blinked. "Not... do anything?"

"Exactly. Let's waste time together." Xingqiu grinned. "Scandalous, I know."

"I don't think I'm very good at wasting time," Chongyun admitted, but there was no protest in his voice. His shoulders had relaxed slightly, as if some invisible weight had lifted just enough to let him breathe easier.

"Good thing I'm excellent at it," Xingqiu said. "Come on."

They walked through the quiet streets of Liyue, the cobblestones still cool underfoot. Morning vendors were just beginning to set up stalls fresh fish, flower petals, delicate steamed buns that released puffs of warmth when unwrapped.

Xingqiu bought one for each of them, using the excuse of "maintaining energy levels" even though they'd just eaten. He handed Chongyun a lotus-paste bun shaped like a smiling cloud.

"It reminded me of you," he said with a perfectly serious face.

Chongyun frowned at it. "Because it's... fluffy?"

"No. Because it's full of sweet things you try to hide."

Chongyun nearly dropped it.

"You can't say things like that," he mumbled.

"Can't I?" Xingqiu bit into his own bun, utterly unrepentant. "What will you do? Chase me around the harbor?"

"I might."

"Hm. That sounds fun, actually."

They wandered to the edge of the harbor, where the water lapped gently against the stone. The benches were mostly empty. Xingqiu sat with a sigh of contentment, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. Chongyun sat beside him, still holding the half-eaten bun.

"It's nice like this," Chongyun said after a while, his voice quiet.

"What is?"

"Not doing anything. Just... being."

Xingqiu turned to him, smiling softly now. No teasing. Just a look that lingered, warm and light.

"I like just being with you," he said.

There was a pause. And then Chongyun, surprisingly steady, replied:

"I know. I feel it every time we're together."

Xingqiu blinked.

And then his smile bloomed wider than ever.

The rest of the morning passed like a dream slow, sun-dappled, and quiet in all the right places. A day with no grand gestures. No poetry. No fights.

Just shared silence, easy smiles, and the soft press of shoulders touching.

It was enough.

Chapter Text

The air had smelled of osmanthus and rain-soaked wood. You had been sitting beside him in the courtyard, legs tucked beneath you, a cup of tea growing cold between your hands. Baizhu had worn no robe that day just loose linen, the weight of the day peeled off like armor. You were laughing softly at something he'd said. Maybe it wasn't even that funny, but your laugh had made his chest feel strangely... light.

There was no great event, no battle, no confession. Just your fingertips brushing his as you reached for a fallen camellia on the stone bench. Just his eyes lingering a moment longer than he meant them to. He had asked you a question about dreams, what yours were. And when you answered, something shifted in him, small and seismic.

You hadn't touched him much. But when you did, even in passing, it stayed with him like heat from a flame.

The warmth of the courtyard lingered even after the sun dipped low behind the rooftops of Liyue. The stones beneath your feet were still sun-kissed, and somewhere nearby, a cricket song stitched itself into the hush between you.

"I'm not," he replied quietly, voice mild but tinged with amusement.

You huffed a laugh through your nose, then glanced sideways at him. "Liar."

Baizhu didn't protest at that time. Instead, he reached forward slowly, careful, as though the silence between you might ripple if he moved too quickly and plucked a fallen petal from your sleeve. His fingers grazed your arm as he did, and though the touch was brief, something in both of you stilled.

"You've always been gentle," you said, softly now. It wasn't praise. It wasn't a compliment. Just a truth that hung in the air like incense smoke.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in the subtle way they did when he was trying to read something not written in words.

You looked down again. "Gentle doesn't mean distant, you know."

That silenced him. Not because he disagreed, but because you'd peeled something back in him he hadn't realized was visible.

Baizhu turned the petal over in his hand delicate, half-crushed and exhaled slowly. The wind stirred the trees above you, and a few more blossoms drifted to the courtyard floor.

After a while, you shifted closer not much, just enough that your shoulder brushed his, and when you leaned your head back against the edge of the bench, it almost rested against his.

"You always ask about everyone else's dreams," you said. "But has anyone ever asked about yours?"

His throat worked, but he said nothing at first.

You didn't push.

The quiet between you wasn't awkward. It never was.

Eventually, he said, voice low, "They change. Every time I think I've found a version that will last... someone reminds me of a better one."

When you looked at him then really looked there was something in your eyes that felt dangerously close to understanding. Too much, maybe. But not unwelcome.

Baizhu didn't look away.

And for that moment, for that brief, unspoken beat in time it felt like neither of you needed to.

The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of glaze lilies from a nearby planter. Their pale glow shimmered faintly in the twilight, like stars that had chosen to bloom close to the earth.

You reached down, plucked one from the cluster, and twirled its stem between your fingers. "This flower always looks like it's listening," you said absently, watching the petals sway. "Like it's waiting to hear something worth remembering."

Baizhu smiled faintly, that thoughtful sort of smile that never quite touched his eyes. "Perhaps it is. They only bloom in places of great significance, after all."

You turned to him, lifting the glaze lily. "Then tell me something worth remembering."

He paused. His gaze flicked from the flower to your face, then back again. "I don't often say things just to be remembered."

You tilted your head. "Then don't say it to be remembered. Just say it."

Baizhu hesitated not because he didn't have words, but because he rarely offered them unfiltered. But something about the way you looked at him open, patient, completely at ease unlocked the guarded places in him.

He let his hand rest on the bench beside yours, close enough that his fingers brushed your knuckles. It wasn't quite a touch, but it felt like a promise forming.

"I feel most at peace," he said, "when I forget how much time has passed."

You blinked, surprised but not confused. "Because time doesn't weigh on you, in moments like this?"

"No," he said quietly. "Because in moments like this... it stops mattering."

You didn't answer. You just held the glaze lily out to him.

He took it, fingers brushing yours this time, lingering. The softness of the petals was nothing compared to the warmth of your touch.

And then, as if sensing the weight of the moment might break it if acknowledged too directly, you leaned back again, closing your eyes.

Baizhu watched you.

The air around you settled. The lanterns flickered softly. No words needed to follow.

There were no declarations. No promises. Just the unshakeable stillness that settles when two people simply exist beside one another with nothing asked, and nothing withheld.

And as the night deepened around the courtyard, Baizhu didn't move away. He just let the silence stretch a little longer, let it breathe.

Let himself breathe.

With you there, it was easy.

The memory fades like the last whisper of a breeze through the trees.

Baizhu's fingers loosen their grip on the glaze lily, now wilting slightly in his hand. The courtyard is gone.

He stands alone, beneath a canopy of ancient pines, where the air feels cool and still almost sacred.

Around him, the earth is soft and mossy, broken here and there by pale stones, worn smooth with time.

He doesn't speak.

His gaze lingers on the stone closest to his feet, simple, unadorned, marked only by faint traces of carving.

The glaze lily falls gently from his fingers, petals scattering softly across the moss.

Baizhu inhales, slow and steady, as if trying to capture the weight of everything held and lost in this silent place.

A single leaf drifts down from above, settling near the stone.

He closes his eyes, a quiet farewell carried in the breath between heartbeats.

The wind stirs once more, as if answering.

Baizhu's breath catches, sharp and uneven beneath the stillness.

For so long, he had held everything inside every worry, every care, every aching hope wrapped tight like a fragile vial, fearing it might shatter if exposed.

But here, beneath the weight of this quiet earth, the walls begin to crumble.

His shoulders tremble, though he tries to steady them.

A single tear slips free, trailing down the pale curve of his cheek.

Another follows, warm and slow, tracing the path of memories he had long buried beneath calm words and steady hands.

He swallows hard, throat tightening.

The name he never spoke hovers just beyond reach, swallowed by the silence.

His fingers curl into fists at his sides, nails digging into skin not out of anger, but desperate need to feel something tangible, something real.

He sinks to his knees, head bowed low, the weight of loss pressing down like the heaviest of herbs he once carried with ease.

"Why," he whispers, voice raw and fragile, "did you have to leave?"

There is no answer.

Only the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a night bird, and the slow, steady beat of his own breaking heart.

Baizhu closes his eyes tight, allowing the grief to flood through him messy, unguarded, utterly human.

And in that quiet surrender, for the first time in a long while, he lets himself truly mourn.

Baizhu's fingers tighten into the moss beneath him, as if grasping at the earth could somehow root him back to that impossible time.

He remembers how it began quietly. A faint pallor to your cheeks, a weakness that whispered beneath your laughter.

Out of all the ailments he had faced, none had weighed so heavily on his heart as yours.

He had spent endless nights in Bubu Pharmacy, poring over ancient texts and rare herbs, desperate to find the cure that would bring you back.

Every potion brewed, every poultice applied, every whispered prayer was for you.

Yet, no matter how fiercely he fought, your illness deepened like a shadow swallowing the light.

Baizhu had never known such helplessness. The steady hands that healed others trembled with frustration when it came to you.

He'd hold your hand, frail and cold, and promise himself he would save you.

But as days turned into nights, and nights folded into dawns, the illness deepened its grip unyielding, cruel.

Baizhu knew he couldn't fight this alone.

He called upon Qiqi, the little apprentice with her gentle healing touch, hoping the pure innocence in her movements might somehow ease your suffering.

Changsheng, too, stayed close her wisdom and skill a rare gift that Baizhu leaned on like a fragile crutch.

Together, they worked tirelessly, mixing rare herbs, chanting incantations passed down through generations, crafting elixirs said to bring back the light from the edge of darkness.

But no matter how fiercely they battled, your breath grew weaker.

Every failed attempt twisted the knife in Baizhu's chest a little deeper.

He watched Qiqi's hopeful eyes grow heavy with exhaustion.

He saw the lines of worry etch deeper into Changsheng's face.

But worst of all was the silence that grew between you the moments when your eyes, once bright and full, would glaze over with pain and fatigue.

Baizhu's hands shook as he wiped the sweat from your brow, guilt knotting his insides.

He had brought everyone into this struggle, and still, he couldn't save the one he cared for most.

You stirred weakly beside him, eyes barely open but still holding the faintest glimmer of warmth.

Baizhu's hands trembled as he reached for your face, tracing the fragile lines as if committing them to memory.

With a voice barely above a whisper, he murmured, "I'm here."

Your breath hitched a fragile thread hanging between life and something else.

In that fragile moment, time seemed to slow.

Neither spoke, but the silence was full of everything words could never capture.

Baizhu leaned down, closing the distance with the gentlest of movements.

Their lips met soft, fleeting, filled with a lifetime of unsaid promises and quiet love.

It was a kiss that held both goodbye and gratitude, a bittersweet seal on the moments they had shared.

When he pulled away, your eyes fluttered closed.

And with a final, peaceful sigh, you slipped away.

Baizhu remained frozen, clutching your hand long after the warmth faded.

The room was still, heavy with loss.

His heart broke in a way that shattered the healer's calm forever.

The soft rustle of leaves whispers through the quiet woods as Baizhu remains kneeling by the unmarked stone. His hands rest on the cold earth, fingers brushing away a stray petal.

For a long moment, he simply breathes slow, uneven, weighted by a grief that time has never eased.

He thinks of the endless nights he spent chasing a cure, of the countless remedies and rare herbs that slipped through his fingers like sand.

There was a time when he wanted to end his search for immortality to let go of the burden of endless days if it meant never having to live without you again.

But he cannot.

Because to be mortal is to be bound to loss.

And to lose you was a pain so deep, so profound, that even eternal life would not erase it.

He rises slowly, the glaze lily petals scattering with the soft wind at his feet.

Baizhu knows, with a quiet certainty that aches like an open wound, that he will carry this loneliness for the rest of his days.

Mortal or not.

He will walk forward carrying your memory like a fragile flame in the darkness.

And though the years may stretch endlessly before him, without you, none of them will ever feel like home.

Baizhu turns away from the stone, his steps slow and heavy, each one carrying the weight of a thousand silent goodbyes.

The forest around him remains still, untouched by time or mercy.

The glaze lily's petals drift aimlessly in the breeze, fragile reminders of a love that once bloomed, now faded into shadow.

He knows there will be no healing for this wound.

No elixir to mend a broken heart.

Only the endless stretch of days ahead, empty and hollow, without you.

And so he walks on immortal, alone, forever haunted by the ghost of a life that might have been.

Chapter Text

The scent of warm honey and flowers drifted through the open doors of the teahouse, mingling with the soft chatter of Liyue Harbor outside. You stood behind the counter, wiping down a porcelain teacup with practiced ease. The midday rush had just ended, leaving a rare moment of peace.

Autumn had settled in, gentle and golden. The osmanthus trees along the harbor path had begun to bloom, their tiny star-shaped blossoms littering the cobblestones like gold dust. You'd blended your newest tea with the petals this morning, a soft, nostalgic aroma that reminded you of stories told beside a hearth, of laughter, and of longing.

The bell above the door chimed.

You looked up.

A tall man stepped inside. His posture was poised, movements smooth and deliberate like flowing ink on parchment. The muted browns and golds of his attire blended with the colors of the season, and his amber eyes seemed to hold both warmth and ages of unspoken thought.

You offered him a smile, brushing your hands against your apron.

"Welcome," you said. "Looking for something warm?"

He paused, eyes drifting toward the small sign beside the counter:
Today's Special: Osmanthus Bloom smooth, floral, nostalgic.

His lips quirked slightly.

"Osmanthus wine... one can hardly resist the memory it carries," he said quietly, more to himself than to you. Then, more clearly: "Does your tea carry the same sentiment?"

You blinked at the unexpected phrasing, but nodded. "I'd like to think so. Would you like to try a cup?"

He stepped forward, nodding once. "Yes, please. I believe... I will enjoy this."

There was something in the way he said it that made your heart flutter, though you couldn't explain why. As you turned to prepare the brew, you caught him gazing at the teahouse's interior not with casual curiosity, but with reverence, as if the wooden shelves and faded cushions told a story worth listening to.

By the time you set the delicate cup down on the table before him, the man had removed his gloves and folded them neatly beside him.

"It's on the house," you offered with a gentle grin. "You're my first customer to walk in because of the scent alone."

He raised a brow slightly, then inclined his head. "Then allow me to offer something in return: a tale. About the very flower steeped in this cup."

You blinked again, surprised. But something about his presence, calm, kind, grounding made you settle across from him without hesitation.

That day, the tea stayed warm long after the cup was empty.

Zhongli cradled the cup gently between his hands, long fingers tracing the rim as though savoring not just the taste, but the moment itself. The quiet hum of Liyue Harbor drifted in through the open window, street merchants calling out their wares, the rhythmic lapping of waves against the dock, the rustle of osmanthus petals swept by the breeze.

You waited in silence, sensing he would speak when the time was right. And he did.

"In a time before this city stood proud and gleaming," he began, voice low and steady, "there was a lone grove nestled in the hills. It bloomed with osmanthus year-round, impossibly so. The flowers never withered, no matter the season."

You rested your elbows lightly on the table, listening.

"Many believed the grove was cursed. Or enchanted. Travelers would report hearing soft music there, even when the wind was still. They said the trees whispered names of long-forgotten ones."

He paused, gaze focused not on you, but somewhere far beyond the walls of your teahouse.

"But to one man, it was home."

You tilted your head. "Who was he?"

"A caretaker. A quiet soul. Not a warrior, not a scholar. He had no fame, no coin. But he tended the trees with love so unwavering that the grove bloomed in response. He believed memory lived in scent and by preserving the flowers, he preserved the lives of those who had been lost."

Your fingers curled around your own cup, warmth seeping into your skin. "That's... kind of heartbreaking."

Zhongli smiled faintly, almost sadly. "Perhaps. But the man was not lonely. He found comfort in the rhythm of caring for something older than himself. And in return, the grove remembered him."

He looked at you then, really looked and something in your chest fluttered under the weight of his gaze.

"I think places remember us, too," you said, your voice quieter now. "The corners we sit in. The things we leave behind."

His smile softened, and he set the empty teacup down with the reverence of someone placing an offering.

"Then let this place remember," he said gently. "That once, on an autumn afternoon, two strangers shared a story and a cup of tea."

You blinked, the words catching you off guard—not because they were grand, but because they were true. You felt it. A strange, grounding warmth. Not infatuation. Not mystery. Just... closeness.

He stood, sliding his gloves back on with practiced elegance.

"I will return," he said simply. "If you'll have me."

You nodded, smiling before you could stop yourself. "I'll save your seat."

And as he stepped outside into the falling petals and fading sunlight, you realized something curious:

The scent of osmanthus still lingered in the air, long after he was gone.

Just like the warmth in your chest.

The first time he returned, he brought a stone.

Smooth, pale, and warm in tone, it fit neatly in the center of his palm. When he placed it on the counter, you blinked.

"A gift?" you asked, confused but smiling.

"A paperweight," he said, brushing a speck of dust from it with his gloved thumb. "Your receipts were threatening to escape."

You glanced at the unruly stack near your register and laughed. "You noticed that?"

"I notice many things," he replied simply, and took his usual seat by the window.

It became a rhythm after that. Not daily, but regular in a way that didn't feel coincidental. He always came mid-morning or just before sunset, when the light slanted gently across the teahouse floor. He never ordered anything different, always osmanthus tea but he always brought something small.

A dried glaze shard he found by the harbor wall. A pressed flower between two pages of an old book. Once, a silken bookmark embroidered with gold thread.

You began to expect him, though you told yourself you didn't. You'd start brewing a cup a few minutes before he was due to arrive, pretending it was habit, not hope.

One late afternoon, as the sky was painted in gold and mauve, he lingered longer than usual. The tea had long since cooled, and you both sat in the comfortable hush that needed no filling.

"You mentioned," you said softly, turning your cup between your hands, "a tea that could stop time."

Zhongli looked up at you, a slow, fond smile tugging at his lips. "Ah. So you remembered."

"I think about it every time I brew something new," you admitted. "Wondering if it's close."

He leaned back slightly, studying you like one might study a familiar constellation.

"There is no single blend," he said. "Not truly. But... there are moments. When everything is so still, so deeply present, that time itself pauses to listen."

He reached across the table, fingertips brushing the rim of your cup.

"Like this."

You swallowed gently, heart thudding louder than it should. His fingers didn't touch yours almost, but not quite. The distance was deliberate, but fragile. A held breath.

"I didn't realize tea could be so poetic," you whispered.

"It isn't," he murmured. "You are. The tea simply listens."

A silence settled again, this one quieter, deeper. You could hear the faint ticking of the old wall clock, the rustle of petals swept across stone outside, the thrum of something unspoken between you.

When he finally stood, twilight had crept over the harbor.

"I'll return again," he said, as always.

And just as he reached the door, he paused and looked over his shoulder.

"Perhaps next time," he said, "I'll bring a blend to share. One for two cups."

You didn't say anything right away. You only smiled.

But that evening, you wrote it down in your notebook:
Zhongli. Osmanthus. Two cups.

And tucked inside the pages, where no customer could see, you slipped the bookmark he'd once given you.

Just in case.

It was raining the next time he came.

Not a storm just a whisper of mist that kissed the stones and turned the petals to gold-dusted glass. You had lit a lantern in the corner, the glow casting soft shadows across the shelves and walls. The air was warm, fragrant, filled with the gentle hush that came only when the world slowed down.

Zhongli stepped through the door with quiet grace, droplets clinging to his shoulders like stars. He carried no umbrella.

But he carried something else.

A small, polished tea canister black and bronze, with a design of two intertwining branches etched into the lid.

You raised an eyebrow. "Is this the time-stopping blend?"

"Not quite," he said, offering it to you with both hands. "But it's the closest I've found."

You opened it and inhaled slowly. Notes of osmanthus, yes but something deeper. Something faintly spiced, warm like firelight, soft like memory. You couldn't place it, but your heart stirred.

You brewed it without a word, and he watched. As always. But this time, you noticed the small changes.

He stood a little closer. His eyes lingered not just on your hands, but your face. The steam rising between you carried more than heat. It carried anticipation.

You brought the tea to the table two cups. For once, you didn't sit across from him. You sat beside him.

He seemed neither surprised nor hesitant.

The first sip was... quiet.

And then something changed.

Not in the tea.

In the moment.

The hum of the world fell away. The clatter of dishes, the distant harbor bells, the soft rainfall they vanished, or perhaps, bowed to the hush between you.

"I feel it," you whispered. "Like we're the only ones here."

Zhongli looked down at your hands. One rested lightly on the table, fingers curled. His own moved slowly, deliberately, and settled near yours. He didn't touch, not yet. He only waited.

You turned your hand over. He took it, gently.

"It's odd," he said softly, "how even after all this time, I can still find something new. A stillness I thought I'd forgotten."

You smiled, heart stuttering under the weight of his words. "I'm glad you found it here."

His fingers curled slightly tighter around yours.

"I didn't find it in this place," he said. "I found it in you."

And then, without asking permission, because he didn't need to, Zhongli leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours.

No sudden kiss. No dramatic declarations. Just closeness. Just warmth. Just two people holding still in a world that never stops moving.

Outside, the rain continued.

Inside, time forgot to pass.

Chapter Text

The air in the Fortress of Meropide is colder than you remember.

Not the biting kind of cold, just the quiet, heavy chill that sinks into your clothes and clings to your skin. The kind that wraps around silence like a second layer. And Wriothesley, sitting behind his battered desk, looks like he's been carrying that cold inside him for days.

He doesn't look up when you walk in. He barely acknowledges your presence beyond a nod and a tired murmur of your name.

There's a new scar along his jaw. Faint, but fresh.

"Riot broke out in Block B two nights ago," Clorinde had warned you before you arrived. "Three injured. One critical. Wriothesley hasn't left the lower levels since."

You clear your throat. "I thought I'd check in before the inspection rounds. The reports were... incomplete."

"They're all the same," he replies, voice low, flat. "Damage, injuries, blame. Doesn't matter what order you write them in."

That's not the Wriothesley you remember. He was always composed, yes stern, sure but never this... hollow. This version of him is more shadow than man.

You step forward, cautious. "Wriothesley—"

"Don't," he cuts you off, and his eyes finally meet yours. They're tired. Guarded. "Don't try to fix it. Or me."

Silence stretches between you, taut as wire.

Then, softer: "You shouldn't have come down here."

You cross the room anyway, stopping just a breath away from his desk. You rest your hand on the edge, steadying yourself as much as offering him something to hold onto.

"Maybe not," you say quietly. "But you looked like you were about to disappear."

His gaze falters.

And for a moment, you think he might finally say what's weighing on him. But instead, his hand curls into a fist and you see the dried blood along his knuckles.

That's when the ache in your chest spreads, cold and sharp.

Not from the fortress.

From him.

Your hand had trembled the day the gavel struck.

The courtroom had been full of onlookers eager for spectacle. You hadn't committed the crime, but the evidence had been damning enough. A clerical error, they said. A misfiled report. No one stepped up for you.

Except him.

Wriothesley had stood at the back of the courtroom, arms crossed, expression unreadable. You hadn't even known who he was the Administrator from the Fortress of Meropide, there to observe.

But when the sentence was passed temporary confinement for reevaluation he'd stepped forward.

"I'll take responsibility," he'd said, voice calm but firm. "Send them to the Fortress. Under my watch."

There was murmuring, disbelief. A few scoffs from the legal aides.

He hadn't flinched.

You remembered staring at him in shock, searching his face for a reason. You'd never spoken before. You were nothing to him.

Or so you thought.

Later, in the bleak metal halls of the Fortress, he'd passed you a steaming cup of tea.

"It's not much," he'd said, leaning against the wall beside you. "But warmth helps."

You'd wrapped your fingers around the mug like it was a lifeline.

"Why did you do it?" you'd asked, voice barely audible.

Wriothesley had tilted his head. "Because no one else did."

You never forgot that look in his eyes' quiet resolve, tempered by something you couldn't name. A man who carried justice not like a badge, but like a burden.

You never got the chance to thank him properly.

Not until now.

The warmth of that memory flickers inside you as you look at him now tired, worn and bleeding in silence.

And suddenly, you know exactly what to say.

Your hand rests on the edge of his desk, fingers curled slightly against the cold metal. Wriothesley's gaze flickers toward it just for a second before returning to your face. There's a hesitation in his eyes, like he wants to say something but can't find the words.

"I still remember the tea," you say quietly.

That catches him off guard.

He blinks, just once. The tension in his shoulders doesn't vanish, but it falters.

"You didn't have to step in back then," you continue. "But you did. You didn't know me, and still... you gave me warmth when I didn't even know I needed it."

He exhales through his nose, slow and bitter. "And now you're here trying to return the favor."

"Maybe," you say. "Or maybe I just know what it feels like when everything starts slipping through your fingers, and no one notices."

His jaw tightens. That stubborn silence again.

But this time, you don't let it stretch too far.

"I know you, Wriothesley," you say, voice gentler now. "You hold everything together for everyone else. You always have. But who holds you?"

For a moment, he just stares at you. Like the question genuinely stuns him.

Then, with a low breath, he leans back in his chair not relaxed, but tired in a way he can't hide anymore.

"I thought I had it under control," he admits. "I really did. But three of the injured were just kids. I should've seen it coming. Should've stopped it."

You move around the desk slowly, giving him every chance to stop you but he doesn't. He just watches as you kneel slightly in front of him, gently taking his injured hand in yours.

"There's blood on your knuckles," you murmur. "Was the wall supposed to answer for it?"

A dry, humorless huff. "It didn't."

You smile faintly, brushing your thumb across his skin with more care than the fortress has likely seen in weeks. "Then maybe let someone else take the hit next time. Preferably not a wall."

He's quiet again but his hand doesn't pull away.

Not this time.

And then, just above a whisper, he says your name like it's a tether. Like it's the first solid thing he's had in days.

"I didn't realize how much I missed hearing your voice."

And just like that, something inside both of you softens.

Wriothesley doesn't flinch when you lift his hand, but his eyes follow your movements with a careful kind of silence. The blood along his knuckles is mostly dry now rust-colored streaks across pale skin, evidence of how hard he hit whatever wall he thought would listen.

You hold his wrist steady, guiding him toward the small table near the window where you'd set your satchel down earlier. It's not a medical kit, not really but you always keep a few essentials.

"I'm fine," he murmurs, tone quiet, almost distracted.

"You're bleeding," you reply, without looking up. "And I doubt your fortress has the time to treat its own administrator for split knuckles right now."

He doesn't argue further.

When he sits down beside you, the silence between you shifts less tense now, more like the lull of something fragile slowly repairing itself.

You work carefully, cleaning the scrapes with a cloth dampened from your flask. His hands are rough, calloused, warm despite the chill. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

"You've been carrying too much again," you say under your breath.

His voice is low. "That obvious?"

You glance up. "Only to someone who knows what your silence sounds like."

A faint breath of a laugh escapes him, not quite amusement, but not pain either. Just a release of something he'd been holding back.

Your fingers brush against his knuckles, gentle and unhurried. He doesn't pull away, but he doesn't meet your eyes either. You don't push it. Letting him just be for now is enough.

"I hate this," he says finally, voice rough. "Not the bruises. Not even the guilt. Just... knowing I'm supposed to be better. And I'm not."

You pause.

"You're allowed to break, Wriothesley. That doesn't make you less of who you are. It just means you're human. Which, by the way, you hide a little too well."

That earns a real exhale from him—half sigh, half something softer.

"And you," he says, a touch more alive now, "always did have a way of reading me."

You smile faintly. "Someone had to."

You wrap the last strip of bandage carefully, fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long. Not enough for him to comment—but enough that you know he feels it, too.

When you're finished, you glance up again. His face is close, now closer than it was a moment ago. Eyes steady on yours, unreadable but present.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

You shake your head. "Don't thank me. Just... stop bleeding on your own time."

That draws the smallest tug of a smirk from him. Barely there but it's something.

Later, after the bandages have been tied and the silence has stretched long enough to become comfortable, Wriothesley stands.

He glances toward the heavy metal door that leads deeper into the administrative wing of the Fortress. Then back at you.

"You should come in," he says quietly. "It's... warmer there."

You hesitate not because you don't want to, but because it's him. Because that small, cautious offer feels heavier than it sounds. You nod anyway.

His quarters are just as you remember: neat, functional, but touched by details that hint at the man beneath the title. A worn coat hung by the wall. A kettle on the corner stove. A thick, fur-lined blanket draped over a battered couch. It smells faintly of tea and old books.

He gestures for you to sit while he starts the kettle, moving with a quiet efficiency that betrays his exhaustion. You watch him in the amber glow of the overhead lamp, the weight on his shoulders still visible but less sharp now.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you here again," he says, not looking back.

You lean into the couch, letting the warmth of the room and his presence settle around you like a second skin.

"I didn't think you'd still be here to come back to."

He pauses. His back stiffens slightly. But then he exhales, shoulders lowering.

"You know, for a place made of stone and silence, it's... lonelier than I let on."

You say nothing at first. Just watch the way he stands there hands resting on the counter, back turned like he's afraid you'll see too much if he faces you now.

"You don't have to be alone tonight."

His head turns, just a little. You can't see his expression, but you know he heard you.

The kettle whistles softly, steam curling into the air. He pours two mugs, places one in your hands, and sits beside you not too close, but not distant either.

The couch dips under his weight.

You sip in silence. The tea's familiar same blend he gave you all those years ago. You smile faintly.

"You remembered."

He glances at you, then down at his cup. "Didn't forget a single thing."

The fire of those words settles low in your chest, slow and glowing.

You don't touch, not yet. But your knees brush, and neither of you moves away.

He doesn't say anything more, but after a long pause, he leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes.

Just for a moment.

And then, with a voice rough from restraint but gentle in a way he rarely allows himself, he says:

"I'm glad you're here."

You don't answer.

You just rest your shoulder lightly against his.

And he lets it stay.

The warmth from the tea has settled in your chest, but it's not what's keeping you still it's him. The way his shoulder lingers against yours. The way his hand, bandaged and bruised, slowly finds yours in the space between you.

His fingers curl around yours tentative at first, then certain. You hold him back just as gently.

Neither of you speaks. You don't need to.

It's enough to just be here, to exist in this shared stillness where the Fortress's shadows can't reach. The low hum of the steam pipes. The soft clink of ceramic against wood. His quiet breathing beside you it's the closest thing to peace this place has ever offered.

You lean your head on his shoulder. He shifts slightly to make room, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"I hate that you saw me like that," he murmurs after a long silence.

You smile faintly. "And I love you anyway."

His chest rises, then falls a deep, quiet breath. You can feel his tension ebbing with every second you stay, like your presence is softening something inside him that's been coiled too tightly for too long.

"Next time," he says, voice quieter now, "remind me I don't have to hold everything together alone."

You turn your head slightly, pressing your cheek against his arm. "Next time, I won't wait for you to ask."

There's a silence after that, not the heavy kind, but one that settles like snowfall. Light. Gentle. Final, in a way that feels like healing instead of ending.

Eventually, he stands and offers you his hand not as the administrator, not as the fortress-keeper, but just as Wriothesley.

Your Wriothesley.

"Come to bed?" he asks, voice low, warm.

You take his hand without hesitation, fingers threading between his. The lamp stays lit behind you, casting a soft glow across the room. But in his arms, under the thick blanket and the weight of the day finally lifted, the cold can't touch you.

And even if the Fortress still sleeps in stone and steel, for tonight, he doesn't.

Tonight, he lets himself rest with you beside him.

Chapter Text

The storm came faster than expected.

Kaveh stood at the edge of the library's roofless hall, arms folded tight against the sudden chill that came with the wind. He had ventured up to clear his head, but now the sky above looked like it might swallow the desert whole churning clouds thick with sand, bruised at the edges with violet dusk.

Footsteps behind him. Predictable ones.

"You shouldn't be up here," Alhaitham said, voice calm, but with a tension threaded through it. "You saw the forecast readings. It's going to hit hard."

Kaveh didn't look back. "So leave me, then. I'm sure you'd enjoy the silence."

Alhaitham didn't move. "You think I enjoy silence because it excludes you. But it's the only thing that makes sense."

Kaveh turned to him, storm in his chest to match the one in the sky. "Is that what you think this is? Some academic experiment to survive me for three months in the desert? I'm not a thesis, Alhaitham. I'm—"

"You're exhausting," Alhaitham cut in, quiet but sharp. "But you're also the only person who challenges me in a way that matters."

That shut Kaveh up. For once.

Lightning cracked on the horizon.

Alhaitham stepped closer, slowly, like the wind might knock either of them over if he didn't anchor himself. "You talk about legacy and art like they're sacred. And maybe they are. But I don't understand it the way you do. I want to. That's why I volunteered to come with."

"You didn't volunteer," Kaveh said, breath hitching. "You were assigned."

Alhaitham looked at him then really looked. "I didn't object."

A beat passed. Then another.

"I used to think you didn't care about anything," Kaveh said, voice cracking like sandstone. "But it's worse than that. You care. You just hide it so well it makes people think they're fools for feeling."

Alhaitham reached out, gently brushing sand from the collar of Kaveh's coat. "And you feel so much you don't leave space for anyone else."

Kaveh laughed bitterly. "I'd rather drown than disappear."

"And I," Alhaitham said, voice soft, "have spent my life disappearing by choice. Maybe that's why we can't look at each other for too long without arguing."

Their eyes met not with heat, but weight.

"You think this is just tension," Kaveh whispered.

Alhaitham tilted his head. "Isn't it?"

"Then why do I miss you when you leave the room?"

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full.

The wind howled again, shaking the ancient stones around them. Alhaitham reached out, slowly, like he was solving an equation made of breath and longing.

He touched Kaveh's hand lightly, just enough for Kaveh to curl his fingers into the contact.

Not a kiss. Not yet. But something just as loud.

"We should go inside," Alhaitham said, and for once, Kaveh didn't argue.

The silence that followed was thick, not the kind that bristled with tension, but one that felt full, like the sky before a summer downpour. Kaveh only nodded, letting the warmth of Alhaitham's hand slip from his own as he turned back toward the ancient stairwell.

They descended slowly, the stone steps slick with dust, lanternlight flickering against the sand-blasted walls. The air inside the ruins was cooler now, heavy with the scent of limestone and the storm creeping through cracks in the foundation.

Alhaitham walked behind him not too close, but close enough that Kaveh could feel the weight of his presence. For a moment, the memory of Alhaitham's fingers brushing his gentle and searching, burned warmer than the lantern in his hand.

They reached the bottom floor. A low chamber where they'd set up camp: sleeping mats pushed to opposite sides, blueprints rolled and stacked, their project glowing quietly under weeks of shared effort. It felt different now, the space less like a temporary field base and more like... something else. Something lived in. Shared.

Kaveh set the lantern down on a crate and finally turned.

Alhaitham was watching him. Not passively, not analyzing watching. Eyes steady, expression unreadable in a way that was both infuriating and comforting.

Kaveh cleared his throat. "Well. That was... dramatic."

"The storm?" Alhaitham asked.

"No. Us." Kaveh's voice was dry. "But yes, also the storm."

Alhaitham let a breath out not quite a laugh, but close. "You've never been good at subtlety."

The words landed like a dropped tool in a quiet room. Kaveh blinked, uncertain if he'd misheard or worse, imagined it.

"...You volunteered for this project because you wanted to prove a point," Kaveh said, arms crossed, defensive more out of habit than conviction.

"No," Alhaitham said, stepping forward. "I volunteered because I wanted to understand you. And I knew I couldn't do that from across a room. Or across a court case. Or a shared apartment full of doors we kept closing."

Kaveh's throat went dry. "And do you?"

Alhaitham didn't answer immediately. He stood in front of Kaveh now, so close the flickering lanternlight cast both their shadows on the wall behind them one long, one tall, overlapping in strange ways.

"I don't understand everything," he said finally. "But I understand that you care more deeply than you let anyone see. That you're afraid of being left behind. That when you argue, it's because you want to be heard. Not because you want to win."

Kaveh felt like something was breaking open in his chest. Something small and tightly wound.

"And you," Alhaitham added, quieter, "make me want to speak, even when silence is easier."

Kaveh swallowed. "You're really bad at this."

"I know."

"You skipped half the parts normal people say before getting to the devastating truths."

"Would you rather I recite a script?"

Kaveh laughed a real one, short and breathless. "No. But maybe don't sound like you're defending a research thesis while telling me you... care."

"I'm still calibrating my delivery."

Kaveh looked at him really looked. "Do you care?"

"I wouldn't have come after you if I didn't," Alhaitham said. "I wouldn't have touched your hand. I wouldn't have stayed up reading your annotations on the margins of your designs."

Kaveh blinked. "You read those?"

"I read everything."

Of course he had. Of course.

And then Alhaitham stepped closer, close enough that there was nothing between them but air and whatever this was whatever it had been growing into, quietly, under all the fighting and distance and long, electric silences.

"I'm not ready to say everything," Alhaitham said. "But I'm not walking away. Not anymore."

Kaveh stared at him. His heart beat like a fist against his ribs. He didn't know how long he stood there before he answered or if his answer was words at all.

Because instead of speaking, Kaveh leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Alhaitham's once more, like he had under the storm, but this time without urgency. Without hiding.

Their hands found each other again. No fanfare. Just quiet contact.

This time, neither of them let go.

Chapter Text

The rain had begun its descent just past dusk, veiling Liyue Harbor in a curtain of silver threads. Lanternlight shimmered on wet cobblestones, and the scent of petrichor wove through the narrow streets like an old lullaby. Bubu Pharmacy, perched on its familiar corner, glowed softly in the evening dim, its paper lamps casting gentle halos onto the sidewalk outside.

Inside, the world felt quieter.

Baizhu moved with practiced grace, his sleeves brushing lightly across glass jars and porcelain tins as he prepared the tea. Qingxin leaves, dried violet petals, and a rare, slow-aged root known only to a handful of alchemists filled the air with a subtle warmth. He worked slowly, not only for the sake of the brew but because the ache in his chest had begun to stir again. It was a familiar whisper, a reminder of how thin the line between healing and hurting could be.

Behind him, the bell above the door chimed softly.

"You're early," Baizhu said without turning, a faint smile beginning to tug at the corner of his lips.

"I find it pleasant to arrive before the storm settles in," came a calm and steady voice.

Baizhu turned, teapot in hand. Zhongli stood near the entrance, folding his umbrella with deliberate care. Droplets still clung to the hem of his coat, and the golden light from the lanterns caught in his amber eyes, making him look almost otherworldly.

"Then you're just in time," Baizhu replied, nodding toward the low table by the window. "It tastes best when steeped slowly. Like most things worth waiting for."

Zhongli's smile was subtle, but his eyes softened. "That philosophy has always resonated with me."

They sat together, the quiet stretching between them in a way that felt natural. The rain tapped gently against the windows, and the first tendrils of steam rose from the pot, carrying the scent of herbs and something older. Something restful.

It was the kind of evening where time seemed content to rest its feet. And in the hush that settled around them, something unspoken began to take root.

The tea had steeped long enough. Baizhu poured carefully, hands steady despite the usual tremble that came with the hour. Zhongli watched him in silence, noting the way Baizhu's eyes lingered on the cup a second too long, as if willing the warmth into his bones before even taking a sip.

Baizhu offered a cup across the table. Zhongli accepted it with both hands, always deliberate, always composed.

For a while, they drank without speaking. The pharmacy was quiet save for the sound of rain on the windows and the occasional creak of wood settling. It was the kind of quiet that welcomed reflection, not the awkward kind that demanded something be said.

"You always brew this particular blend when it rains," Zhongli said softly, setting his cup down.

Baizhu tilted his head, curious. "You noticed?"

"Of course." Zhongli's gaze lingered on him. "It soothes you."

Baizhu didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked down at his cup, watching the faint swirl of herbs in the water.

"It does," he said finally. "Not just the tea. The rain too. When I was younger, storms frightened me. But now... I think I find comfort in the way the world slows down. It feels like I can catch up, even if just for a moment."

Zhongli nodded, his expression unreadable but not unkind.

"You carry a great deal," he said quietly. "More than most see. You wear it well, but it is still weight. And even the strongest backs bend if they never rest."

Baizhu let out a breath, part laugh, part sigh. "You speak like someone who's carried centuries of weight himself."

Zhongli's smile was faint but genuine. "Perhaps I have."

Their eyes met then. For a moment, the space between them felt smaller. The low table, the tea, the rain it all blurred at the edges.

"You don't have to pretend with me," Zhongli said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "Not strength. Not certainty. You are allowed to be tired."

Baizhu blinked once, then again. Something stung behind his eyes. He hadn't cried in years not because he had nothing to cry about, but because there had never been time, never been anyone who would have noticed. Or cared.

But Zhongli noticed. And he cared.

"I'm always tired," Baizhu admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Zhongli reached across the table, one hand settling gently over Baizhu's. His fingers were warm. Steady.

"Then rest," he said. "At least for tonight. You are not alone."

Baizhu didn't pull away.

The storm outside deepened, but inside the pharmacy, the warmth lingered. Baizhu closed his eyes, letting himself breathe in the stillness, and in the quiet strength of the man beside him.

Baizhu didn't say anything more. He didn't need to.

The warmth of Zhongli's hand over his lingered, solid and calm like riverstone. Baizhu let his fingers relax, easing into the quiet contact, and leaned back slightly in his seat. His shoulders, often tight from pain and the weight of responsibility, eased just enough to feel the difference.

Zhongli remained still, content to hold space without pressing further. Outside, the rain softened, falling in a rhythm so familiar it could have been a lullaby. The scent of the tea drifted between them floral, faintly sweet, earthy in a way that felt grounding.

Baizhu's eyes drifted toward the window. He wasn't quite tired, but he was peaceful, and that was rarer.

"Do you ever miss it?" he asked quietly. "Being a god?"

Zhongli was quiet for a long moment. Not because he didn't have an answer, but because he was choosing it carefully.

"I miss the clarity," he said. "The simplicity of purpose. But not the distance. It was a cold thing, to watch the world and not truly be part of it. There is something sacred in sitting with someone like this. Not as an archon, but as a man."

Baizhu looked at him then, really looked at the lines of his face, the depth in his eyes, the gentleness carved into every gesture.

"It's strange," Baizhu murmured. "I think I've spent most of my life preparing to die. But when you're here, I forget. Just a little."

Zhongli didn't speak. He only offered his hand again, this time letting it rest lightly against Baizhu's.

No promises. No grand declarations. Just presence. Just warmth.

They sat like that for a long while. The rain faded into a hush, and the lanterns inside the pharmacy glowed soft against the night. Somewhere nearby, Qiqi stirred in her sleep, her footsteps muffled as she shuffled in her dreams.

Eventually, Baizhu leaned his head against Zhongli's shoulder, slow and hesitant, as if testing the weight of the moment. Zhongli didn't move away. He turned slightly, just enough to offer more space, more comfort.

Baizhu closed his eyes.

And Zhongli stayed.

He didn't speak again. He didn't need to.

Not when his silence said: I am here. For as long as you need me.

Outside, the last of the rain slipped from the eaves, and the clouds began to part, letting moonlight filter through in pale ribbons. Within the stillness of Bubu Pharmacy, two figures remained by the window, one learning how to rest, the other choosing to stay.

Baizhu had not meant to fall asleep, not truly. But with his head resting against Zhongli's shoulder and the warmth of tea still in his chest, the world had lost its hard edges. His breathing slowed, deep and even, and the furrow in his brow faded. The storm, both inside and out, had finally passed.

Zhongli stayed motionless, not for lack of comfort, but out of reverence. As if moving might disturb the fragile quiet Baizhu had finally found. He watched the rise and fall of the other man's chest, the way loose strands of green hair shifted with each breath. In that stillness, something ached within him a quiet longing, not for power or memory, but for moments like this. Shared and simple.

He did not need to speak to make a promise. Baizhu would not remember every word, perhaps not even the moment itself when morning came. But the body remembers safety. The heart remembers being held without needing to ask.

So Zhongli remained, watching over him as the lanterns flickered low and the night deepened.

And in that quiet hour between dusk and dawn, something gentle took root. Not loud, not sudden. Just steady, like stone shaped by time and touch.

Whatever came next, they would meet it together.

Chapter Text

The heat in Natlan didn’t just hang in the air, it danced. Waves of warmth shimmered over the red clay streets, curling into alleyways scented with grilled fruit, wildflowers, and smoke from festival torches. Children darted barefoot through the crowds, faces streaked with paint and laughter, while fire-dancers spun arcs of flame in time with the drums.

Capitano stood rigid beneath a canopy of paper lanterns, arms crossed, his black armor catching the light like obsidian under the sun. He was unmistakable a shadow amidst color, silence amidst sound. People gave him space, half out of respect, half out of uncertainty.

Mauvika spotted him from across the market square, wedged between a cart of sizzling kebabs and a rack of festival charms. She paused mid-bite of a honeyed plum and tilted her head. The man looked about as comfortable as a glacier in a bonfire.

With a grin, she plucked a ripe mango from a basket, sauntered over, and held it up to him like an offering.

"Here. You look like you're about five minutes from melting into your boots."

He didn’t answer, but she saw it the subtle tilt of his head, the way his hand hesitated before accepting the fruit.

She stepped closer, mischievous spark in her eye. "Come on, masked man. It’s not poison. Just Natlan sunshine in fruit form."

Capitano turned the mango slowly in his hand, thumb brushing the skin. “I don’t eat during missions.”

“This isn’t a mission. It’s a festival. You’re supposed to relax,” Mauvika said, folding her arms. “You do know how to do that, right?”

A long pause. Then:

“I know how to observe.”

She laughed. “Then observe this.” And with a single flick of her knife, she sliced the mango open, handed him a piece, and popped the other into her mouth.

Sweet. Juicy. Sticky. Perfect.

He stared at her for a moment silent, still. Then, almost imperceptibly, he took a bite.

She leaned in, satisfied. “See? Told you. Sunshine.”

Capitano didn’t reply.

But he didn’t stop eating, either.

Mauvika watched him with open amusement, propping her chin in her hand as she lounged sideways on the fountain’s edge. The golden Natlan sunlight caught the juice dripping down his wrist, and for a second, she imagined wiping it off with her thumb then promptly buried the thought beneath a smirk.

"See? Not so bad, right?" she said, nudging his elbow with hers. "You might even survive the week here if you stop acting like you're holding a war council in your head every five minutes."

Capitano didn’t answer right away. He chewed slowly, gaze fixed on the festival around them the tumbling dancers, the bursts of color from silk banners, the way laughter spilled down every street like music.

Eventually, he said, “It’s... quieter than I expected.”

She blinked. “Quieter? There’s literally someone playing drums on fire over there.”

He gave a slight shake of his head. “Not the noise. The energy. It’s loud, but it isn’t hostile. It’s warm.”

Mauvika tilted her head, her teasing fading just a bit. “Not everything has to be a battlefield, you know.”

“I know,” he said. Quiet. Honest.

They sat like that for a while. The crowd ebbed and flowed around them, all heat and celebration. A little girl ran past with a trail of bright paper birds dancing behind her, and Capitano’s eyes followed her briefly, curiously, before drifting back to the mango in his hand.

“You don’t smile much,” Mauvika said after a moment, half-lazy, half-intrigued.

“I don’t need to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Another pause. Then, he turned to look at her not sharply, not guardedly, but... openly. Thoughtfully. She met his gaze, unflinching.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

She grinned. “Good. I’d hate to be predictable.”

For a moment, just a flicker of something softer passed between them lighter than the air, brighter than the lanterns. She broke it first, hopping to her feet and stretching with a theatrical groan.

“C’mon,” she said, holding out a hand. “You’ve conquered fruit. Now it’s time for dancing.”

“I don’t dance.”

“You don’t eat mangoes either, apparently,” she said, tugging his hand. “Come on, it’s just steps and music. Worst case, you trip and give the crowd a story they’ll be telling for years.”

He didn’t move. But he didn’t pull away, either.

Mauvika leaned closer, eyes bright. “Just one dance. I promise not to make fun of you.”

She was lying. He knew she was lying. But somehow, it didn’t matter.

He rose to his feet.

The movement was unhurried, deliberate less like someone preparing to dance and more like someone stepping into a sparring ring. Mauvika, still holding his hand, laughed under her breath.

“You really think I’m going to throw a punch mid-step, huh?”

Capitano said nothing, but there was something in the way he let her lead him quiet trust, or maybe quiet curiosity. The music had shifted now, faster, layered with strings and foot stomps. People circled around the bonfire in the square, pairs and trios clapping, spinning, shouting lyrics half-forgotten but joyfully sung.

Mauvika pulled him into the edge of the chaos.

The rhythm hit like a heartbeat, steady and quick, she caught his other hand, placing it lightly on her waist as if they’d done this a hundred times before.

“Follow me,” she said, her voice low with excitement, “or make it up as you go. Natlan doesn’t care which.”

Capitano didn’t answer, but he moved. Stiffly at first, like a statue being coaxed into motion. Mauvika guided him, never letting go, her own movements loose and easy. She stepped, spun, pressed her shoulder to his chest for a beat, then back again. Each movement she taught him without words through pressure, through glances.

And slowly, incredibly, he began to follow.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t perfect. But there was something honest about it, something that made Mauvika’s heart thrum a little louder than the drums.

At one point she leaned in close, speaking just loud enough for him to hear over the roar of music and fire.

“You’re doing it,” she said. “You’re not terrifying anyone. Well, except maybe that one guy who thought you were a statue.”

“Good.”

She laughed, head tipping back. “That wasn’t a compliment, Cap.”

Another turn. Another step. The circle of dancers spun around them, but they were locked into their own rhythm now, half a beat off, entirely their own. The fire crackled behind her. His hand lingered a little longer at her back.

And then the music slowed, shifted into a softer refrain, something swaying and golden.

They didn’t step apart.

Mauvika looked up at him face warm, eyes reflecting firelight.

“Still think this isn’t your kind of place?” she asked.

Capitano was quiet for a long moment. Then:

“I don’t know what kind of place this is,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “But I don’t want to leave yet.”

Mauvika’s breath caught.

She didn’t say anything. She just held his hand a little tighter as they kept moving to the music, slow now, not caring if the crowd watched or if time slipped past.

For tonight, they had fire. They had rhythm.

And they had each other.

As the last notes of the song melted into the night, the crowd erupted into cheers, laughter, and the crackling roar of fresh logs tossed into the bonfire. Sparks rose into the air like tiny stars, vanishing into the velvet sky.

Capitano didn’t step away. Neither did Mauvika.

They stood there, still holding each other’s hands, still swaying faintly to music that was no longer playing. The space between them had folded in, close and quiet.

She leaned her head against his chest, just briefly. He didn’t tense, didn’t pull away. His hand, large, steady rested at her back with surprising gentleness.

“…You’re not going to disappear in the morning, are you?” she murmured.

“No,” he said. Simple. Solid.

She smiled at that, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the fire painted the inside of her eyelids gold.

“Good. Because I was going to steal your mango if you tried.”

A pause. Then softly, like a secret: “I saved another one. For you.”

She looked up at him, eyes flickering with heat and something warmer beneath.

“You’re getting better at this, you know,” she whispered. “The whole ‘being a person’ thing.”

“And you’re surprisingly hard to ignore,” he said, a hint of warmth threading through the usual quietness of his voice.

They stood in silence for a moment longer. Around them, the crowd began to shift toward the food stalls, the games, the late-night fireworks. But neither of them moved.

Then Mauvika tugged his hand, gently.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s disappear before someone ropes us into the couples’ cooking contest. I hear the Natlan chili can melt steel.”

“And yet you still want me to try it.”

“Well,” she said, grinning as she bumped her shoulder against his, “you’re full of surprises. I like surprises.”

And as they slipped into the glow of the lantern-lit streets, side by side, the firelight behind them faded but the warmth didn’t.

Not for a long time.

Chapter Text

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but Mondstadt still shimmered with lantern light and laughter. From the windows of the Knights of Favonius Headquarters, the muffled sounds of music drifted faintly upward a distant reminder of the Windblume Festival unfolding in full color beyond its stone walls.

Inside the Grand Master’s office, the air was quieter, stiller. The only movement came from the scratch of a quill across parchment, each stroke sharp and precise. Jean’s brow furrowed in concentration, a faint crease between her eyebrows betraying the weight she carried in her silence.

“Still at it, darling?” came a familiar voice, velvet-smooth and edged with amusement.

Jean didn’t look up. “Lisa,” she said, only half-surprised. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying the festival?”

“I was ,” Lisa replied lightly, stepping further into the room with the faint jingle of her earrings. “But it felt a little dull without our hardworking Acting Grand Master out there charming the townsfolk.”

Jean sighed softly, finishing the line she was writing before setting her pen down. “There’s too much to be done. I can’t afford to be distracted right now.”

Lisa tilted her head, arms folded beneath her chest. “Jean, it’s nearly midnight.”

Jean blinked, finally glancing toward the window. The city lights shimmered in the distance, wrapped in festival hues. “I didn’t notice.”

“You never do,” Lisa murmured. Then, more gently, “That’s why I’m here.”

Jean straightened, the tension in her shoulders refusing to leave. “What is it? Another report?”

Lisa smiled that half-lidded, knowing smile that always made Jean feel like she was missing something. “In a sense,” she said, stepping closer. “I need you to come with me. There's… a matter of the heart that needs your attention.”

Jean blinked. “A what?”

Lisa offered her hand, fingers open, waiting. “No paperwork. No patrol schedules. Just a few verses of poetry, a cup of tea, and maybe…” Her voice dropped just slightly. “…a chance to remember that you’re allowed to feel things too.”

For a long moment, Jean didn’t move.

But then slowly, like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze she stood.

And she took Lisa’s hand.

The familiar scent of old parchment and lavender welcomed Jean like a forgotten memory as they stepped into the library. Lisa’s domain was quieter than usual, lit only by a few floating candles and the soft silver light pouring in through the high arched windows. Outside, stars blinked lazily in the deep Mondstadt sky. Inside, everything felt suspended like time had slowed just for them.

Jean looked around, brows raising slightly. A table had been set near the far window, draped in soft cloth and adorned with a pot of steaming tea, two porcelain cups, and a small stack of books bound in worn leather. A few Windblume petals had been scattered across the surface

artful, but not accidental.

“You… prepared all this?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Lisa gave a gentle hum as she walked ahead and poured the tea. “Of course. The Windblume Festival is all about expressing affection, isn’t it? I simply thought a little peace and poetry might suit you better than parades and pollen.”

Jean lingered by the doorway a moment longer, a strange warmth pooling quietly in her chest. She followed Lisa to the table, letting herself sit  carefully, almost like she was afraid it might all vanish if she wasn’t gentle enough.

Lisa passed her a cup. Their fingers brushed. The touch lingered a breath longer than necessary.

Jean glanced down quickly.

“Don’t worry,” Lisa said, leaning her chin into her palm as she smiled. “There are no hidden alchemy experiments this time. Just jasmine and dandelion. Calming.”

Jean took a sip and let the warmth spread through her. She allowed herself to exhale.

The librarian slid the first book toward her, opening it to a bookmarked page. “This one’s an old favorite,” Lisa murmured. “Written by a bard who once fell for a knight too focused on duty to notice.”

Jean gave her a pointed look, but it lacked its usual sharpness. “Is this a metaphor?”

“Oh no, dearest. It’s a full-blown allegory,” Lisa said with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “I wouldn’t dare be subtle with you. You’d miss it completely.”

Jean rolled her eyes  but she was smiling now, soft and slow and rare. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” Lisa said, voice suddenly quiet. She reached forward to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind Jean’s ear. “Letting yourself breathe for once.”

Jean froze under her touch  not from discomfort, but from the sudden rush of feeling. Warm. Seen. Held.

“No one ever makes time for you,” Lisa continued. “So I will.”

For a moment, they sat in silence the kind that didn’t need to be filled. Outside, the wind rustled the petals of the Windblume Festival. Inside, Jean let herself lean just slightly toward Lisa, shoulder brushing shoulder.

“I think I forgot what this feels like,” she admitted softly. “Not having to carry everything.”

Lisa didn’t tease her this time. She simply reached out and curled her fingers around Jean’s hand.

“Then remember it with me,” she whispered. “Right here. One night at a time.”

Jean glanced down at their joined hands, then back up to Lisa, who was already flipping the next book open with a deliberate kind of grace.

“This one,” Lisa said with mock-seriousness, “was written by a hopeless romantic. You know, the kind who writes poems to flowers and ends every line with a sigh.”

Jean raised a brow. “Sounds familiar.”

Lisa feigned offense. “I’ll have you know I am a refined romantic, thank you very much. I sigh only when it’s dramatically appropriate.”

Jean laughed a quiet, breathy sound that made Lisa pause for a heartbeat longer than she meant to. It wasn’t often Jean laughed like that. So light. So unguarded. Lisa tucked the moment somewhere safe in her memory.

She slid the book toward Jean, tapping a particular passage. “Go on. Read that one.”

Jean hesitated, then cleared her throat and began, her voice soft but steady:

“She wore the weight of the world on her shoulders,
and still, I longed to be the curve of her smile just once.”

She blinked and stopped. “That’s...”

“Too much?” Lisa asked, teasing but there was something more gentle behind the words, something careful.

Jean shook her head slowly. “No. Just... very direct.”

Lisa smirked. “Bards were terribly unsubtle back then. Just like certain librarians.”

Jean gave her another look, but she couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at her lips. “You know, I never realized poetry could feel like… this.”

“Dangerous?” Lisa asked.

“Comfortable,” Jean said after a pause. “Like I’m allowed to feel something besides responsibility.”

Lisa watched her a moment longer, then rose from her seat. “Then let’s make it more memorable, shall we?”

Jean blinked. “What are you—”

Before she could finish the thought, Lisa extended a hand once more, this time with a slight bow and an unmistakable glint in her eye. “Dance with me.”

Jean’s cheeks tinted rose. “There’s no music.”

“There’s always music in the library,” Lisa said with a soft chuckle. She gave a subtle flick of her fingers, and somewhere on a nearby shelf, a glowing orb of anemo magic stirred. A quiet melody began to play light, drifting like the wind between pages.

Jean stared at her for a long moment… and then, to even her own surprise, she took her hand again.

Lisa’s touch was warm, her movements patient as they began to sway between the shelves, surrounded by candlelight and books older than Mondstadt itself. Jean was stiff at first, unsure but Lisa guided her gently, never rushing, just smiling, close enough that Jean could smell the faint scent of violets in her hair.

They moved in slow circles, footsteps soft against the wooden floor, laughter rising here and there when Lisa made a dramatic spin or dipped Jean with a flair that had no business being so graceful.

“I thought you said you were a librarian,” Jean murmured.

Lisa’s voice was velvet. “Oh, darling. I’m many things.”

And in that moment twirling among poetry and petals, Jean let herself laugh again.

The last notes of the windborne melody drifted into silence, and the library stilled once again quiet and glowing, like the inside of a dream.

Jean had stopped trying to think. She let herself exist in the moment, swaying gently in Lisa’s arms, her forehead barely an inch from the librarian’s. The candlelight danced in Lisa’s eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Jean wasn't thinking about the next report, the next threat, the next demand on her time.

Just this. Just now.

“Thank you,” she whispered, unsure how to say more than that how to put into words how deeply grateful she was to be seen. Not as the Acting Grand Master, but just… Jean.

Lisa’s smile softened, her voice low and warm. “You don’t need to thank me, love. I’ve always been right here just waiting for you to stop running.”

Jean’s breath caught. She looked at Lisa, really looked and realized how long she had been holding back things she didn’t have names for. The gentle patience in Lisa’s eyes. The quiet warmth in every teasing touch. The space she always left open for Jean to walk into.

And tonight, Jean finally had.

Her hand came up, slowly, as if asking permission. Lisa leaned in without hesitation, her palm coming to rest just below Jean’s jaw. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling between them, close enough that neither needed to speak anymore.

Then softly, like a promise Jean kissed her.

There was no urgency, no fire, just warmth. Steady. Certain. Lisa responded with the same gentleness, her fingers curling into Jean’s hair, pulling her a fraction closer. They stood there, surrounded by open books and windblume petals, lips pressed together in a moment that asked for nothing more than to be felt.

When they finally parted, Jean’s eyes fluttered open, dazed but calm.

Lisa was smiling  truly smiling, the way Jean always wished she would.

“See?” she whispered. “Even the busiest hearts have time for love.”

Jean rested her forehead against Lisa’s again, eyes closing once more.

And for the first time in a long time, she let herself believe it.

Chapter Text

The wind was sharp this high on Mt. Hulao, carrying the crisp scent of pine and the distant call of cranes. You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the cold biting at your fingers as you navigated the narrow path between ancient rocks and whispering trees. You hadn’t come here seeking anyone only quiet. And yet, as you turned a bend near the cliff’s edge, you saw her. Shenhe stood still beneath a swaying pine, her pale hair stirred by the breeze, eyes distant, as if watching something only she could see.

The moment she noticed you, she didn’t flinch or speak just tilted her head slightly, as if confirming you were real. You didn’t call out to her. Something about Shenhe’s presence made loud voices feel inappropriate, like raising your voice in a sacred place.

“I didn’t expect to find anyone up here,” you said quietly as you approached, careful with your steps on the uneven stone.

“This mountain is not empty,” she replied, just as softly. “Only quiet.”

You nodded, not entirely sure what she meant, but you didn’t want to press. Shenhe had a way of speaking that made you feel like rushing would ruin the meaning. She turned slightly, looking back out over the cliffs, where clouds crawled lazily across Liyue’s wide sky. You stepped beside her and stood in silence, the both of you watching the mist wind through the trees below.

For a while, that was enough.

Eventually, your curiosity got the better of you. “Do you come here often?”

She nodded slowly. “I prefer places where the wind is stronger than the thoughts in my head.”

That struck you. It made more sense than it should’ve.

You sat on a nearby flat stone, letting your legs dangle off the edge. “I think I came here for the same reason,” you admitted. “The harbor’s been... loud lately. Too many voices. Too many eyes.”

Shenhe looked at you. Not with surprise, but with recognition. “Noise can linger inside long after it’s gone.”

Her gaze drifted away again, and she crouched to touch a patch of cloud herbs growing from a crack in the rock. She didn’t pick them just let her fingers rest on the leaves.

“I used to avoid people entirely,” she said after a while. “Now I try not to... avoid. Just to understand what I can bear.”

You leaned back on your hands, watching her movements. They were precise, practiced like she measured the world carefully, only touching what wouldn't fall apart.

“Do you ever get lonely?” you asked, unsure if the question was too personal. “Up here?”

She stood again, brushing off her hands. “Sometimes,” she said. “But it’s a kind of loneliness I can live with. The kind I choose.”

You understood. You really did.

When she looked at you again, there was something different in her expression. Not warmth, exactly, but something adjacent like a flame protected under glass. “You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to. If you wish to sit here and say nothing, that’s fine.”

You gave her a small smile. “Thanks. I think I’ll do just that.”

And so the two of you stayed there watching the sky, feeling the cold breeze bite through the quiet. It wasn’t a conversation in the traditional sense, but it felt like one. Shenhe’s presence wasn’t comforting in the way most people might expect. She didn’t reassure you with words or soften the world with smiles. But she was steady, solid in her stillness and she made space for your silence to exist without judgment.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, staining the clouds with orange and gold, Shenhe finally broke the silence one last time.

“There is peace in sharing silence with someone who understands it.”

You turned your head toward her. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “There is.”

And for the first time in days, you felt like you could breathe.

As dusk crept over the peaks, the sky mellowed into a watercolor of fading blue and violet. You pulled your knees up to your chest, letting the silence stretch again. Shenhe had moved a little farther along the ridge, kneeling near a cluster of qingxin flowers. Her fingers hovered over them, light as breath, but she didn’t pick them. It felt like watching someone whisper to a memory.

You eventually stood and walked over, your steps soft on the mossy stone.

“Are those for someone?” you asked gently.

“No,” she replied, but didn’t elaborate.

You nodded, respecting the boundary. Then “Want help gathering herbs for whatever you're doing?”

She hesitated, then finally stood and offered a small nod. “I’m looking for violetgrass and silvergrass. They grow near the cliffs, but only where the wind doesn’t cut too sharp.”

“Then I guess I’ll follow you.”

The two of you moved quietly through the sparse trails and rocky ledges, not speaking unless necessary. Shenhe showed you where to step to avoid loose ground, pointed out hidden clusters of herbs with brief gestures. You could tell she wasn’t used to guiding people, but she did it with surprising care. Not warmth exactly, but attention.

As the final rays of daylight dipped behind the far mountain, Shenhe finally sat again, this time beneath a small pine that leaned against the stone. She motioned slightly, a quiet invitation for you to join her.

“Thank you,” she said softly, eyes on the pouch of herbs you’d gathered. “For your help. And your silence.”

You looked at her, surprised by the candor. “It wasn’t hard. I think... I needed this too.”

She nodded. “Most people try to fill silence with words. You didn’t.”

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

For the first time, you saw something like a smile not on her lips, but in her eyes. A flicker of ease, like ice melting just enough to reflect the stars.

The two of you sat quietly under that leaning pine, the wind gentler now, the cold softer somehow. Shenhe took out a talisman from her robes, delicate and hand-written, and placed it carefully on a flat stone. She didn’t explain it, but you didn’t ask. You both just watched as it fluttered lightly in the wind, anchored by a single pebble.

After a while, Shenhe broke the silence again.

“You should come back, if the harbor becomes too loud.”

You looked over. She wasn’t looking at you but she wasn’t avoiding your gaze either. It was an invitation, plain and soft, with no pressure or expectation. Just space. Space to be.

You smiled. “Yeah. I think I will.”

You never really planned your next visit.

It just happened like the pull of the wind over the mountains, invisible but certain. Whenever the harbor pressed in too tightly, when the crowds became too much or your thoughts too loud, your feet would carry you back up to Mt. Hulao.

And Shenhe was always there.

Sometimes she was meditating, eyes closed beneath the same leaning pine. Sometimes she was balancing on one foot atop a stone, practicing techniques as delicate and deliberate as snowfall. Other times, she was simply sitting, head tilted to the breeze like she was listening for something deeper than sound.

She never asked why you came back.

You never asked why she stayed.

Over time, the ritual formed on its own. No words, no agreement. Just presence.

You’d help her gather herbs or repair old wooden talismans, weaving string through paper in silence. You’d sit beside her to drink tea brewed over a small flame, the taste earthy and slightly bitter. Occasionally, she’d offer you small bits of wisdom, said so plainly they almost passed as casual comments until they settled in your chest hours later, with the weight of something ancient and true.

“Balance doesn’t mean stillness,” she said once, as you both watched a leaf spiral through the air. “It means knowing when to move.”

You began bringing things, too. Not to trade, but to share quiet gifts: dried fruit, a new string for her talismans, or a carved wooden crane you whittled on restless nights. Shenhe never said thank you. But she always accepted them with a nod, and once, you caught her tucking the crane into the folds of her sleeve before she left.

You never stayed long. A few hours, sometimes half a day. Just enough.

Then one day, she asked, “Do you know what clouds do when they are too heavy to carry themselves?”

You blinked, then shook your head.

“They fall,” she said. “But when they do, they become rain. And that nourishes the world.”

You looked at her, trying to puzzle out the metaphor. She didn’t explain it further. But later that night, when your own thoughts felt too heavy again, you thought maybe she was telling you it was okay to fall sometimes because falling didn’t mean ending. It meant beginning again, just in a new form.

The visits continued, scattered between your days like quiet punctuation marks in a noisy sentence. They didn’t solve everything. They didn’t need to.

But they gave you something you hadn’t realized you needed: stillness without loneliness. Solitude without silence. A place where you didn’t have to explain yourself, because being was enough.

And Shenhe, in her own quiet way, had come to understand that too.

The last time you visited Mt. Hulao before autumn settled in, the air carried a different kind of stillness.

You felt it the moment you reached the clearing beneath the leaning pine. Shenhe was already there, seated on the same smooth stone, her gaze turned toward the valley below. The sky was painted in warm hues of late sun orange and soft gold touching the clouds with gentle hands.

You sat beside her without a word.

After a long silence, she spoke.

“I will be leaving soon,” she said. “Cloud Retainer has asked me to assist in a matter far north of here.”

You turned to her, surprised. “For how long?”

“I do not know.” She folded her hands in her lap. “But I will return. When the wind calls me back.”

You nodded slowly. You didn’t feel sadness, just a quiet ache, like the end of a season. It wasn’t loss. It was transition. And in a way, that felt right.

Shenhe looked at you then, eyes thoughtful.

“You were one of the first people who ever sat beside me without asking me to be different,” she said. “That is... not something I forget.”

You smiled, a little caught off guard. “You never had to be anyone else.”

For a moment, the breeze rustled the pine branches above, sending a few needles drifting down. Shenhe watched them fall, then reached into her sleeve and pulled out something small, a delicate knot of white string, wound around a charm carved from mountain stone. She held it out to you.

“A token,” she said. “From the mountains. It will remember you, even when I cannot.”

You took it carefully, heart full and quiet. “I’ll wait. When you come back, I’ll bring tea.”

“And I,” Shenhe said, rising slowly, “will bring silence.”

You both stood under the pine as the sun dipped behind the ridge. No dramatic farewell. No promises. Just a shared breath of stillness, and the understanding that no matter how far either of you wandered, this place, this ritual, would remain.

She gave you a final nod, then stepped onto the trail, her silhouette framed by golden light. You watched until she disappeared around the bend, the wind brushing past like a whisper.

You didn’t leave right away.

You sat beneath the tree a little longer, holding the charm in your hand, the quiet wrapping around you like an old friend.

And in the hush that followed, you smiled because sometimes, the people who say the least leave behind the most.

Chapter Text

Rain tapped gently against the wooden window frames of Bubu Pharmacy, a calming rhythm that echoed through the herb-scented silence of the room. Outside, Liyue Harbor was cloaked in mist, the streets glistening and nearly empty, save for the occasional umbrella-toting passerby.

Inside, the warmth of steeping tea and dried roots filled the air.

You glanced over your shoulder from where you were arranging a small basket of glazed lilies and silk flowers gifts from some of Baizhu’s more grateful patients. He was at the far counter, hunched slightly over a scroll of notes, scribbling something in that elegant, measured handwriting of his.

"You're not resting," you said gently, knowing full well he'd pretend not to hear you.

Baizhu didn’t look up, but a faint smile curved his lips. "Neither are you."

You padded over and leaned lightly against the counter beside him, careful not to disturb Changsheng, who was coiled loosely around his shoulders and watching you with her usual suspicious glare.

“She’s right, you know,” you murmured, eyeing the growing stack of half-finished prescriptions at his elbow. “You promised you'd rest today.”

Baizhu let out a soft hum, setting down his brush. “I don’t recall using the word promise ,” he said, looking up at you his voice calm, but the dark circles beneath his eyes telling another story.

You reached up to brush a lock of pale green hair away from his face. “Then I’ll remind you: you promised .”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The quiet hush of the pharmacy, the sound of rain, the scent of flowers all wrapped around you like a soft blanket. Then Baizhu sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

“…You win,” he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly against yours on the counter. “Only because I don’t want you to worry.”

You smiled, already reaching for the teacups. “Too late for that.”

Baizhu watched you silently as you moved toward the back room where the teapot sat, still warm from earlier. The steam curled upward in lazy spirals as you poured two cups, the gentle clink of porcelain the only sound in the room for a few heartbeats.

When you returned, he’d finally removed his coat, revealing the familiar wrappings along his arms. His posture was a little less stiff now, though the weight he carried of work, of illness, of everything he never said aloud still lingered around him like a fog.

You handed him his cup and sat beside him on the floor, backs resting against the wooden counter. The tea’s warmth seeped into your palms, and for a few moments, you sat together in companionable silence, listening to the rain and the soft breathing of a napping Qiqi somewhere in the front.

“You work too hard,” you said softly, not accusing just honest.

Baizhu took a slow sip before responding. “I have to. There are people who rely on me.”

“And who takes care of you?” you asked, tilting your head to look at him.

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the tea in his hands. The steam had fogged his glasses slightly, and you reached up without thinking, gently removing them and setting them beside him.

His eyes clear, tired, green as spring leaves met yours.

“You do,” he said simply, voice low. “You’re the only one who ever has.”

Your chest ached with quiet affection. You set your cup down and shifted closer, gently reaching for his hand. His fingers threaded with yours automatically, and you could feel the subtle tremor in them not fear, not cold. Just fatigue he was too used to hiding.

“You don’t have to hold everything by yourself,” you whispered. “You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to need .”

Baizhu’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand. “I don’t deserve how gentle you are with me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Then I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it.”

A pause. Then a quiet, almost sleepy chuckle rumbled in his chest.

“I’m afraid Changsheng might get jealous,” he said dryly.

“She’ll live,” you replied, grinning against his shoulder.

As the evening settled in deeper, the pharmacy was wrapped in the soft glow of lantern-light and the scent of warm herbs and rain. Baizhu shifted slightly to rest his head atop yours, and for once, he let himself be still no work, no worries, no masks.

Just you.

Just this.

Just peace.

Later that night, the rain had slowed to a whisper, just a light mist brushing the windows. The pharmacy had long since closed, and the usual hush of Liyue Harbor after dark wrapped around the building like a lullaby.

You stood in your private quarters, folding a light blanket over the small sofa as he stepped out from behind the screen, now in his loose sleeping robes. His long hair was unbound, falling in soft waves down his back, and without the usual layers of his work attire or the sharp edge of his role as physician, he looked… softer. Warmer.

More yours .

The bed was already turned down, the blankets pulled back, familiar and inviting. Baizhu slid under the covers first, holding them up wordlessly as you joined him without hesitation. His arm immediately wrapped around your waist, drawing you close until your body pressed against the warm length of his.

You fit together like this easily like it was routine, like it had always been this way.

“I don’t sleep well without you,” Baizhu murmured against your hair, his voice low and honest in the quiet. “The bed feels colder. Quieter.”

You tucked yourself closer, resting your head on his chest, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. “You’ve got me. Always.”

Baizhu's hand moved gently along your back, not with urgency just with presence. Care. Fingers tracing the shape of your spine like memorizing something precious.

He sighed softly, that invisible weight lifting, just a little.

"I love you," he said again, quieter this time, as if it was meant only for the dark.

You tilted your head up and kissed the edge of his jaw, then his lips  slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything more than this closeness.

“I love you too,” you whispered, curling into him fully as the lantern flickered low.

And that night, for once, there were no late-night notes to scribble, no medicine to mix, no masks to wear. Just two lovers tangled in quiet warmth, breathing the same peace.

You were drifting, warm and tucked into Baizhu’s side beneath soft sheets, lulled by the sound of his breathing and the occasional rustle of Changsheng shifting on the windowsill. His arm was around your waist, his hand resting over your heart like he needed the rhythm of it to sleep.

The pharmacy was quiet. Peaceful.

Until—

creeeaaaak.

The door to the room eased open with the sound of old hinges, followed by the slow, soft steps of someone small. Then, in the dark:

“…Dr. Baizhu. I require… medical assistance.”

Baizhu groaned softly into your hair. You blinked your eyes open and turned your head toward the doorway.

There stood Qiqi , her expression blank as always, eyes glowing faintly in the low light. She was holding her goat-shaped festival lantern under one arm like it was an injured patient.

Baizhu barely lifted his head off the pillow. “Qiqi… it’s the middle of the night…”

“I know,” she said, nodding slowly. “That is when symptoms often appear.”

You sat up slightly, biting back a laugh.

“What’s the problem?” you asked gently.

She walked further into the room, holding the lantern out at arm’s length. “This goat is broken. I gave it lettuce. But it does not eat. That means it is… dying. Possibly undead. Like Qiqi.”

Baizhu sighed deeply and flopped back down. “The lantern is not alive, Qiqi.”

“It has eyes,” she replied.

You got up, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders, and knelt beside her. “Qiqi, sweetie… that’s just a decoration.”

She stared at you in silence for a few long seconds. Then looked back at the lantern.

“…That explains… some things,” she said, voice still completely flat.

You reached out and gently took the lantern from her hands. “How about we put it next to your bed, and tomorrow we’ll give it a full… um… festival-lighting inspection?”

Qiqi paused. Then nodded once. “Okay. But if it moves… I will report it.”

“Fair enough.”

Baizhu was watching the entire exchange from the bed, eyes half-lidded, amused despite himself. You gave him a tired smile as you tucked the lantern under your arm and offered Qiqi your hand.

She took it with her usual detached little grip.

“Sleep,” you whispered as you guided her toward the door. “No more ghost lantern patients tonight.”

“…Understood. But if the raccoon statue starts blinking again…” she mumbled as she disappeared into the hall.

You slowly closed the door behind her, the latch clicking shut.

When you returned to bed, Baizhu opened one arm for you without a word. You slid into it immediately, pressing your face to his chest, trying not to laugh.

“She thinks the goat is undead,” you whispered.

“She might be right,” he murmured back sleepily. “Anything that disturbs my sleep at this hour must be cursed.”

You both chuckled quietly before settling back down. His hand found yours beneath the blankets again, fingers lacing together as the room fell silent once more.

You both chuckled quietly before settling back down. His hand found yours beneath the blankets again, fingers lacing together as the room fell silent once more.

Baizhu exhaled slowly, his breath brushing your forehead as he pulled you closer, your back tucked snugly against his chest. His thumb traced idle, slow circles along your knuckles.

“…She really thought the lantern was undead,” he murmured, amused. “I almost admire her dedication.”

“She gets it from you,” you said, smiling into the pillow.

“Hmm?”

“You’re both so serious about your patients, even when the patient’s… made of paper and string.”

Baizhu let out a quiet laugh, muffled as he buried his face in your shoulder. “You’re saying I’m just as delusional as Qiqi?”

“I’m saying you’d give the same lecture to a rock if it looked sick enough.”

You felt his smile against your skin. “That’s a low blow. And only partly true.”

You turned slightly in his arms so you could face him again, noses brushing. “I love that about you, you know.”

His gaze softened, the mirth melting into something gentler, quieter. He reached up to brush your hair behind your ear, fingertips lingering at your cheek.

“…You’re the only person who’s ever said that like it’s something good,” he said. “Like I’m not just exhausting myself for nothing.”

“You're not.” You reached up and mirrored the gesture, fingers tracing along the edge of his jaw. “You help people. You give so much of yourself, even when it costs you. That’s not weakness, Baizhu. That’s why I fell in love with you.”

His expression flickered the faintest flash of vulnerability, of something unspoken behind his eyes. Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours.

“I still don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he whispered.

You smiled. “You let me see you all of you. That’s more than enough.”

Baizhu’s eyes fluttered shut, and he tilted his head to press a soft kiss to your lips slow and full of meaning. Not rushed, not hungry. Just warm. Grateful. Yours.

When he pulled away, his voice was barely a murmur.

“Stay like this… just a little longer?”

“As long as you want.”

A quiet hum escaped him as he pulled you closer again, your legs gently tangling beneath the blankets. The scent of herbs still clung to his skin, grounding you in the present in him .

Outside, the moon hung high above Liyue, but inside the pharmacy, the world had narrowed to just the two of you  fingers intertwined, breaths syncing, hearts steady.

And for once, Baizhu wasn’t carrying anything alone.

Baizhu’s hand stayed at the small of your back, warm and grounding beneath the blankets. You felt the rise and fall of his chest against yours, steady but slower now, like he was sinking into the stillness.

But neither of you were quite ready to let go of the moment.

“…You know,” you said quietly, brushing your thumb over his, “I still remember the first time you held my hand. You looked like you were asking permission from the Heavenly Principles .”

Baizhu let out a soft breath of laughter. “I was. I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“I had already kissed you by then.”

“I know.” He smiled, eyes still half-lidded. “I was still in disbelief. You’re… warm in a way I didn’t realize I missed until you gave it to me. Just by being here.”

You shifted slightly, resting your head beneath his chin, your fingers tracing soft shapes along his collarbone.

“You’re pretty warm yourself,” you whispered. “Even if you act like a tired old sage sometimes.”

Baizhu made a quiet hum of protest. “I’m not that old.”

“You drink bitter tea and sigh when you stand up. That’s dangerously close.”

He scoffed a tired, amused sound and nosed at your hair. “Then it’s good I have someone young and full of opinions to balance me out.”

You grinned. “I keep you on your toes.”

“You keep me alive.”

His voice was softer now, barely more than breath, but the weight of his words landed gently between you. There was no drama in the way he said it  just truth. Quiet, vulnerable truth, spoken in the dark like a secret you already knew.

You tilted your head up again to meet his gaze, your palm resting over his heart.

“I want to keep doing that,” you said. “For a long time.”

Baizhu looked at you for a long, still moment. Then he kissed your forehead slow and reverent and let his lips linger there.

“Then I’ll keep waking up,” he whispered. “Just to see you again.”

You pressed your face into his chest to hide the way your heart clenched at that, and he wrapped both arms around you fully now, protectively, like if he held you tightly enough, the world couldn’t touch you.

The silence returned, but it was the kind that felt full, not empty filled with unsaid things that didn’t need words. His breathing evened out, slow and deep, and yours followed.

“…You’re not going to start lecturing in your sleep, are you?” you murmured, half-joking, voice already heavy with drowsiness.

“Only if you start diagnosing me in yours,” Baizhu replied, a hint of a smile in his voice.

You laughed softly the last sound either of you made before the weight of sleep finally pulled you both under.

In the quiet of Bubu Pharmacy, under the watchful eye of the moon and the soft stir of the wind, two people slept tangled in each other, safe, loved, and, for once, utterly at peace.

The first light of day filtered through the paper-paneled windows, golden and gentle, like sunlight tiptoeing into the room on quiet feet. The scent of rain-washed earth lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the familiar traces of crushed herbs and dried flowers that clung to the wooden walls of the pharmacy.

You stirred slowly, warmth cocooning you not just from the blanket tangled around your legs, but from the arm still draped securely over your waist.

Baizhu was still asleep behind you, his breath brushing soft and even against the back of your neck. You could feel the slight rise and fall of his chest, the gentle squeeze of his fingers still laced with yours.

For once, you didn’t rush to move. You simply lay there, letting the moment stretch warm, quiet, and golden.

Eventually, you felt him shift, just slightly. His nose nudged against your hair, and he mumbled something barely coherent.

“Hmm?” you murmured sleepily, smiling.

“…Too bright,” he grumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

You laughed softly. “The sun came up. You’ll have to fight it if you want five more minutes.”

“…Not worth the effort,” he muttered. But he didn’t move. Instead, he pressed a lazy kiss to the back of your shoulder. “You’re warm. I’m staying here.”

You rolled over to face him, brushing the messy strands of green hair from his eyes. “You always say that,” you teased. “But then you’re up and making tea before I’ve even opened my eyes.”

“Not today.” He blinked at you, eyes soft and hazy from sleep. “Today, I’m letting myself be selfish.”

You smiled, your heart fluttering at how utterly his he looked in that moment  sleep-tousled, relaxed, and so full of love you could see it in every line of his face.

“Well,” you said, stroking your thumb across his cheek, “if this is selfish, I hope you do it more often.”

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles. “I will. If you promise to keep being here when I wake up.”

You leaned in and kissed him softly slow, sweet, with the quiet promise that you weren’t going anywhere.

But just as your lips parted 

CLUNK.
Thud.

“…I dropped the goat lantern,” came Qiqi’s voice from the hallway. “Again.”

Baizhu groaned into your shoulder. “She’s already awake?”

“She might not have gone to sleep,” you mumbled through a giggle.

“I regret nothing except not locking the door.”

You sat up, still laughing, and stretched. “C’mon. If we don’t check on her, she might try to perform an exorcism on it.”

Baizhu stayed in bed a moment longer, staring up at the ceiling in silence. Then, with a resigned sigh, he reached for his robe.

“I suppose this is my fate,” he said dramatically.

You walked over, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Your fate is being loved. By me. Forever.”

That got a real smile out of him sleepy, crooked, and full of warmth.

And as the two of you stepped out of the room, hand in hand, ready to deal with Qiqi’s early morning “emergency,” the sun spilled through the open windows, lighting up Bubu Pharmacy in soft, golden light.

The day had begun strange, sweet, and full of love.

Just like always.

Chapter Text

The sun had already dipped behind the peaks, leaving the harbor bathed in the deep gold of early evening. The little cake shop down the street was closing for the night its windows still glowing with the warm light you’d once dreamed your parents might share with you.

You tugged your shawl tighter, the mountain wind catching in your hair. It’s fine, you told yourself. They’re just busy. You’d said the same thing last year. And the year before.

You tugged your shawl tighter, the mountain wind catching in your hair. It’s fine, you told yourself. They’re just busy. You’d said the same thing last year. And the year before.

Your feet carried you up the winding stone steps toward the high cliffs without much thought. The path to Xianyun’s dwelling was familiar, each turn marked by the whisper of leaves and the far-off call of cranes. You told yourself you were here to drop off the herbs she’d asked for last week. That it wasn’t because the silence of your empty home was too loud to bear.

By the time you reached her courtyard, the air was crisp and scented faintly with osmanthus. She was already there, leaning lightly on her fan as if she’d been expecting you, eyes bright and curious.

“Little one,” she said, tilting her head. “What wind has brought you to me at this hour?”

You smiled small, practiced but her gaze lingered, searching.

You held out the bundle of herbs, their stems still bound with twine. “Thought I’d bring these before I forgot.”

Her brows lifted slightly, the fan in her hand opening with a soft snap. “How diligent,” she murmured, accepting the offering. “The hour is late, the mountain paths are not so forgiving after sunset.”

You shrugged. “I didn’t mind the walk.”

Xianyun studied you for a moment longer, her expression unreadable save for the faint crease at the corner of her eyes. She gestured toward the open doors behind her. “Come in. The kettle is singing tea and will warm you better than the wind ever could.”

Inside, the air was rich with the scent of brewing leaves and faint sandalwood. You sank onto the cushion she indicated, the polished floor cool against your legs. She moved with quiet grace, setting out cups and pouring the tea with practiced care, the steam curling between you like something alive.

She didn’t ask what was wrong, not yet. Instead, she spoke of the weather over Jueyun Karst, of a rare flower she’d seen that morning clinging to the edge of a cliff. You nodded along, your hands curling around the teacup’s warmth.

Only when the room had settled into a peaceful hush did she glance up from her own cup. “And tell one,” she said softly, “why does my little crane’s smile not quite reach her eyes tonight?”

Your grip on the cup tightened. The words caught in your throat, like a fragile thing you weren’t sure could survive in the air.

You forced a small laugh, the kind meant to deflect. “I’m fine, really. Just… tired, maybe.”

Her eyes didn’t waver. She set her cup down without a sound, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Tired, perhaps. But I know the difference between weariness and a heart that’s been chilled.”

You stared into your tea, watching the pale surface tremble with each breath. The steam blurred your vision, and you weren’t sure if it was from the heat or the prickling in your eyes.

“I just needed to get out of the house,” you said, a little too quickly. “Didn’t want to… sit around all evening.”

The fan in her lap tapped once against her knee a small, rhythmic sound. “The wind can carry one away from many things,” she murmured. “But if you wish, you may let one carry some of the weight instead.”

Her voice was so calm, so steady, that the words you’d been swallowing all day slipped dangerously close to the surface. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to hold them back. It was silly, wasn’t it? You were too old to be upset over something like this.

But the ache wouldn’t let go.

Your voice came out quieter than you intended. “It’s… my birthday.”

Xianyun didn’t speak, but something in her gaze softened instantly.

You swallowed hard, staring down at your hands. “They said they’d try to come this year. I thought ” Your breath hitched. “I thought maybe they meant it this time.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy; it was warm, like the air before spring rain. She rose without a word, the hem of her robes whispering against the floor, and came to kneel beside you.

Her hand settled over your light, but unshakably steady. “Little one,” she said softly, “you should never have to measure your worth by the presence of those who fail to see it.”

You felt your shoulders tremble. “I know. I just… wanted them to remember.”

“One knows,” she echoed, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “And the wind knows too. Tonight, let it be the wind that remembers one beside it.”

The warmth in her voice loosened something inside you, and the tears you’d been holding back finally spilled, safe in the shelter of her presence.

The sweet bun was warm in your hands, the candlelight dancing in your eyes. You made your wish silently, nothing grand, nothing impossible, then blew out the flame. Xianyun smiled, a rare, unguarded thing, and urged you to eat while it was still soft. 

The wind was quieter now, like it too had settled in to watch over you. Between the gentle hum of her tune and the steady warmth of her presence, your eyelids grew heavy. You tried to fight it, didn’t want the moment to end, but the soft pull of sleep was too strong.

The last thing you felt was the brush of her hand against your hair, and her voice, low and fond: “Rest, little crane. The wind will keep you safe.”

When you woke, it was to the scent of osmanthus and the faint murmur of voices. Blinking away sleep, you found yourself lying on a cushion in Xianyun’s courtyard, a blanket tucked around your shoulders. Lanterns had been strung up between the eaves, casting warm pools of light.

And then you saw them, Baizhu setting down a tray of tea, Zhongli speaking quietly with Ningguang, Xingqiu balancing a stack of wrapped parcels while Hu Tao teased him. Even Ganyu was there, standing a little shyly by the table laden with dishes.

Your breath caught. “What…?”

Xianyun appeared at your side, her smile soft but pleased. “The wind is quick when it wishes to be. I told them the truth that yesterday was the birthday of someone worth celebrating.”

Hu Tao grinned and waved you over. “Come on, birthday girl! You didn’t think we’d let this pass, did you?” The ache in your chest was gone now, replaced by something bright and full. Surrounded by laughter, the clink of tea cups, and the warm glow of lantern light, you felt for the first time in a long time truly seen.

You glanced at Xianyun, and she inclined her head, as though to say I told you the wind remembers.

Hu Tao’s laughter rang across the courtyard as she tried to convince Xingqiu to let her unwrap one of your presents “for luck.” Ningguang was already pouring you a cup of tea, and Zhongli was launching into a story that promised to last at least five minutes per sentence.

Through it all, Baizhu moved quietly, waiting until the others were drawn into their own conversations before approaching you. Changsheng peeked over his shoulder, tongue flicking curiously.

“I’m afraid I didn’t have much time to prepare,” he said, though there was a knowing gentleness in his eyes. “But some things… are best given fresh.”

From within his robe, he produced a small wooden box, the surface polished to a warm sheen. Inside lay a delicate hairpin gold worked into the shape of a crane in flight, its wings inlaid with pale jade.

Your breath caught. “Baizhu, it’s beautiful…”

“It reminded me of you,” he said simply, taking the pin and, with careful hands, tucking it into your hair. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat, brushing against your temple. Then, with the faintest smile, he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek—light as the breath of wind that had carried you earlier.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

Your cheeks warmed, but the smile that spread across your face felt impossibly wide. Between the lanterns’ glow, the laughter of friends, and the quiet steadiness of the man before you, you realized, this birthday was one you’d never forget.

Chapter Text

The rain came faster than you’d expected, heavy drops drumming against your hood and splashing up from the cobblestones. By the time Dawn Winery came into view, your boots were soaked and the hem of your coat clung stubbornly to your legs.

You hadn’t planned on coming back this early, Diluc had mentioned being buried in ledgers until late but the thought of waiting out the storm alone in Mondstadt felt lonelier than the ride home.

Pushing open the heavy front door, the familiar scent of oak and faint traces of wine welcomed you in. The entry hall was dim, save for the soft glow spilling from the study down the hall. You could hear the faint scratch of a pen against parchment, steady and precise.

Diluc didn’t look up right away when you stepped inside his study. But when he did, his eyes softened instantly.
"You’re drenched," he murmured, standing. "Come here."

Before you could protest, Diluc was already moving from behind the desk, his stride purposeful but not hurried. The faint heat of the room clung to him, a contrast to the cold drizzle still clinging to your skin.

He reached for the blanket draped over the armchair in the corner, shaking it out once before wrapping it firmly around your shoulders. His gloved fingers lingered for a heartbeat, pressing the fabric close at your collarbone as if to anchor you there.

"Sit," he said, his voice low, but it held no room for argument. You sank into the sofa near the fireplace, the crackle of burning wood filling the silence between you.

Diluc disappeared for only a moment, returning with a steaming mug. He placed it in your hands, careful not to let the heat startle you, and only when you took your first sip did he finally relax into the seat beside you.

The tension in his shoulders eased as you leaned into him. Rain pattered faintly against the windows, but here, cocooned in warmth, it felt like the rest of the world had fallen away.

"You should have stayed in town," he said after a pause, though the scolding was half-hearted at best.

You smiled into the rim of your mug. "I wanted to come home."

For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer but then his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you closer until your head rested against his shoulder. His voice was quiet, meant only for you.

"Then… I’m glad you did."

You stayed like that for a while, letting the heat from the fire seep into your bones. The sound of rain had softened into a steady rhythm against the glass, the kind of lullaby that made time feel unimportant.

Diluc’s thumb brushed idly over your hip, a small, unconscious motion. He didn’t speak, but his body language said enough this was one of the rare moments where he allowed himself to simply be, no tasks demanding his focus, no walls standing between him and you.

“Your coat is still wet,” he murmured after a while, tilting his head so he could see you better. “You’ll catch cold like this.”

You laughed softly. “And here I thought the tea and fireplace would save me.”

His lips quirked faintly, Diluc’s version of a smile before he leaned forward, reaching for the thick knitted throw that usually lived folded on the back of the couch. Without ceremony, he draped it over both of you, tucking the edge around your knees.

“I suppose I’ll have to be the one to make sure you stay warm,” he said, voice quiet but threaded with something heavier something like care, and maybe a touch of relief.

You tilted your head to study him in the flickering light. His hair caught the glow, strands like molten copper against the shadows. You’d always thought he looked most himself like this not the untouchable owner of Dawn Winery, not the distant guardian of Mondstadt’s nights, but just Diluc.

“I missed you today,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could second-guess them.

His eyes met yours immediately. Not sharp, not guarded just steady. “I missed you too.”

He reached for your mug, setting it carefully on the low table, and then took your chilled hands in his. His gloves were gone now; his palms were warm, rough in a way that told the story of someone who worked harder than he’d ever boast about.

“Stay here tonight,” he said, though it wasn’t really a request. “No running off to town in the morning. No errands. Just… stay.”

You smiled. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to keep me all to yourself.”

“I am,” he answered simply.

Your breath caught, and for a moment, the storm outside could have been miles away. His gaze softened further as he lifted one hand, brushing his knuckles along your cheek before leaning in just enough that you could feel the faint warmth of his breath.

“This,” he murmured, “is all I want.”

For a long while, you simply stayed there, letting the warmth between you replace the chill in your bones. Every so often, Diluc’s fingers would trace idle patterns along your hand, as if he needed the reassurance that you were still there.

Eventually, he glanced toward the clock on the far wall. “It’s later than I thought,” he murmured. “You’ve hardly eaten.”

You shook your head. “I grabbed something in town earlier—”

He gave you a look. The kind that told you he didn’t believe a word of it. Then, without a word, he stood and offered you his hand. “Come.”

You followed him through the quiet hallways of the winery, the muffled echo of your footsteps on the wooden floors a strangely comforting sound. The kitchen was dimly lit, most of the household staff already gone for the night, but Diluc didn’t call for anyone. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and began setting a few things out on the counter bread, cheese, a bowl of ripe tomatoes, and a small jar of herbs you recognized from the garden out back.

“You’re cooking?” you asked, leaning against the counter with a faint smile.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Something simple. I trust I’m capable of that much.”

You bit back a laugh, watching as he moved with a quiet efficiency, slicing bread, toasting it lightly, and simmering the tomatoes in a small pan until their fragrance filled the room. There was something deeply endearing about seeing him like this focused, but not in that closed-off way he was during work.

When he set the plate between you both at the small kitchen table, you could see the faintest trace of satisfaction in his expression.

“Here,” he said, sliding the first plate toward you. “Better than going to bed hungry.”

You took a bite and immediately hummed in approval. “Okay, fine. I take back every time I doubted your cooking skills.”

That earned you another of those rare, fleeting smiles. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The two of you ate slowly, not because the food was elaborate, but because neither of you seemed in any hurry for the night to end. The conversation drifted easily from small observations about the vineyard, to a memory of the time you’d both gotten lost on a delivery route, to the way the vines looked under the first snow last winter.

When the plates were cleared away, you expected him to suggest returning to the study or heading upstairs. Instead, he guided you back toward the sitting room and the still-crackling fire.

He didn’t sit right away this time. Instead, he stood by the mantle, his gaze distant, as if weighing whether to speak.

“There was a storm like this once,” he said finally, his voice low. “When I was younger. My father was away on business, and I remember sitting right here, listening to the rain. I thought the house felt… too big. Too empty.”

Your chest tightened a little at the quiet confession.

“It doesn’t feel that way anymore,” he added, turning his gaze to you. “Not when you’re here.”

The words weren’t elaborate, but you felt them all the same steady, certain, and as unshakable as the man himself.

You crossed the room to him, slipping your arms around his waist. He let out a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding, resting his chin lightly atop your head.

Neither of you moved for a long while. The fire crackled, the rain kept its gentle rhythm, and the world outside could have been a thousand miles away.

At some point, the pull of the fire’s warmth was too much to resist. Diluc guided you down onto the sofa again, this time settling beside you without the faint formality he’d carried earlier. His arm came around your shoulders, and you found yourself instinctively curling into him, your knees drawn up under the blanket you still shared.

The crackle of the fire was hypnotic, and the heat it cast washed over your face, making your eyelids grow heavy. You could feel Diluc’s heartbeat under your cheek

slow, steady, grounding.

“You’re tired,” he murmured.

“A little,” you admitted. “But I don’t want to sleep yet.”

His hand moved in slow circles against your back, a small indulgence you suspected he didn’t even realize he was giving you. “Then don’t,” he said softly. “We can just… stay here.”

And so you did. The conversation grew quieter, lapsing into stretches of silence that were somehow more intimate than words. Outside, the rain shifted from a steady fall to a gentle drizzle, the occasional gust of wind rattling the windowpanes.

You must have drifted close to sleep without realizing, because the next thing you felt was the faint pressure of Diluc adjusting the blanket around you, tucking it so no draft could reach you. His movements were careful, almost reverent, like he was afraid to wake you.

“Warm enough?” he asked, his voice so low you almost thought you’d imagined it.

“Mhm,” you hummed, eyes still closed. “You’re warm enough for both of us.”

There was a quiet exhale, and then the brush of his lips against your temple a fleeting kiss, but one that held far more weight than the moment might have seemed to warrant.

“I don’t say this often,” he murmured, so close you could feel the words against your skin, “but nights like this… they make me wish time would slow down.”

You smiled, the warmth in your chest matching the heat from the fire. “Then let’s pretend it has.”

He chuckled soft, rare and pulled you a little closer. “Alright.”

The fire popped, the rain whispered, and his heartbeat lulled you into a quiet, contented haze. You weren’t sure which came first sleep, or the faint words you thought you heard him say just before you slipped under:

"Stay here. Always."

And you would.

Chapter Text

The Opera Epiclese was more daunting than you’d ever imagined. Its grand marble arches stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, the air heavy with silence except for the faint drip of rain against the high windows.

You stood nervously at the edge of the witness stand, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. The room felt like an ocean, vast, overwhelming and you, a single drop about to be swallowed whole.

Then, you felt it.
That gaze.

Chief Justice Neuvillette sat upon his elevated seat, robes draped around him like flowing currents. His eyes calm, impossibly steady settled on you, and for a moment, you forgot the weight of the courtroom.

His voice carried across the chamber like low thunder, measured yet gentle.
“ Please recount, in your own words, what you witnessed.”

The way he said your name was careful, deliberate like he was handling glass. You found yourself speaking, though your voice trembled at first. His attention never wavered, and strangely, instead of intimidating you, it anchored you.

When the testimony concluded and the trial adjourned, the first thing you noticed stepping outside was the rain. Not unusual for Fontaine, of course. But this rain was different. Softer, as if the sky itself had been listening with bated breath, and now exhaled.

And somewhere within the Opera Epiclese, you could almost feel his gaze linger still.

The chamber began to empty, heels clicking faintly against marble, murmurs of the audience fading into the distance. You remained seated for a moment longer, unsure if your legs would carry you steadily after the weight of standing before the Chief Justice himself.

You gathered your things carefully, though your hands trembled faintly. Just as you turned to leave, the echo of his voice stopped you. Him saying your name. Your head lifted instinctively. Neuvillette had not left his seat. He remained high upon the dais, posture composed, but his eyes lingered on you with a quiet gravity.

“You did well today,” he said simply. “It is no small thing to speak the truth before this court.”

You blinked, caught off guard. Praise was not something you expected from the Chief Justice of Fontaine, and certainly not directed at you. “I… thank you, my lord,” you managed, unsure if your voice carried too softly in the vast space.

For a heartbeat, he only watched you, as though weighing something unspoken. Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, he added, “Do not let doubt linger. Justice remembers honesty.”

The words were formal, yet there was something else threaded through them, something gentler, almost human, as if they were meant not for a witness but for you.

You bowed your head slightly in acknowledgment, before finally moving toward the grand doors.

The rain’s sound grew clearer as you drew near, steady and constant, seeping into the silence of the chamber. And though you did not dare look back, you could still feel it that steady, unyielding gaze upon your back.

Only when the great doors closed behind you, spilling you into the silver wash of Fontaine’s rainfall, did the weight of it lift.

Yet even then, beneath your umbrella, you wondered if it was only the rain that followed you.

The rain met you the instant you stepped outside, cool droplets spattering against your umbrella. Fontaine’s streets gleamed like mirrors, lantern light shimmering on every puddle. People hurried past with heads ducked and coats drawn close, their voices hushed by the storm.

You lingered on the steps of the Opera Epiclese, letting the world settle. The trial was over, yet the echo of his voice still clung to you, low and deliberate, like the roll of distant thunder.

“Leaving already?”

The question came from behind, smooth and unhurried. You startled, half-turning and there he was. Neuvillette descended the marble steps with the same measured grace he carried in court, though the rain made his pale hair cling to his shoulders, his robes heavy at the edges. He held no umbrella, no coat, as though the storm had no power over him.

“My lord,” you said, dipping your head awkwardly. “I… thought you would remain inside.”

“The work of justice never truly ends,” he replied evenly. Then his eyes flicked to your umbrella. “But even so, one should not face the rain alone.”

Before you could process the words, he was beside you, close enough that the umbrella only just shielded his tall frame. For someone so untouchable in court, the proximity was almost dizzying.

The two of you began to walk, your steps tentative against the slick cobblestones. The rain drummed softly overhead, filling the silence that stretched between you. You expected him to say nothing more but then his voice returned, quieter this time, as though meant only for you.

“You did not falter,” he said. “That speaks to a strength many overlook.”

You glanced up at him, unsure how to respond. His expression was the same as ever calm, unreadable but there was something in the way his eyes softened at the edges, something that made your chest tighten.

“Thank you,” you murmured at last, your words nearly lost to the rain.

And for a brief moment, you could have sworn the downpour eased just slightly, just enough to let you breathe. 

Your steps fell in rhythm with his, the steady patter of rain on the umbrella filling the space between words. Fontaine’s streets glowed in the muted lanternlight, water rippling down every canal like liquid glass.

It should have been awkward walking side by side with the Chief Justice of Fontaine under a single umbrella but strangely, it wasn’t. His presence, though commanding, felt less suffocating here than in the courtroom.

“Do you dislike the rain?” His voice broke the silence, low and thoughtful, as if he’d been weighing the question for some time.

You blinked at him, surprised. “I… don’t mind it. It can feel heavy, yes, but also… calm. Like the world slows down for a while.”

He glanced at you then, his expression unreadable but intent. “Most see only the burden of it. You find peace instead.”

You shifted your grip on the umbrella, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. “Maybe it’s because it reminds me of home. My family’s shop had a roof that always leaked in storms. We used to set out pots and laugh at the noise they made. It was… comforting, in its own way.”

His stride slowed a fraction, as though your words had caught him off guard. For the first time, his eyes softened in a way that stripped away the Chief Justice’s composure revealing something quieter, almost wistful.

“Comfort in the rain,” he murmured, almost to himself. “How rare.”

The two of you walked on, and though neither spoke further, the silence no longer felt empty. Instead, it carried the weight of something unspoken an understanding neither of you dared name, but both felt just the same.

At the fork in the street, neither of you moved to part ways right away. The world around you seemed suspended in silver, the cobblestones glistening beneath lanternlight, every canal reflecting broken stars in its restless ripples. The air smelled of stone, water, and faint iron, the scent of Fontaine after rain.

You both stood there beneath the umbrella’s arc, shoulders close, the fabric above still trembling with the steady patter of droplets. The silence stretched on, not awkward, but fragile like spun glass, threatening to shatter if disturbed.

Neuvillette’s presence filled the space beside you, immense and grounding all at once. In court, his figure had loomed untouchable, a monument to law and order. But here, with rain soaking his robes and damp hair brushing his shoulders, he seemed more like a man caught in the same storm as you.

He said nothing. And yet, the weight of his gaze calm, steady, quietly searching was enough to make your chest tighten. It wasn’t judgment, not like in the courtroom. It was something far more dangerous: a kind of listening that stripped away every shield you didn’t know you carried.

You exhaled softly, eyes lingering on the rain. It streamed down gutters, dripping from carved gargoyles, pooling in the grooves of the street until the whole city seemed to breathe with the water. The hush was almost beautiful.

And perhaps because the quiet was too much to hold, you let your thoughts slip free.

“I always thought rain feels less lonely when you’re not walking through it alone.”

The words were simple, unpolished, but they hung between you with startling weight.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing. Only the sound of water.

Then, Neuvillette turned his head. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes, those pale, ocean-deep eyes met yours with a softness that made the air shift around you. No one had ever looked at you like that before. Not as a witness, not as a citizen. Just… as yourself.

And then the rain stopped.

 Not abruptly, not jarringly, but with the gentleness of a sigh. 

The drumming softened, softened, until it faded into silence. Droplets slid from rooftops and railings in the storm’s quiet aftermath, leaving the streets glimmering as though the city itself had been polished clean. You stared upward, bewildered. Fontaine’s rains were infamous for their persistence. They did not yield so easily.

But Neuvillette only lowered his gaze again, that faint, almost imperceptible curve tugging at the corner of his lips. Not a smile no, he seemed the kind of man to guard such things carefully. But it was enough. Enough to know your words had reached him, and that the rain itself had answered.

The stillness that followed wasn’t empty. It brimmed with something unspoken, something you didn’t yet dare to name.

And as you finally stepped apart at the street’s fork, you carried the strange certainty that this moment would linger like the hush after rainfall, when the world feels both fragile and new.

You adjusted the umbrella and began walking again, the cobblestones still gleaming under the lantern light. Neuvillette matched your pace, silent beside you, his presence steady and grounding. Fontaine around you seemed to have slowed, the city itself leaning into the quiet aftermath of rain.

The streets narrowed as you approached your home, the familiar outline of your door and windows appearing ahead. Something in you tightened a mix of anticipation and a wish that the night would not end.

“You… I’m glad we walked together,” you murmured softly, words spilling naturally into the night.

Neuvillette’s gaze fell on you, the faintest hint of warmth flickering in his pale eyes. That imperceptible curve at the corner of his lips appeared again, subtle yet undeniable. “As am I,” he said quietly. “Moments such as these… are rare.”

You stepped onto your doorstep, the familiar scent of home washing over you. For a brief instant, neither of you moved hesitant to break the fragile, perfect silence. The city around you seemed to hold its breath, the lanterns reflecting in puddles like scattered stars.

Finally, you tilted the umbrella slightly, inviting him to walk just a few steps closer. He obliged, his shoulders brushing yours in the smallest, almost imperceptible contact, but enough to make your heart flutter.

“I… I’ll see you again soon, won’t I?” you asked softly, a tentative hope threading through your words.

His gaze met yours, steady, sincere, and something unspoken passed between you. “Yes,” he replied simply. “I will walk with you again.”

The warmth in his voice, the quiet assurance in his eyes, made your chest swell. It was not flamboyant or dramatic, just steady, genuine, and full of possibility.

You opened your door, stepping inside, but paused for a moment to look back. Neuvillette remained outside, silent, composed, yet somehow infinitely present. The lantern light kissed the edges of his damp hair, and for a heartbeat, he seemed to embody all the calm and quiet beauty of the night.

Then he gave a small, almost shy nod, the faintest gesture of farewell and turned, walking slowly down the street, letting you savor the warmth that lingered long after his steps faded.

Closing the door behind you, you leaned against it, heart still racing, and smiled. The world outside was wet and shimmering, Fontaine quiet after the storm, but inside, your chest felt light, full, and completely unburdened.

For the first time in a long while, you knew somewhere in that quiet, shared walk, a delicate, tender love had begun. And it was yours, quietly, beautifully, just waiting to grow.

Chapter Text

The streets of Liyue Harbor shimmered with gold and firelight, lanterns swaying gently above as laughter and music tangled in the evening air. Everywhere, people pressed close merchants calling, children running with sparklers, couples leaning into one another as the festival reached its peak.

It should have been beautiful. It was beautiful. And yet, the crowd pressed in like a tide, too loud, too many faces, too little space to breathe.

You tugged your sleeve a little tighter around your hand, trying to will away the restless feeling building in your chest. That was when you felt the faintest brush at your wrist Zhongli’s hand, steady and deliberate, slipping against yours.

Her amber eyes found you through the crowd as though no one else existed. “You are quiet,” she said, voice calm even among the chaos. It wasn’t a question.

You tried for a smile. “Just… a little overwhelmed.”

Her brow softened, though her composure never faltered. She leaned closer, her voice lowering so only you could hear. “Then allow me to remedy that.”

With effortless certainty, she guided you out of the press of bodies, her hand warm and grounding in yours. The lantern-lit streets began to fade behind as she led you along a quieter path, toward a place only she seemed to know.

The narrow street opened into a quieter courtyard, its stone walls painted in the glow of distant lanterns. Beyond it, Zhongli guided you up a flight of worn steps that curved around the side of a tea house, her movements unhurried, her presence unshakable.

When the two of you emerged, it was to a balcony that overlooked the entire harbor. From here, the noise below softened into a distant hum, replaced by the steady rhythm of the sea lapping against the docks. The lanterns had begun to rise, countless orbs of light drifting skyward like stars untethered from the earth.

Zhongli released your hand only to brush a lock of hair from your face, her touch lingering against your cheek. “Breathe,” she murmured, voice as low and resonant as the earth itself. “The world is vast, but in this moment, it is only us.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the tension loosening from your shoulders under her gaze. “You always know exactly what to say.”

Her lips curved in the faintest smile. “That is because I have watched over mortals for centuries… but you ,” her amber eyes caught the lanternlight, molten and warm, “you are the one I choose to watch most closely.”

The words caught you off guard, pulling heat to your face more effectively than the lantern flames. When you leaned into her, she welcomed you easily, an arm circling your waist with unspoken promise. Together, you watched as the night sky bloomed with light, lanterns drifting higher and higher until it seemed even the stars themselves bowed to their ascent.

And for the first time that evening, you felt your breath settle grounded, steady, safe in the presence of the one who held you.

Zhongli’s arm tightened gently around your waist as another wave of lanterns rose, their golden light painting her profile in soft brilliance. You could feel the steady thrum of her breathing, calm and sure, as though she were the still point around which the entire festival turned.

“You see how they rise?” she said softly, nodding toward the drifting lights. “Each one carries a wish, a burden, a hope released into the sky. Liyue has trusted in such rituals for centuries.” Her gaze lowered to yours, unshakable and yet infinitely tender. “But for me… there is only one vow I wish to release tonight.”

Your heart stuttered as she cupped your face in her hand, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with aching care. “I once devoted myself wholly to this nation, to its people. But now,” her voice dropped, velvet and unyielding, “I devote myself to you . Not as an Archon, not as Zhongli the consultant… but as the woman who loves you. My gaze, my strength, my endless years they are yours, if you will have them.”

The world seemed to fall silent, lanterns flickering around you like stars within reach. A lump rose in your throat, your reply spilling out in a whisper. “I already have them. And I’ll keep them, for as long as you’ll let me.”

Her lips curved, the faintest tremor of emotion breaking through her poise. “Then allow me to seal that promise properly.”

She leaned down, her kiss steady and unhurried, the kind of kiss that felt less like a spark and more like earth itself solid, eternal, grounding you in a love that could weather any storm. You melted against her, fingers curling into her sleeve as the harbor’s lights blurred around the edges of your vision.

When she finally drew back, the night sky was alive with drifting lanterns, thousands of tiny suns carrying mortal wishes into the heavens. And yet, with Zhongli’s arms still around you, you knew: you had everything you could ever wish for, here on earth.

Zhongli’s lips lingered close, her breath brushing against yours as though reluctant to part from the moment. Even after the kiss had ended, her hand remained steady against your cheek, her thumb tracing soft, deliberate circles that spoke volumes more than words could.

“You ground me,” she whispered, her amber eyes searching yours with startling openness. “For all my years of wisdom, all my titles and names… it is with you that I have found stillness. Do you understand what you are to me?”

Your chest tightened, the lanterns’ glow reflected in her gaze as if the heavens themselves had been caught within her. You shook your head faintly, voice trembling when it came. “Tell me.”

Her smile deepened, tender and reverent. She leaned her forehead to yours, her voice low enough that it seemed meant for you alone, a secret carved into stone and silk. “You are my chosen eternity. Not jade, nor gold, nor the unyielding mountains compare. The world may shift, Liyue may change… but my love for you will remain, unshaken, unending.”

The words settled into you like warmth sinking into your bones. You closed the remaining distance, kissing her again not steady this time, but desperate, overwhelmed by the sheer immensity of her devotion. She met your urgency with equal fervor, her composure fracturing just enough that you felt the depth of her longing, her need to hold you closer.

When you finally pulled back, the two of you were breathing each other’s air, your foreheads still pressed together. She brushed her fingers along your jaw, down the line of your neck, and rested her hand over your heart as if to anchor herself there.

“Let us make a wish,” she murmured, glancing skyward where lanterns drifted higher, carrying prayers of a thousand strangers. Then her gaze returned to you, warm and unyielding. “Though mine has already been fulfilled.”

Your eyes stung with unshed tears, though your smile broke through, soft and sure. “Then let’s wish for forever. Together.”

Zhongli’s answering kiss was softer this time, reverent, a vow sealed beneath a sky alive with light. And in that moment, surrounded by stars and lanterns and the endless night, you knew without a shadow of doubt: forever had already begun.

The kiss softened into stillness, the kind of quiet where every sound in the world seemed far away. Below, the harbor roared with life, but here, on this balcony, there was only the steady beat of your heart against Zhongli’s palm.

When she finally drew back, she did not let go. Instead, she lowered her hand to twine her fingers with yours, her touch unhurried, deliberate as though reminding you that she would never slip away.

“You are trembling less,” she observed softly, her thumb stroking the back of your hand. “Does the world feel lighter now?”

You exhaled, a smile tugging at your lips. “It does. Though I think that has more to do with you than with lanterns.”

Her laughter was quiet, warm, a rare melody reserved for you alone. “Then I am glad to be of service. Though I must confess comforting you is no burden. It is a privilege.”

The words sank into you, more steadying than the cool stone beneath your feet, more soothing than the distant sea breeze. You leaned into her side, letting her arm envelop you, her warmth grounding you like roots sinking into earth.

Together, you watched the lanterns rise in unhurried silence. The crowd’s noise was little more than a lull in the distance, the chaos of the harbor unable to reach you here. Time stretched, gentle and forgiving, as Zhongli’s heartbeat pulsed steady against your temple.

“Stay with me like this,” you whispered, not entirely sure if you meant for the night or for forever.

Her hand tightened slightly at your waist, her voice steady as stone yet tender as silk. “Always.”

And so you remained, two quiet souls amid the brilliance of the festival, the world below moving on while you lingered above it anchored, unshaken, safe in each other’s presence.

You let your head rest more fully against her shoulder, listening to the low rhythm of her breathing. She didn’t move, didn’t rush you just let the silence wrap around you like a warm cloak. The scent of sandalwood and osmanthus lingered in the air, unmistakably hers, and it pulled you deeper into calm.

Zhongli’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, each pass deliberate, grounding. “The world can be heavy,” she murmured, her voice vibrating against you. “But you need not carry it alone. Lean on me, as I have leaned on the mountains for millennia. I will not falter.”

A small, choked laugh escaped you. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is easy,” she countered gently. “Because you are not a burden. You are my choice.” Her thumb traced absent circles against your shoulder as if to anchor the words into your skin. “Even gods grow weary of solitude. But with you, there is no weariness only peace.”

The weight in your chest loosened further, unraveling thread by thread. You shifted to look at her, searching her amber eyes that seemed to hold both the eternity of stone and the warmth of a hearthfire. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Her lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. “You need not deserve love to be worthy of it.” She bent to press the lightest kiss to your hairline, lingering there. “And in my eyes, you are worthy beyond measure.”

You closed your eyes, soaking in the steady warmth of her embrace, the gentle rumble of her voice, the way her presence filled every gap where fear had been.

“I could stay here forever,” you whispered, the words spilling like a confession.

Zhongli’s hand tightened on yours, her tone low and reverent. “Then stay. If forever is what you ask, it is already yours.”

And so you did wrapped in her arms while lanterns drifted higher and higher, carrying away wishes you no longer needed to make. Your world was here, in the circle of her embrace, in the quiet certainty of her vow.

For the first time that night, you felt no overwhelm, no unease only stillness. Only love. Only her.

When the last wave of lanterns had risen high enough to blur with the stars, Zhongli stirred gently, her hand still clasping yours. “Come,” she said softly, reluctant but practical. “The night is deepening. Let us walk home.”

Her arm never left you as you descended the quiet stairs, back toward the harbor. The festival was still alive with noise and color, but it no longer pressed in on you. Not when her steady presence walked at your side, her fingers brushing yours in an unspoken tether.

Vendors still called their wares, children still darted through the crowd, yet Zhongli shielded you from it all effortlessly. With her tall frame and calm certainty, she carved a quiet path through the chaos, guiding you as though you were the only person in the world who mattered.

When you finally reached the familiar road leading to your shared home, she gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Almost there,” she murmured, her tone more tender than the words themselves.

Inside, the quiet was immediate walls shutting out the noise of the festival, leaving only the soft creak of wood and the faint scent of incense that always lingered here. You sighed, shoulders slumping in relief, and Zhongli noticed.

Without a word, she slipped away to the kitchen. Moments later, she returned with two steaming cups of tea. The porcelain was warm in your hands, the fragrance gentle, soothing. You settled together on the couch, her arm slipping once again around your shoulders, tucking you securely against her side.

“Better?” she asked, her lips brushing the crown of your head.

“Much better,” you admitted, taking a sip and leaning fully into her. “Thank you.”

She chuckled quietly, setting her own cup aside so that she could hold you closer, both arms now circling you. “There is nothing to thank me for. Your peace is mine as well.”

The tea warmed you from within, and Zhongli’s embrace warmed you from without. Your eyelids grew heavy as her voice hummed low in her chest, recounting soft, meandering stories of old Liyue of rivers that once carved new paths, of flowers that bloomed only at night. You half-listened, half-drifted, comforted by the cadence more than the words.

When drowsiness finally pulled at you, she shifted with careful grace, lifting you as though you weighed nothing. She carried you to bed, the silken rustle of her sleeves brushing your skin as she tucked the blanket around you.

Her amber eyes lingered, softer than you had ever seen them, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Rest,” she whispered. “I am here. Always.”

You reached for her hand, and she allowed you to keep it, slipping beneath the covers so she could lie beside you. Her presence was steady, her heartbeat slow and grounding as you curled against her.

Sleep came easily, lanterns still drifting in your mind’s eye but the brightest, most enduring light was the woman who held you, steady and eternal, as the world outside carried on without you.

The quiet of your home seemed almost sacred after the brilliance of the festival. Outside, the faint glow of lanterns still clung to the horizon, their golden light peeking through the window screens, but within these walls there was only peace.

Zhongli sat beside you on the edge of the bed, her hand still entwined with yours. She traced idle patterns against your skin with her thumb, as though memorizing every line, every curve, as though you were more precious to her than any relic she had ever studied.

“You’ve carried so much tonight,” she murmured, her voice as low and steady as a lull in the storm. “And yet you smiled, even through the weight. I am proud of you.”

Your breath caught, warmth blooming in your chest. “You make it sound like something great, but I just… tried to get through it.”

“That is greatness enough,” she countered softly, leaning down so her lips brushed your temple. “Even the strongest stones are shaped by the world around them. You need not be unshakable. You need only be yourself. That is all I ask, and all I cherish.”

The words wrapped around you like a blanket, easing the last remnants of unease from your chest. You shifted closer, resting against her, inhaling the faint fragrance of osmanthus that always seemed to cling to her.

For a long moment, the two of you said nothing, listening only to the quiet rhythm of each other’s breaths. Her hand rubbed gentle circles against your back, steady, grounding, until the silence grew heavy with comfort rather than tension.

When she finally spoke again, her tone was like a vow whispered into eternity. “I once promised to watch over Liyue until its people could stand on their own. That duty has long been fulfilled. Now… I promise to watch over you. Not because it is duty, but because it is love.”

Your heart ached with the enormity of her words, and yet there was no pressure in them only gentleness, an embrace you could sink into without fear. Tears pricked your eyes, but you only smiled, tightening your arms around her. “Then I’ll hold you to that. Forever.”

She tilted your chin, pressing one last kiss to your lips unhurried, tender, lingering until it became less of a kiss and more of a breath shared between two souls. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours, amber eyes softened with a warmth that would outlast the stars themselves.

“Forever,” she echoed, as if sealing it into the fabric of the night.

You settled into her embrace then, the lanternlight outside flickering faintly against the walls, your world narrowing to the safe, steady heartbeat beneath your ear. Sleep tugged at you, gentle and patient, and you let it take you knowing that when you woke, she would still be there, holding you just as she always had.

And so the night ended not with fireworks or noise, but with stillness the simple, unshakable comfort of love that would never leave you.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet except for the faint crackle of the lantern and the shallow sound of your breathing. You stirred against the blankets, heat prickling across your skin despite the cool cloth resting on your forehead.

“Don’t move too much,” Baizhu’s voice came softly from the side of your bed. It was gentle as always, but there was a subtle strain beneath it like a string pulled too tightly.

You turned your head, finding him seated there, a cup of freshly brewed medicine in his hands. His hair was loose around his shoulders, his eyes tired but sharp, watching every flicker of discomfort on your face.

“You should be resting too,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “You’ve been here all night.”

Baizhu shook his head, lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “I’ll rest when I know your fever has broken.” His tone was calm, but you caught the tremor in his fingers as he offered the cup to you.

You pushed weakly against the mattress, trying to sit up, but your body resisted, heavy and aching. He was already there, sliding an arm behind your back, steadying you with practiced care. Still, the closeness made your chest ache in a way your illness couldn’t touch.

“Baizhu…” Your voice cracked, both from fever and something heavier. “You can’t keep doing this. You’re exhausted enough as it is.”

His eyes flickered, the lantern light glinting off the lenses of his glasses. For a moment, his carefully composed mask faltered. “And what would you have me do? Leave you here to suffer alone? Pretend I don’t notice when you wince at every breath?”

The sharpness in his voice startled you, but just as quickly, it softened into something fragile. He lowered the cup onto the bedside table, his hand lingering on yours. His palm was warm, but his fingers trembled faintly against your skin.

You looked at him fully then, really looked. The faint shadows beneath his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his lips pressed together like he was biting back words he shouldn’t say. Baizhu was the man who carried the burdens of countless patients, who faced sickness and death with steady hands. And yet, when it came to you, he was unraveling.

“...It scares you,” you whispered, realization dawning.

His hand stilled on yours. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. The silence stretched, filled only by the rhythmic flicker of the lantern flame. Finally, he exhaled, a quiet sound that carried the weight of something he rarely allowed himself to admit.

“Yes,” he said simply. His gaze dropped to your joined hands, as though he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes. “I have seen illness take so much from others… take so much from me. And now…” He swallowed hard, his voice tightening. “Now, when it is you lying here, I find I cannot separate the physician from the man who—” He broke off, shaking his head, his grip tightening slightly around your hand as if to anchor himself.

The rawness in his voice caught you off guard, your throat tightening with unspoken emotion. Slowly, you turned your hand to lace your fingers through his, squeezing weakly.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you murmured. “You’re always the one taking care of everyone else, carrying their fears along with your own. But Baizhu… you don’t have to hide from me.”

For the first time in hours, he finally looked at you truly looked, without the polished veneer of the doctor. His eyes were filled with something raw, fragile, and achingly human.

And in that look, you understood: it wasn’t just your fever that terrified him. It was the thought of losing the one person who reminded him he wasn’t alone in the weight he carried.

You smiled faintly, though it cost you strength. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not while you’re here with me.”

His lips parted as if to argue, but the words never came. Instead, he bowed his head, resting his forehead gently against the back of your hand. His voice came soft, almost inaudible: “Forgive me. I know I should be strong for you.”

“You already are,” you whispered back, closing your eyes, your heart easing despite the fever. “Just… stay. That’s all I need.”

And he did.

Baizhu stayed beside you through the night, his hand never leaving yours, as if by holding on, he could tether you both against the fears neither of you dared to voice aloud.

The night dragged on in fragments of restless dreams and half-conscious murmurs. At some point, the cool cloth on your forehead grew warm, and when you shifted weakly beneath the sheets, a wave of heat and dizziness crashed over you so strong it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Baizhu…” you whispered, your voice little more than a rasp.

His chair scraped against the floor instantly. He was at your side in seconds, pale hands adjusting the blankets, his gaze sharp with worry. The moment his palm brushed your temple, his composure cracked your skin was burning.

“Your fever has risen again,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His hand trembled faintly as he reached for the prepared medicine on the table.

“I’m… fine,” you lied, trying to push up on your elbows. The motion made the room spin violently, and you collapsed back into the pillows with a soft gasp.

“No, you’re not,” Baizhu snapped, sharper than you had ever heard from him. His voice shook with the force of it. “You can barely breathe without straining your body, yet you still insist on downplaying it? Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

You blinked at him through fever-hazed eyes. His chest rose and fell unsteadily, his hands tightening around the porcelain cup as though he was using it to anchor himself. Baizhu rarely raised his voice, but now… it wasn’t anger. It was fear, raw and consuming.

“Love…” you whispered again, softer this time. “I don’t want you to worry so much.”

His jaw clenched, and for a long moment he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he set the cup down before his shaking hands could spill it. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“Worrying is all I can do,” he admitted hoarsely. “I know the limits of the human body. I know what fever this high can lead to. And yet I am utterly powerless, because all my knowledge means nothing if I can’t—” His voice broke, ragged. “If I can’t keep you here with me.”

You reached for him, your arm heavy as stone. He caught your hand instantly, as if afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold tight enough. His grip was firm, desperate, almost painful.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you whispered, forcing strength into your voice despite the pounding in your skull. “Not like this. Not tonight.”

Baizhu lifted his head at last, and your heart twisted at the sight. His eyes, always so calm when treating others, now glistened with a raw vulnerability he’d never shown anyone else.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he murmured, but the way he clung to your hand betrayed how desperately he wanted to believe you.

Your vision swam, and you fought to stay awake, to hold his gaze just a little longer. “Then… make me one instead. Promise me you won’t carry this alone. Not with me.”

Baizhu’s lips parted, as if to refuse, to retreat into the safety of distance like he always did. But the way your eyes searched his the way you trusted him even now left him no escape. He lowered his forehead to your hand again, his voice trembling.

“I promise,” he breathed.

The word lingered in the air, fragile and desperate, and you barely managed a faint smile before another wave of heat dragged you under. Your eyelids fluttered shut, too heavy to fight against, and your body went limp against the pillows.

Baizhu’s voice rose, urgent now saying your name. He shook your hand lightly, then your shoulder, his composure fracturing with each second you didn’t respond. “Stay with me.”

You groaned faintly, but your body gave no strength to your voice. Your skin was burning under his palm, your breathing shallow and uneven. He pressed his trembling fingers against your pulse, searching, counting, clinging to the fragile rhythm of life thrumming beneath your skin. It was too fast. Too fragile.

“No… no, no, no,” he whispered, his calm physician’s mask crumbling entirely. The porcelain cup rattled on the table as he scrambled for his remedies, herbs, powders, tinctures, anything that might ease the fever’s grip. His hands moved quickly, instinctively, yet the tremor in them betrayed the storm inside.

It’s just a fever. You’ve treated worse. Countless times. His mind screamed the words, but they offered no comfort. Because this wasn’t just anyone, this was you. And the possibility of losing you clawed at his chest until it was hard to breathe.

“Not you,” he choked out, crushing herbs in the mortar with more force than necessary, his vision blurring. “Anyone but you.”

Your lashes fluttered faintly at the sound of his voice, but your eyes did not open. He cursed under his breath, scooping the prepared medicine into a cup with shaking hands. By the time he coaxed it past your lips, his own were trembling too.

When you coughed weakly in response, some of the liquid spilling down your chin, Baizhu’s heart clenched so hard it hurt. He wiped it away carefully, his hand lingering against your fevered skin.

“Please,” he whispered, and there was no composure left in his voice now, only raw, aching desperation. His head bowed, shoulders shaking as the words spilled from him like a prayer. “Please, don’t leave me. I cannot—” His breath hitched. “I cannot lose you too.”

For a man who had faced sickness and death with unwavering steadiness, Baizhu was unraveling completely in the quiet of your room. The healer who carried the burdens of so many was breaking, not from his own frailty, but from the unbearable thought of a world without you in it.

And yet, even through the haze of your fever, some part of you clung to the sound of his voice his plea anchoring you against the darkness pulling you down.

Your lips moved faintly, forming the words he longed to hear. “I’m… still here.”

The relief that washed over his face was immediate but fragile, a fragile hope held together by the thin thread of your voice. He leaned closer, clutching your hand to his chest as if to fuse your heartbeat with his own.

“You stay with me,” he said firmly, though his voice cracked under the weight of it. “No matter what it takes, you stay.”

But your hand, so small in his, twitched weakly before falling limp again. Your breathing stuttered, a ragged, uneven rhythm that made his blood run cold.

“My love!” His voice broke, shattering the silence of the room. He cupped your cheek with trembling hands, his thumb brushing desperately against skin that burned far too hot. “Look at me please, just look at me!”

Your lashes fluttered, but your eyes didn’t open. The fever had dragged you deep, deeper than before, and panic slammed into Baizhu with brutal force. His heart thundered in his chest, loud enough he swore it might drown out the sound of your shallow breaths.

His mind raced. Dosages, remedies, techniques he tried to pull every scrap of medical knowledge to the surface, every trick he’d ever used to draw a patient back from the edge. But his hands wouldn’t steady. His thoughts wouldn’t align. Because it wasn’t just a patient before him. It was you.

“No, no, no…” His voice cracked again as he poured another dose of medicine, his vision blurring. “Not you. The world can take everything else from me, but not you.”

His composure shattered completely, his shoulders shaking as he tried to coax the liquid past your lips. “I can’t—” His throat closed, the words strangled by the weight of grief pressing against him. “I can’t lose you too.”

The lanternlight flickered across his face, revealing the tears he didn’t have the strength to hide anymore. Baizhu, the ever-calm, ever-composed healer, was breaking apart at your bedside, torn open by fear and helplessness.

“Stay,” he whispered again, but now it was no longer a command it was a plea, raw and desperate. His forehead pressed against the back of your hand, his voice muffled against your fevered skin. “Stay with me. Please.”

The silence stretched unbearably, broken only by your uneven breaths. Each shallow inhale was both a lifeline and a dagger, reminding him how close the edge loomed.

And then finally a shift.

It was subtle at first, so small he thought he imagined it: the faintest change in your breathing, a stuttering gasp that deepened into something steadier. Baizhu’s head snapped up, his tear-streaked eyes wide as he pressed his palm to your brow.

Still hot. Still frighteningly hot. But lower.

His chest heaved with a shuddering breath, disbelief warring with relief. He clutched your hand tighter to his chest, his tears falling freely now, though his lips broke into something that was almost a smile.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “That’s it, stay with me. You’re fighting it. You’re still here.”

Your lips parted weakly, a barely audible murmur slipping past them: “...Baizhu?”

He nearly collapsed with the force of the relief that surged through him. His forehead pressed to your hand again, his body trembling with the aftermath of terror. “Yes,” he choked out. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time all night, the promise felt real, not fragile, not desperate, but alive.

And Baizhu, broken open but still clinging to you as if you were the only tether he had left, vowed silently that he would never let go.

The night bled into morning with slow, aching hours. Baizhu hadn’t moved from your side once, afraid that if he let go of your hand, even for a moment, you might slip away again. His body ached, his mind fogged with exhaustion, but he refused to loosen his grip.

At some point, his eyes had grown unbearably heavy. He didn’t remember when sleep finally claimed him, only that when he stirred again, the lanternlight was gone, replaced by the pale wash of morning sun filtering through the shutters.

And your hand warm, but not burning.

Baizhu’s eyes opened fully, his pulse quickening. He pressed his palm to your forehead, hesitant, terrified of hope. The fever was still there, but faint, weakened. No longer the raging fire that had tormented you through the night.

His breath shuddered out of him. His hand lingered against your brow, trembling as though afraid the improvement might vanish if he dared believe in it. A tear slipped free, unbidden, landing on the blanket by your shoulder.

“Baizhu…?”

Your voice. Raspy, fragile, but awake.

He nearly collapsed from the rush of relief that surged through him. His head snapped toward you, his heart lodging in his throat when he found your eyes heavy-lidded, but open meeting his.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, his voice cracking. His lips trembled into a smile that was equal parts relief and exhaustion. “Archons, you’re awake…”

You smiled faintly, though your lashes fluttered like you might slip back under. “Told you… I wasn’t going anywhere.”

Baizhu let out a shaky laugh, though it broke halfway into a sob. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead carefully against yours, mindful of your fragility. His hand slid into yours again, gripping tightly but this time, not out of desperation. Out of gratitude so fierce it made his chest ache.

“I nearly lost you,” he confessed, his voice raw. “I’ve seen too many fade this way. For a moment, I thought…” His throat closed around the words, his shoulders trembling as he forced them out. “I don’t think I could have borne it.”

Your weak fingers curled faintly against his, and though you were so tired, your voice was steady when you whispered: “But you didn’t lose me. I’m here. I’ll keep being here. With you.”

Baizhu’s eyes closed, a breath shuddering through him as if the words had reached some wound he’d long kept hidden. He brushed his thumb across your knuckles, reverent, as though to remind himself you were still warm, still alive beneath his touch.

“You shouldn’t waste your strength speaking yet,” he murmured, but his tone lacked conviction. You both knew he needed to hear your voice as much as you needed to give it.

Your lips curved in the faintest smile. “Then… stay quiet with me. Just stay.”

His chest tightened. He leaned closer, letting his forehead rest against the back of your hand this time, his voice so soft it was almost a vow. “Always.”

The room settled into silence then, but it was no longer heavy, no longer filled with the suffocating dread of the night before. The sunlight grew warmer, spilling golden across the floorboards, across the bedside table cluttered with herbs and cooling medicine. You breathed deeper, steadier, the fever finally loosening its grip.

Baizhu exhaled shakily, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time in days. He meant to stay awake, to watch over you still but now that the immediate danger had passed, his own body betrayed him.

His head dipped lower, coming to rest against the edge of the mattress, his hand still clasped firmly in yours. Sleep tugged at him, fierce and undeniable, and though he tried to resist, exhaustion finally claimed him.

When you stirred later, your fever no longer burning but a mere warmth, you turned your head to find him there. His breathing was deep and even, his long hair loose and falling over his shoulders, his glasses askew. His hand remained wrapped around yours, even in sleep, his thumb pressed lightly to your pulse as though some part of him couldn’t stop checking for your life’s rhythm even in dreams.

Your chest ached, but not from fever from the sight of him undone, vulnerable, finally allowing himself to rest because you were safe.

“…You stayed,” you whispered, too softly for him to hear. But your smile lingered, faint and full of warmth, as you let your eyes close again, your hand tightening just slightly in his grasp.

And for the first time in days, the room was no longer haunted by fear it was filled with peace.

The sun had shifted higher in the sky when you woke again. The fever was gone now, leaving your body weak and sore, but no longer burning. The air in the room felt lighter, too, as though the storm of the night had finally passed.

Baizhu wasn’t at your side this time. Panic fluttered briefly in your chest until you caught the faint clink of porcelain from the next room. His voice followed soon after, low and calm, speaking softly to Qiqi before dismissing her with quiet instructions.

When he returned, he carried a tray in both hands: a teapot, a steaming bowl of broth, and a small dish of fresh fruit. His movements were careful, deliberate, but his eyes found yours instantly and softened.

“You’re awake.” Relief colored his voice even now, like every time he saw you open your eyes was a gift he hadn’t expected to receive. He set the tray down and eased himself to your side. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” you admitted with a small smile. “But better.”

He exhaled, the corners of his mouth curving faintly as though the word itself was a balm to him. Sitting at your bedside, he poured the tea, the faint aroma of herbs filling the air. “Drink this first. It will help your strength return.”

You let him help you sit up, his hand steadying your back, his other guiding the cup to your lips. The tea was bitter but soothing, warmth spreading through you. He watched intently until you’d finished, then set the cup aside to offer you the broth.

“You don’t have to fuss so much,” you teased gently, though your voice was soft with affection. “I can manage a spoon by myself.”

Baizhu arched a brow, but his lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Perhaps. But after last night, you’ll forgive me if I don’t take any chances.”

The weight of his words lingered between you last night. The terror, the way his voice had broken as he begged you to stay. You reached for his hand, fingers curling weakly around his.

“Baizhu…” You hesitated, your throat tightening with memory. “I heard you. When you thought I wouldn’t wake up.”

His hand went still in yours. For a long moment, he didn’t look at you, his eyes fixed instead on the teacup, the tray, anything but your gaze. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“I lost my composure.” His tone held the faintest edge of shame. “A physician should never let fear cloud his judgment. But with you…” He paused, then exhaled, his voice trembling at the edges. “With you, I am not just a physician. I am a man who cannot bear the thought of losing the person he loves.”

Your breath caught, your chest tightening. You squeezed his hand, pulling until he finally met your gaze. His eyes were tired, rimmed red from sleepless hours, but in them was something fragile and unguarded, something he rarely allowed anyone to see.

“You didn’t lose me,” you whispered. “And you won’t. Not to this. Not while we still have time. I want to spend every bit of it with you.”

The silence stretched, but it was no longer heavy. Baizhu’s thumb brushed faintly over your knuckles, reverent, and the faintest smile tugged at his lips. He leaned closer, hesitating only a heartbeat before pressing his lips softly against your temple.

“You give me more strength than any medicine ever could,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “But you must promise me something, too.”

You tilted your head slightly, smiling faintly. “What’s that?”

“That you’ll stop downplaying your pain. That you’ll let me carry it with you, instead of hiding it away.” His voice was firm but gentle, his eyes searching yours. “Because I can only protect what I know how to fight.”

You let out a soft laugh, tired but genuine. “Alright. I promise.”

He smiled at that truly smiled, though faint, the kind of smile that reached his eyes. He leaned forward once more, this time pressing a soft kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to carry all the words he hadn’t said aloud.

When he pulled back, his hand still cradled yours, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “Good. Then we’ll face whatever comes together.”

The day passed in quiet peace. Baizhu stayed with you, coaxing you to eat small bites of broth, adjusting your pillows, and eventually after much persuasion from you allowing himself to lie beside you, his head propped against the headboard as you dozed against his chest.

His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, his arm warm around your shoulders, his breathing slow with the exhaustion of a man who had finally allowed himself to rest. And as you drifted back to sleep, safe in his arms, one truth settled between you both like a vow:

You had each other. And that was enough.

Chapter Text

The battlefield still crackled with the scent of ash. You stumbled over the charred remains of a broken spear, half-blinded by the smoke that rolled across the canyon floor. Your lungs burned, your arms shook, but you kept moving because stopping meant being swallowed by the tide of Abyssal fire that still lingered behind you.

And then… the air shifted.

It wasn’t just heat. It was a presence. A warmth that pressed down on you like the weight of the sun itself.

Through the smoke, a figure emerged tall, steady, the outline of her form glowing with embers that seemed to dance along her hair and skin. Her gaze cut through the haze and landed on you. The Pyro Archon.

Mavuika.

“Stay behind me.” Her voice was clear, commanding, but not unkind. She raised her arm, and fire bloomed to life at her fingertips controlled, elegant, devastating. The Abyss creatures shrieked as the flame surged forward in a wave, the canyon walls glowing red in its wake.

You froze, staring. Not just at the impossible power but at the steadiness in her eyes, the way she bore the burden of a thousand lives without a flicker of hesitation.

When the last cry faded and silence fell, Mavuika lowered her hand. The fire that had once roared became nothing more than drifting sparks. She turned back to you, her expression softer now, though her gaze still carried the weight of command.

“You’re not one of mine,” she said, voice quieter, curious. “Yet you stand here. Why?”

You opened your mouth, your heart still racing, throat raw from smoke and for a moment, you almost admitted the truth: that you had no idea why fate had thrown you into her path.

But instead, you met her gaze and whispered, “Because someone had to.”

Mavuika’s lips quirked just barely, as if the words amused her, or perhaps… impressed her.

The firelight flickered across her face, and you realized something then: for all her divine strength, there was a humanity there. A warmth she did not show to just anyone. And, perhaps, for reasons you could not yet grasp… she had chosen to show it to you.

The smoke had barely begun to clear when Mavuika gestured sharply. “Follow me. Now.” Her stride was purposeful, the kind of command that left no room for argument.

You stumbled to keep pace, your legs trembling, ash coating your clothes. She didn’t look back, but you could feel her gaze on you like a weight, assessing, calculating. Not cold but measured, like a predator considering whether to let its prey live… or thrive.

You rounded a bend in the canyon and found yourselves at the edge of a cliff overlooking Natlan’s sprawling volcanic landscape. Rivers of molten rock snaked between blackened plateaus, and distant forests shimmered in the heat haze. Mavuika stopped at the cliff’s edge, arms crossed, and finally spoke.

“You’re alive,” she said simply. Not a question, not a congratulation. Just… an observation. “Which is… surprising.”

You swallowed hard. “I… thank you… for saving me.”

Her eyes flicked toward you, unreadable. “Do not mistake my actions for charity.”

You nodded, aware that trying to argue would be pointless. Instead, you studied her as she turned back to the horizon. Even with the fire fading from her fingers, the heat around her lingered, subtle but undeniable.

“I need to keep you close,” she said, almost in passing, “for your own safety. The Abyss won’t wait for anyone, not even an outsider like you. And… you’re a liability if left unattended.”

The words were pragmatic, but there was something in the slight tension in her shoulders that betrayed a flicker of concern.

“Understood,” you said, keeping your tone steady, though a part of you couldn’t ignore the strange thrill of being singled out by Natlan’s Archon.

Mavuika motioned for you to follow down a narrow path carved into the volcanic rock. The descent was treacherous, but she moved with such grace that even the small ledges seemed navigable. Every few steps, she would glance back just enough that you noticed her eyes meeting yours, a silent check to make sure you weren’t falling behind.

As night fell, you finally reached a small outcropping sheltered by volcanic rock. Mavuika set up a temporary camp just a few smoldering stones to keep the chill from the high-altitude wind. She gestured for you to sit.

“You’ll need to rest,” she said, her voice softer than before, almost reluctant. “You’ve been reckless. I won’t allow you to be careless again.”

You hesitated. “And you do you… rest?”

For a brief moment, her eyes flickered, and her posture softened, though only barely. “I have little luxury for such things,” she admitted. Then, as if brushing away the hint of vulnerability, she crouched near the embers, tending them carefully.

You watched in silence, sensing that beneath the archon’s divine authority lay a being shaped by centuries of duty and sacrifice, a figure both untouchable and… achingly human. And somehow, in this quiet, dangerous corner of Natlan, you felt a tether forming between you a fragile connection that would grow stronger with every shared step into the unknown.

For now, though, the fire crackled, the night wind hissed, and both of you sat in a tense, tentative peace, one that would be tested countless times in the days to come.

The night air was cooler than you expected, carrying faint scents of sulfur and ash from the volcanic ridges below. You sat on the edge of the small rock outcropping, knees drawn up, hands wrapped around them for warmth. Mavuika knelt nearby, tending to the embers. The firelight danced across her features, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw and the intensity of her amber eyes.

“You’ve been walking too close to danger all day,” she said without looking at you, her voice low but sharp. “I do not wish to explain twice why that is unacceptable.”

You swallowed, trying to hide the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Noted. I’ll… try to be more careful.”

Her eyes flicked toward you for a brief instant, and for a heartbeat, there was something almost vulnerable in them quickly masked by her usual composure. Then she returned her attention to the fire.

The silence stretched between you, but it was not uncomfortable. For the first time, you noticed the small, human gestures beneath her imposing presence. The careful way she fed the embers, the faint exhale as she straightened her shoulders after each adjustment, even the way she occasionally glanced at you without a word checking, protecting.

“I…” you began hesitantly, “I didn’t mean to be reckless.”

She finally looked at you, amber eyes sharp but softer now. “Reckless is… a human flaw. One I do not permit lightly.” Her lips twitched in what might have been the faintest hint of a smirk. “And yet… here you are.”

You chuckled softly. “Guess I’m lucky.”

“Luck,” she said, tilting her head, “is unreliable. Skill, awareness, and allies that is what keeps one alive.” Her gaze lingered on you a beat longer than necessary. “You are not without merit… though you are foolish enough to need constant supervision.”

You met her gaze, and something unspoken passed between you. Not words, not confessions, just acknowledgment. You were tethered to her now, bound by circumstance, danger, and the small trust she had begun to extend.

Later, as the fire dwindled and the stars emerged above Natlan’s volcanic horizon, she moved to cover you with a rough-hewn blanket. “This will suffice,” she said simply, a small act of care that felt weighty in its rarity.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Her gaze softened, just a fraction. “Do not mistake necessity for sentiment,” she said quietly, though her hands lingered a moment longer than required.

You nodded, though inside, your heart was already rising in quiet rhythm with the flames. For all her sternness, there was a careful attention in the way she kept you close a vigilance that spoke louder than words ever could.

And as the fire crackled, Mavuika finally leaned back against the rock, allowing a rare exhale of relaxation. You knew it was the first of many nights you would spend at her side under the shadow of danger, in the glow of flames, slowly learning the humanity behind the Pyro Archon’s eyes.

Dawn had barely broken over Natlan when the distant rumble reached your ears a low, menacing vibration that made the ground beneath your feet tremble. Mavuika’s eyes snapped open, amber flames flaring faintly at her fingertips.

“They’ve returned,” she muttered, voice low but edged with steel. Without another word, she gestured for you to follow.

The path ahead wound through jagged volcanic ridges. Lava rivers glowed ominously, casting reflections that danced across your anxious face. Ahead, a small group of Abyssal agents emerged from the smoke, their forms dark and twisted against the rising sun.

Mavuika moved first, fire trailing in arcs as she struck with surgical precision. The creatures fell in quick succession, but one of them lunged toward you from the side a shadow faster than you anticipated.

Before you could react, Mavuika’s hand shot out, grabbing your arm and yanking you behind her back. She planted herself between you and danger, flames erupting in a shield that forced the Abyssal back.

“Stay close,” she commanded, her voice calm, controlled, but with an undercurrent of… something else, something protective.

You nodded, your heart hammering. “I’m right here.”

The battle pressed on. This time, Mavuika guided you. “Strike only when I signal. Aim for the gaps in their armor. Trust your instincts, but don’t overreach.”

For the first time, you felt like you were not just surviving like you were contributing, side by side with someone who could overwhelm forces far beyond your own. Every move she taught, every command she gave, every glance of reassurance even if wordless built a bridge of trust you couldn’t have imagined hours ago.

At one point, you ducked behind a jagged rock, barely avoiding a lunge, and Mavuika was there in an instant, flames curling protectively around you. Her hand brushed your shoulder, just long enough for your fingers to twitch in surprise, but not long enough to break her focus.

When the last Abyssal figure fell, silence returned except for the crackle of fading embers and your heavy breathing. You looked at her, chest heaving.

“Not bad,” she said, almost casually, though her gaze lingered on you longer than necessary. “You listen well… and move faster than I expected.”

You let yourself grin. “Guess I had a good teacher.”

Mavuika didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she surveyed the surrounding landscape, ensuring there were no more threats. Then, her amber eyes flicked to yours. “You will stay close,” she said softly, almost as an afterthought. “I cannot afford to have you wandering into danger again.”

It wasn’t just a command this time. There was a subtle warmth, a sense of care buried beneath the necessity, a trust forming between you both, forged in fire and action.

As you walked side by side back toward safer ground, you realized that surviving Natlan wasn’t just about evading the Abyss or mastering skills, it was about learning to move in tandem with someone whose power could terrify yet protect you. And slowly, you understood that the bond forming between you and Mavuika was no accident, it was a necessity that neither of you had expected… yet neither could deny.

The afternoon sun had barely begun its descent when the tremors returned, stronger this time. Smoke and ash twisted across the horizon like a living curtain. You and Mavuika had been tracking a band of Abyssal agents through a narrow volcanic canyon, and now the path ahead was blocked by a sudden eruption a jagged plume of lava spitting from a fissure in the rock.

Mavuika froze, eyes narrowing. “This isn’t random,” she muttered, scanning the heat-scorched earth. “They’re herding us… toward the ridge. Stay close. One misstep and—”

“Got it,” you interrupted, keeping pace with her as she advanced.

The ground shuddered beneath you both. Rocks shifted, sending small showers of embers into the air. Then, an Abyssal agent surged from the smoke, massive and malformed, blocking your escape. Its jagged claws swung with deadly force.

“Behind me!” Mavuika barked, and instinctively, you pressed close, feeling her heat radiate as she twisted her body to shield you. Fire arced from her hands, striking the creature with precision but even as it roared, she didn’t let go of your shoulder, her fingers brushing briefly against your arm.

You flinched at the touch, and for the first time, you noticed how deliberate she was, how her presence wasn’t just protective it was tethering, almost intimate.

“You trust me,” she said, not looking at you but stating it as fact.

“Yes,” you gasped, dodging a spray of molten rock. “I… I trust you.”

The words hung in the air longer than they should have, carried on the heat and ash around you. Mavuika’s amber eyes flicked toward yours for just a heartbeat, sharp and unreadable and then she was back to the fight, twisting and ducking with you behind her.

Step by step, strike by strike, you moved in rhythm. She would nudge you aside at just the right moment, call out precise warnings, or shove you behind her when the lava shifted dangerously. Each time, the physical closeness burned against your skin not uncomfortable, not invasive, just… necessary.

When the last Abyssal agent fell, the canyon fell silent. You leaned against a scorched rock, chest heaving, your arm brushing hers. Neither of you moved to pull away immediately.

Mavuika finally exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “You’ve learned quickly,” she said quietly, almost approvingly. “Foolish… but effective.”

You smiled, still catching your breath. “I guess I had the best teacher.”

For a long moment, the canyon was just the two of you, the crackle of cooling embers, the distant hiss of molten rock, and a fragile, unspoken understanding. You didn’t need words. The trust had been built in fire, in synchronized movement, in the way she had shielded you without hesitation. And beneath it all, a quiet, subtle warmth lingered a feeling neither of you dared name yet, but one that promised it was only the beginning.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over Natlan’s rugged terrain, Mavuika motioned for you to continue alongside her. “Stay close,” she said again, almost softer this time. “There’s more ahead, and I will not let you fall.”

You nodded, your hand brushing briefly against hers as you fell into step. Not just a teacher and a student, not just protector and protected something more unspoken had begun, forged in danger, trust, and the quiet sparks between every shared heartbeat.

The battlefield was silent now. The last of the Abyssal forces had been driven back, scattered like smoke in the wind. Natlan’s volcanic ridges glowed softly under the rising sun, rivers of molten rock catching the light like molten gold.

You and Mavuika stood side by side on a high cliff overlooking the expanse. She had her arms crossed, but her posture was relaxed far more than when you had first met. The firelight from your campfire the night before still lingered faintly in her eyes, a reflection of battles survived and lessons learned.

“You’ve done well,” she said quietly. Not a command, not a critique just… acknowledgment. Her gaze lingered on you, amber warmth shining through the hardened exterior.

You looked at her, feeling the weight of the days you had shared. Every step through smoke and ash, every narrow escape, every wordless moment of guidance and protection had forged a bond stronger than either of you had expected.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you admitted.

For a moment, she didn’t reply. Then, ever so slightly, a hint of a smile curved her lips a rare, almost imperceptible softness. “Perhaps,” she said, voice low. “But that is not the point. What matters is that you are alive… and that we endure.”

The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of sulfur and ocean spray from the distant coast. You both inhaled it, the quiet of the morning stretching between you in a way that was comfortable and electric all at once.

Finally, she turned toward you fully, her expression serious but gentle. “You will remain at my side,” she said, “not merely because it is necessary, but because… I have chosen it. Do you understand?”

You felt your heart tighten in a way you didn’t expect. “I understand,” you whispered.

Her hand brushed against yours deliberate this time, not a touch to guide or protect, but to connect. Your fingers grazed together, lingering. Neither of you spoke, because words were unnecessary. The trust, the bond, the unspoken warmth between you had been built over countless shared perils, moments of quiet, and flickers of vulnerability.

And as the sun rose higher over Natlan, bathing the volcanic cliffs in golden light, you realized that the flame between you was not just Mavuika’s fire, it was yours as well. A steady, enduring warmth, forged in trust, battle, and the slow, unyielding pull of two hearts who had found each other amidst the chaos.

Whatever dangers lay ahead, you knew you would face them together side by side, fire and flame, protector and companion, tethered in trust and subtle intimacy that neither time nor peril could extinguish.

And for the first time since your journey began, you smiled not out of relief, but out of certainty.

Because this was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The Tenshukaku was quiet that evening. Too quiet, Ei thought, as she stood by the window and let her gaze wander toward the horizon. The sun had only just sunk behind the sea, and the sky above Inazuma was awash with bruised violets and smears of gold. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

It was in silence that Ei thrived silence, and solitude. For centuries she had embraced them as both shield and punishment, all in the name of eternity. And yet tonight, silence gnawed at her. It left space for thoughts she didn’t want to examine, for feelings she still wasn’t sure she should allow herself.

Her hand tightened faintly around the small invitation she had written hours earlier. It was a simple thing, a folded sheet of parchment sealed with her crest, carried by a servant into the city below. The words inside had been clumsy, far from the commands or decrees she usually issued. She had read them again and again before sending it:

I would like to see you. After dusk, come to the Tenshukaku gardens.

And you had come.

Ei heard the rustle of footsteps along the tatami before she turned. There you were hesitant in the open doorway, as if afraid you had overstepped by answering her summons. Lantern light softened your features, painting them in amber warmth.

“Thank you for coming,” Ei said, and her own voice startled her. Too formal, too brittle. She cleared her throat, then tried again, gentler. “I am… glad.”

Your answering smile was small but genuine. “It’s no trouble.”

No trouble. As if meeting the Shogun could ever be so simple. But Ei let the words settle in her chest like a balm.

“Walk with me,” she said, turning toward the garden doors.

The garden was bathed in moonlight, silver caught on drifting sakura petals. The Sacred Sakura itself towered above, ancient branches aglow with a quiet radiance that seemed to breathe in time with the night. The fragrance was soft and heady, and every fallen petal whispered across the stone paths like a secret.

You walked beside her, your steps naturally falling in rhythm with hers. The quiet between you was not the same as the one she had fled inside the Tenshukaku; this was softer, tinged with something she couldn’t name.

She was the first to break it. “Tell me… do you enjoy the blossoms?”

You glanced up at the great tree. “I do. They’re beautiful. But they don’t last long.” You reached out, catching a petal in your palm before it drifted away. “That’s part of what makes them special.”

Ei stopped walking. The words lodged in her chest like an arrow. She turned toward you, studying the petal cradled in your hand. So delicate. So brief. She wanted to understand  truly, she did. But how could she reconcile beauty with loss?

“Special because they fade?” she asked, and though she meant it as a question, her voice came out harder than she intended.

Your gaze softened. “Yes. Because you treasure them while they’re here.”

Ei lowered her eyes. That idea had always unsettled her. Mortals clung to things they could never keep. They smiled knowing loss was inevitable. Was that bravery or folly?

You continued walking, and after a pause, she followed.

A low table waited for you beneath a cluster of lanterns. Tea had been set, still steaming in porcelain cups. Ei sank gracefully to her knees, but there was no practiced stillness in her tonight. She found her fingers tapping against the cup, restless.

You lifted your drink first. “It’s fragrant. Sweet.”

She mirrored you, lifting her own cup to her lips. The warmth spread across her tongue, but she tasted little of it. Her thoughts were louder than the tea’s flavor.

She forced herself to speak. “I have always sought eternity. To preserve what is unchanging, perfect, unbroken. But…” Her gaze faltered, drifting to the blossoms that framed you. “You speak of impermanence as if it were a gift.”

You set your cup down gently. “It is. Things matter more when we know they won’t last forever. Every laugh, every touch… every evening like this. We hold them closer because they pass.”

Something twisted in Ei’s chest sharp, unfamiliar. She thought of every year she had spent inside her Plane of Euthymia, untouched by time. Perfect, yes. Unchanging, yes. But never full. Never warm.

And now here you were, smiling at her across the tea set, your words pressing into her carefully maintained armor like sunlight slipping through cracks.

She found herself asking, quietly, “Do you hold this moment close, then?”

Your eyes met hers. “I do.”

The words should have been simple. But Ei’s breath caught as if she had been struck. She lowered her gaze, hiding behind the rim of her teacup. Heat bloomed along her cheeks, and she hated no, feared that you might see.

Time moved strangely after that. Perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. Conversation drifted like petals on water about small things, about nothing at all. You told her stories of your travels, and she listened more closely than she had to any council report in decades. Sometimes she even laughed, short and quiet, and each time the sound startled her.

And with each laugh, each glance, her fear deepened.

When silence finally returned, you looked out toward the garden. The blossoms swayed, their glow gentle as starlight. “Do you ever wish,” you asked softly, “to stop searching for eternity? Just for a night?”

The question struck like lightning.

Ei’s hand trembled against her cup. “If I did… I would be betraying everything I have built. Everything I am.”

“But you’re more than your eternity,” you said. “You’re here. Now. With me.”

She couldn’t breathe. Those words pulled her chest open as if with invisible hands. And in the space they carved, she felt the truth she had tried to deny: she wanted this. She wanted you.

Her voice broke when she spoke. “I am afraid.”

You turned back to her, startled. “Afraid?”

Her eyes burned, but she met your gaze. “Afraid of change. Afraid of loss. Afraid that if I take this step… if I let myself reach for you… it will unravel everything I swore to protect.”

Silence pressed down, thick and trembling.

Then you leaned closer, your voice no louder than the rustle of petals. “And if you don’t? What will you have left?”

Her hand moved before her mind could stop it. She reached across the table, fingers brushing against yours. Just a touch, light as the drifting blossoms overhead. But it was real. It was now.

You did not pull away. Instead, you turned your hand, lacing your fingers through hers. The warmth that bloomed there stole the last of her defenses.

“I…” Her voice cracked. She tried again, softer. “I do not know how to love like mortals do. I do not know how to hold something that may fade.”

You squeezed her hand gently. “Then learn with me.”

Her breath shuddered out of her. Centuries of silence, of stillness, of control and now, in one fragile moment, she felt them crumble. She had thought eternity was strength. Yet here, with you, she discovered a different strength entirely: the courage to be vulnerable.

“I want to,” she whispered. “With you.”

The words trembled, but once spoken, they felt like freedom.

Your answering smile was radiant enough to rival the moonlight. “Then you’re not alone anymore.”

The night stretched on, but neither of you noticed the hours. You remained beneath the blossoms, your hands still joined across the table, speaking little. The silence was no longer empty; it was full, woven with shared warmth.

When at last the lanterns guttered low, Ei rose and came to stand beside you. For a heartbeat she hesitated, her hand hovering uncertainly. Then, with all the deliberate resolve of a warrior, she took yours again.

No titles. No facades. Not as Shogun, not as a god. Just Ei, and just you.

She looked down at your joined hands, then up at you, and said quietly, “Eternity can wait. Tonight, I choose this.”

And for the first time in centuries, Raiden Ei felt the future not as a weight, but as a promise.

Chapter Text

The rain came down hard against the tiled roofs of Inazuma City, the streets nearly empty except for the few stubborn lanterns that swayed in the storm. You pulled your cloak tighter, balancing the basket in your arms as you made your way toward the small shelter by the docks. Inside, a handful of families huddled together, waiting for the thunder to pass.

“Here,” you said softly, setting the food down. The children’s eyes lit up at the sight of freshly cooked rice and dango, and the tired parents offered you grateful bows.

You didn’t notice the tall figure standing in the doorway until a sharp gust of wind blew the door open. Lightning flashed, illuminating raven hair, a stern gaze, and the unmistakable Tengu mask clipped at her side.

General Kujou Sara.

Her presence filled the small room like a storm all its own. The villagers straightened immediately, whispers hushed, as though her arrival demanded silence.

But Sara’s golden eyes weren’t scanning for threats. They were fixed on you.

“Why are you out here in this weather?” Her voice was clipped, commanding, but there was something else beneath it concerned she clearly hadn’t meant to let slip.

Before you could answer, thunder cracked overhead, loud enough to shake the walls. Instinctively, Sara stepped closer, her wing unfurling in a protective arc that shielded you from the draft. For a heartbeat, all you could do was stare at her, the stoic general, shielding you as though you were something precious.

Her wing lingered, blocking out the draft, the faint scent of rain clinging to her feathers. For a woman who carried herself with such rigid discipline on the battlefield, the gesture felt almost fragile, as if she feared the storm itself might steal you away.

You reached up, brushing your fingertips lightly against the damp feathers. “Sara,” you whispered, tilting your head to catch her gaze, “I told you not to worry. I’m fine.”

Her jaw tightened, the mask of the general slipping but not quite falling. “You shouldn’t have been out here,” she murmured, voice low, meant for you alone. “Not in this weather. Not when I couldn’t be by your side.”

The villagers politely pretended not to listen, but you could feel the heat of her closeness, the raw concern she couldn’t hide. You smiled softly, stepping into her space and resting your forehead against her chestplate. The metal was cold, but beneath it you could feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

“I know,” you said. “But you’re here now. That’s enough for me.”

For a moment, the ever-unshakable Kujou Sara wavered. Her hand, calloused from years of bow training, hesitated before settling against your back, drawing you in gently, carefully as though afraid her strength might break the moment.

Her voice cracked, just barely. “I don’t… want to lose you.”

You closed your eyes, tightening your arms around her. “You won’t. Not to a storm, not to anything. I’m yours, Sara.”

Her breath left her in a shaky exhale, and when she finally pressed her forehead to yours, the world outside, the thunder, the whispers, the storm, faded into silence. For once, she wasn’t General Kujou Sara, the Tengu warrior feared across Inazuma. She was simply yours.

You could feel the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself rigid even as she clung to you. It was the same discipline that never left her, not even here, not even with you.

You leaned back just enough to see her face. Raindrops clung to her hair, sliding down her cheek like fleeting traces of silver. Her golden eyes burned with so many things she couldn’t say duty, restraint, fear… and love.

“You don’t have to hold back with me,” you whispered, your hand brushing against her jaw. “Not here. Not ever.”

For a heartbeat, she froze, wings trembling faintly as if torn between retreat and surrender. Then, something inside her cracked soft, quiet, but undeniable.

Her hand cupped your face, firm but trembling, and before you could say anything more, her lips crashed into yours.

It wasn’t the practiced control of the general, nor the reserved touch of someone afraid to feel too much. It was raw, desperate, as if she’d been holding herself back for far too long and could no longer bear it. The storm outside raged, but her kiss drowned it out, filled your world with nothing but warmth and the fierce devotion she tried so hard to hide.

When she finally pulled back, breathless, her forehead pressed to yours, her voice came ragged and low.

“You are my weakness,” she confessed, barely audible. “And my strength. I don’t care if the whole nation sees me falter if it’s for you, then let them.”

Your heart swelled, your hands curling into the fabric of her uniform as you kissed her again, softer this time, lingering. The villagers politely averted their eyes, but you didn’t care. For once, neither did she.

In that moment, Kujou Sara wasn’t just a general, or a Tengu sworn to duty. She was yours utterly, irrevocably, and without restraint.

The storm howled outside, rattling shutters and sending the lantern flames shivering, but inside the little shelter, the air felt unbearably warm. Sara’s lips still lingered against yours, her breath shallow as if she were the one caught in battle instead of you.

When she finally drew back again, her hands remained at your waist, unwilling to let go. Her wings folded slowly, enclosing the two of you in a cocoon of feathers that muffled the world. It was a shield, yes, but it felt like more than that it felt like she was giving you all of herself, letting her barriers fall.

“General…” one of the villagers began hesitantly, but Sara silenced them with a glance not sharp, not cold, just quietly commanding. Her attention flicked back to you instantly, as though nothing else mattered.

You smiled faintly, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. “You know,” you teased gently, “if you keep kissing me like that in public, people are going to start talking.”

Her ears flushed crimson, and she looked away for half a second the great Tengu General undone by a single comment. But then her gaze snapped back to you, steady and unwavering.

“Let them,” she said, voice low and fierce. “If they see me like this, if they see who I am with you, then so be it. I will not hide you.”

The conviction in her words stole your breath. She wasn’t just protecting you from a storm anymore she was claiming you openly, in defiance of all the expectations that chained her.

You leaned closer, resting your head against her chest again, listening to the steady rhythm of her heart. “I don’t need you to be a general with me,” you whispered. “I just need you.”

Her arms tightened around you, her lips brushing the crown of your head. “Then that is what I’ll be. Always.”

The storm outside began to soften, thunder rolling further into the distance. The villagers slowly relaxed, murmurs resuming as though nothing extraordinary had just happened. But you and Sara stayed as you were, wrapped in each other, lost in a silence far more powerful than the storm could ever be.

And in that moment, you knew: the Tengu General wasn’t just sworn to her Shogun. She was sworn to you.

By the time the storm faded into a drizzle, the villagers had settled into quiet conversations, grateful smiles passed in your direction. Sara finally loosened her hold on you, though her hand never left yours as she escorted you out into the damp night air.

The streets shimmered with reflections of lanternlight on rain-soaked stone, the air sharp with the scent of wet earth and sea salt. She walked beside you in silence, wings tucked close, her pace steady but unhurried. Every so often, her thumb brushed over your knuckles as if to remind herself you were there, real and safe.

“You didn’t have to come,” you murmured, breaking the silence. “But I’m glad you did.”

Her golden eyes flicked toward you, softer than the moonlight overhead. “I will always come. No matter the storm.”

The walk to your home was quiet, filled with the sound of dripping eaves and distant waves. When you reached your door, you expected her to let go, to bow with that stiff formality she wore like armor. But instead, she followed you inside without hesitation.

The warmth of your home wrapped around you both. You set aside your damp cloak, and Sara removed her gloves with careful precision, laying them aside like weapons no longer needed. For once, she looked almost unsure, her gaze wandering around the familiar space before settling on you again.

You stepped closer, brushing a hand against her cheek. “You’re still tense,” you whispered.

She exhaled shakily, her hands finding your waist again. “I don’t know how to stop,” she admitted. “Not when I’m always thinking of how to protect, how to command. But with you…” Her voice trailed off as her forehead pressed to yours. “With you, I want to learn.”

Your heart swelled at the rare vulnerability in her tone. You guided her to sit, pulling her close until she melted against you, wings unfurling just enough to wrap around your shoulders like a second embrace. The world outside faded, replaced by the quiet rhythm of her breathing against your neck.

“You don’t have to be the general here,” you whispered, your fingers tracing slow circles over the tense muscles of her back. “Just be Sara. That’s all I want.”

For the first time that night, you felt her truly relax. Her lips brushed your skin hesitant at first, then lingering, feather-light kisses trailing from your jaw to your temple, as though she were memorizing the shape of your presence.

And when she finally kissed you again, it was nothing like the stormy desperation from before. It was slow, tender, and utterly human the kiss of someone who had finally allowed herself to be vulnerable, to be loved.

In that quiet, rain-softened night, you held each other as though there was no battlefield, no duty, no world beyond your walls. Just the two of you, wrapped in warmth and the kind of intimacy words could never fully capture.

The rain outside softened to a whisper, a lullaby against the roof, while inside the quiet of your home wrapped around you both. The world had stilled, leaving only the glow of a single lantern painting your walls in gold.

Sara sat with you nestled against her, her wings curled protectively around your shoulders like a living blanket. She had set aside her armor, her bow, even her mask. What remained was simply her Sara, not the general, not the Tengu warrior, but the woman you loved.

You could feel her heart slowing against your cheek, each beat steady and grounding. Your fingers traced idle patterns along her hand, marveling at how such strength could also be so tender. She didn’t pull away, didn’t hide her trembling when your touch grazed the soft inside of her wrist.

“You look tired,” you whispered, brushing your thumb against her jaw.

She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning into your hand. “I am,” she admitted. “But not in a way that sleep alone can mend.” Her voice lowered, softer than you’d ever heard it. “It’s different with you. I can… rest here.”

Your chest ached with the honesty in her words. You tilted up, pressing a slow kiss to her lips. It was gentle, unhurried, as if time itself bent to give you both this moment. She sighed against you, the last of her tension slipping away, and when she kissed you back it was with a warmth that spoke of promises she couldn’t voice.

Her wings shifted, pulling you closer until there was no space between you. You felt her breath on your skin, her lips wandering in tender trails along your temple, your hair, the curve of your neck. Not rushed, not desperate, just reverent, as if every kiss was her way of telling you what words failed to carry.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes met yours in the dim glow. Golden, unguarded, shining with a devotion that nearly unraveled you.

“You make me forget the battlefield,” she murmured. “When I’m with you, I’m not the general. I’m just… Sara. And for the first time, I don’t think that’s a weakness.”

You cradled her face in your hands, your forehead pressing gently to hers. “It’s not,” you whispered. “It’s everything I love about you.”

Her breath caught, and then she kissed you again deeper this time, but still unhurried, like a vow sealed in the quiet night. Your hands slid to her shoulders, drawing her closer, and she let herself be guided, her guard lowered completely. The kiss deepened, languid but full of yearning, as though the storm outside had left behind a fire only you could soothe.

Eventually, you both stilled, foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling in the silence. The lantern’s light dimmed with the night, and the storm passed fully into memory.

Sara shifted, lying down beside you on the futon, her wing draped over you like a soft, feathery quilt. Her arms circled you securely, holding you against the warmth of her body. For once, she didn’t worry about duty, about the world waiting outside. Her only vow tonight was the steady heartbeat you felt beneath your ear.

“Stay,” she whispered, though her grip already told you she couldn’t bear letting go.

“I always will,” you promised, eyes fluttering shut as you melted into her embrace.

The storm had passed. The general was gone. And in the gentle stillness of that night, only two lovers remained safe, warm, and utterly entwined in each other’s presence until sleep claimed you both.

Chapter Text

Mondstadt felt too bright for a day that felt so dull. The square buzzed with laughter, sunlight glinting off the fountain's spray like shards of glass. The smell of dandelion wine drifted from the tavern doors, sweet and sharp, blending with the chatter of merchants and the steady clatter of boots against cobblestone, all reminders that the world kept moving, even when you wished it would stop for just a moment.

You stood there for a while, watching people pass friends talking animatedly, lovers sharing pastries from the market stalls, adventurers slinging packs over their shoulders and heading off toward the gates. It was all so ordinary. So alive.

Your birthday wasn't supposed to feel like this.

You hadn't expected a parade, or gifts, or anything extravagant. You weren't the type to demand celebration just... a message, maybe. A quiet "happy birthday" scribbled on parchment. A visit, even brief, from someone who remembered. Something small to say I remember you.

But the morning passed with only the sound of the wind whistling through. Noon brought nothing but the distant toll of church bells. By the time the sun began to sink low, the only thing waiting at your door was silence.

You'd checked your bag once, then again, convincing yourself you might have missed a letter. Maybe it had fallen somewhere, slipped under a table, gotten lost in the shuffle of the day. But no, there was nothing. No familiar handwriting, no friendly knock, no sign that anyone had thought of you at all.

You tried to be rational about it. People were busy. Life went on. You weren't a child anymore, counting candles and waiting for surprises. Still, every hour that passed without a word carved a little deeper into that quiet space in your chest where warmth was supposed to be.

By late afternoon, the sky had turned the color of cooled ash, the first hint of evening painting long shadows through the streets. You wandered aimlessly past the fountain, the noise of the city pressing in too close, too loud, too indifferent.

You told yourself it didn't matter that you didn't need anyone to make the day special. But as the light faded and the air grew colder, the lie began to crumble under its own weight.

By the time the sun began to slip below the rooftops, that weight sat heavy in your throat, and you could no longer pretend it wasn't there.

You didn't mean to end up outside the city walls. One moment you were weaving through the crowds in the square, and the next you were standing at the gate, the guards offering polite nods as you slipped past without a word.

The road stretched out before you, quiet and empty, framed by golden fields and the slow, lazy hum of crickets hiding in the grass. The wind carried the faint scent of grapes and oak from the vineyards beyond, familiar, grounding, but still distant.

You walked without really thinking about where you were going. Each step kicked up a bit of dust, soft against your boots, the only sound breaking the silence besides the restless sigh of the wind.

With every mile, that hollow ache in your chest shifted from sadness to embarrassment.

You felt ridiculous.

It wasn't as if birthdays mattered anymore. You had real responsibilities, things worth worrying about. And yet here you were, sulking down a dirt road because no one had remembered a date on a calendar. The thought made you scoff under your breath.

"Pathetic," you muttered to yourself, shaking your head.

You tried to laugh it off, but it didn't sound like a laugh more like a sigh that had gotten lost halfway out. Maybe you were acting like a child. Maybe it was selfish to want to be remembered, to be thought of without having to remind anyone.

But knowing that didn't make it hurt any less.

The sky deepened into amber and rose, the horizon bleeding into dusk. Fireflies had begun to gather near the vineyards, their soft glow flickering in the tall grass. The air was cooler here, gentler somehow, brushing against your skin like an old memory.

And before you realized it, your feet had carried you exactly where your heart wanted to go all along down the familiar road that curved toward the Dawn Winery.

The silhouette of the estate came into view through the trees, its lanterns glowing faintly against the darkening sky. Warm light spilled from the windows like liquid gold, painting the path ahead in soft shades of orange.

You hesitated at the gate, fingers brushing against the cool iron. You hadn't planned to come here not really. But you couldn't think of anywhere else you wanted to be.

At least here, you wouldn't have to pretend you were fine.

The heavy doors of the winery creaked softly as you pushed them open. Warmth greeted you first the familiar scent of burning wood, aged wine, and something faintly sweet in the air. The fire in the great hearth painted the room in shades of gold and red, chasing away the last of the chill from your walk.

For a moment, you stood in the doorway, unsure if you should announce yourself. You hadn't told him you were coming. Maybe he was busy he usually was, this time of evening.

Then you heard his voice.

You looked up to find Diluc standing behind the table. His head tilted slightly, crimson hair catching the firelight as he took in your expression. The faintest crease appeared between his brows.

"You're here earlier than usual," he said, wiping his hands with a cloth before setting it aside. "Something happened?"

You shook your head, trying for a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "No, nothing like that. I just... didn't want to be in the city anymore."

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, steady, unreadable, but too perceptive for your comfort. Then he rounded the table and gestured toward the armchairs near the fire.

"Sit. You look cold."

You obeyed without protest, sinking into the chair as the fire's warmth seeped into your legs. For a while, the only sounds were the crackle of flames and the faint clink of glass as Diluc poured two cups of tea.

He handed you one and sat across from you, his gloved hands folded neatly in his lap. "You don't usually leave Mondstadt so suddenly," he said. "Did something happen today?"

The words caught in your throat. You wanted to tell him it was nothing, that you were fine, that it was silly to make a fuss, but when you met his eyes, the lie faltered.

He wasn't pushing. Just waiting. Quiet, patient, as always.

You stared down into your cup. "It's my birthday." You said, suddenly wishing you hadn't said anything at all. "I didn't tell anyone. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it. But... I guess I hoped someone might remember." You laughed softly, a sound that cracked in the middle. "No one did. So here I am, hiding out like a sulking kid."

He didn't respond right away. You half expected an awkward silence, maybe a quiet "I'm sorry," but instead he stood, sudden but unhurried and moved toward the kitchen.

"Diluc—"

"Stay there," he said gently, glancing back at you with that small, careful smile he reserved only for you. "Just a moment."

You watched him disappear beyond the doorway, the faint sounds of movement carrying through the still air drawers opening, a match being struck, the rustle of parchment and glass.

When he returned a few minutes later, your breath caught.

He was carrying a small plate, one candle flickering weakly atop a slice of cheese cake. Its glow lit his face from below, softening his sharp features, turning him into something almost ethereal.

He set it down in front of you without a word.

"No one should spend their birthday alone," he said quietly, kneeling so his eyes were level with yours. "Especially not you."

The fire crackled. The candle wavered. And for the first time all day, your chest felt warm.

"Make a wish," he murmured.

You looked at him, really looked, the flame's reflection dancing in his crimson eyes.

"I don't need to," you said softly. "You already made it come true."

You smiled at him through the candlelight, the faint sting in your eyes finally easing. The room was quiet except for the fire's steady crackle and the soft tick of the clock on the wall. For a long moment, you simply sat there, breathing, warm, and seen.

Diluc straightened slowly, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with the back of his gloved fingers. "You should eat," he said, his voice as warm as the glow around him. "It's been a long day, hasn't it?"

You nodded, still half dazed by the unexpected tenderness of it all. He smiled, a small, rare thing that made your chest tighten and set the rest of the plate down beside the teacups.

"There's more of the cake," he said after a pause, his tone quiet but lighter now, almost playful. "But you'll have to wait until after dinner. I thought we could share it then."

You blinked, surprised. "You made more?"

His lips twitched, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. "Of course. I wouldn't serve you the last piece without keeping some for us to enjoy properly on your day."

Something in the way he said us made your heart flutter.

You tilted your head, pretending to pout. "You've been planning this, haven't you?"

Diluc looked away, and though his expression barely changed, you could see the faintest shade of red touch his ears. "I might have... prepared a few things. But," he added, his tone deepening just a little, "you're going to have to wait for your present until after dinner."

Your curiosity stirred instantly. "You're giving me a present?"

"Mm." His eyes softened as he looked back at you. "You didn't think I'd let the day pass without one, did you?"

"I don't know," you teased, smiling now, warmth bubbling up in your chest. "You can be pretty good at keeping secrets."

He exhaled softly, the ghost of a chuckle slipping through his usual composure. "Then I suppose I'll consider that a compliment."

He gestured toward the long dining table, where a faint aroma was beginning to drift from the kitchen roasted herbs, something sweet, something familiar. "Come. Dinner's almost ready. And after that..." His gaze lingered, just a touch of affection breaking through the calm, "...you'll get your present."

You stood, following him toward the table, the flicker of candlelight chasing your steps. The sadness that had clung to you all day felt smaller now lighter, fading under the warmth of his presence.

And as Diluc pulled out a chair for you, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, you realized that maybe you hadn't been forgotten after all.

Dinner at the Dawn Winery was always calm, but tonight it felt different, softer, somehow. The firelight shimmered over the table, catching the deep reds of the wine bottles that lined the walls and the gleam of polished silver. The smell of roasted vegetables, spiced meat, and freshly baked bread filled the room, comforting and rich.

You watched as Diluc moved about with quiet precision, setting out the dishes himself instead of calling for the staff. That alone said more than words could he'd made time, in the middle of everything, to make this night yours.

When he finally sat across from you, he poured a small glass of grape juice, his movements deliberate and calm. "It's one of the lighter blends," he said softly, sliding the glass toward you. "You've always liked the sweeter ones."

You smiled faintly. "You remembered that too?"

He met your eyes, a flicker of warmth there. "I make it a point to remember the things that matter."

The words lingered in the air like the taste of honey on your tongue.

Dinner passed in a quiet rhythm the kind you only shared with someone who knew your silences as well as your words. He asked gentle questions about your day, nothing too heavy, and listened carefully when you spoke, never interrupting, never rushing you.

It wasn't a grand celebration. There were no guests, no gifts piled on tables, no songs or candles beyond the one that had burned low beside your empty plate. And yet, it was perfect. Exactly what was needed

Afterward, he stood and disappeared for a moment, leaving you in the flickering warmth of the fire. When he returned, he was holding something small, a box of dark polished wood, the kind he used to keep delicate things safe.

He set it down in front of you. "Your present," he said simply.

You blinked, taken off guard. "Diluc, you didn't have to—"

"I wanted to."

The firmness in his tone was gentle, but there was no room to argue.

You hesitated, then lifted the lid. Inside was a pendant simple, elegant, and unmistakably handmade. A gold chain held a small, oval stone of deep crimson, warm even under your fingertips. You realized what it was the moment the light hit it a shard of Pyro vision crystal, faintly glowing from within.

"It's not just jewelry," he said quietly. "The crystal comes from an old test sample. It holds a bit of heat, not enough to burn, just enough to stay warm. I thought... on nights when you're away, or when I can't be there, it might remind you of home."

Your breath caught. "Diluc..."

He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck a small, rare crack in his usual composure. "I wasn't sure if it was too much. But I wanted you to have something that was mine. Something that keeps you warm."

You reached across the table and took his hand, the leather of his glove cool beneath your fingers. "It's perfect," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "You always know exactly what I need, even when I don't."

His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, and that faint, quiet smile returned the one he only ever wore for you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled, the shadows flickering along the walls of the winery, and the world outside seemed impossibly far away.

Then Diluc's expression shifted thoughtful, deliberate. "I... have a few more things for you," he said quietly.

You raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Another present? Diluc, you've already made today perfect."

He chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. "But I wanted to... add a little more."

He stood and disappeared into the kitchen briefly, returning with a small wooden tray. On it were three neatly wrapped parcels, each modest but carefully prepared. He set it before you, his crimson eyes flicking to yours.

"You don't have to open them all at once," he said, though there was a hint of eagerness in his voice. "But I wanted you to have these before your... main gift."

The first was a small leather-bound journal. Its cover was soft but sturdy, the kind made to last for years. You opened it, flipping through blank pages that smelled faintly of cedar.

"I thought you might like to record... thoughts, sketches, memories," he said. "Whatever you want. I know how much you love to write."

Your chest tightened. "I... I love it, Diluc. Thank you."

The second gift was a delicate scarf, dyed in deep autumnal tones, golds, rusts, and the faintest burgundy. You ran your fingers over the soft fabric.

"I noticed you've been borrowing cloaks and scarves from me too often," he murmured, a faint blush touching his ears. "Now you'll have your own. And... I picked the colors. They suit you."

You laughed softly, holding it to your face. "You really think of everything, don't you?"

The third gift was smaller, a tiny glass vial with a ribbon tied around its neck. Inside was a mix of dried flowers and herbs, a subtle fragrance of lavender and chamomile.

"For... quiet nights, or when you need to feel calm," he explained. "You can keep it by your bedside. Or carry it with you, if you want. It's... just a little piece of comfort from me."

You looked up at him, tears threatening. "Diluc... these are... all so thoughtful. "

He gave a faint shrug, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Then he reached into his coat again, his hand emerging with something glinting in the firelight. A small metallic object, warm from his palm.

"A... final gift," he said softly.

You stared as he slid the object across the table. A key. Gold-finished, substantial, weighty more than just metal.

"It's a spare key to the estate," he said quietly, eyes fixed on yours. "To my home... to our home. If you'll have it."

Your fingers tightened around the key, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. "Diluc..."

"I want you to feel at home here," he continued. "Always. You don't need to knock, or wait, or ask permission. This place... is yours too. Whenever you want it."

You blinked, tears spilling freely now. "I... I don't even know what to say. This means more than words."

He leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against yours. "You've always been home," he murmured. "You just didn't have the key yet."

And as the firelight danced across both your faces, you realized that today, forgotten by everyone else, had become the most intimate, perfect birthday you could ever imagine.

You sat back in your chair, the three smaller gifts stacked neatly beside you, necklace around your neck and the key still warm in your palm. The fire's glow danced across the room, painting Diluc's sharp features in soft golds and reds, and for the first time that day, the weight in your chest eased.

"You've really outdone yourself," you murmured, still holding the key in your hands. You draped the scarf around your shoulders, feeling the luxurious fabric settle against your skin. The warmth it offered was comforting little less than the red gem around your neck, but nothing could compare to the way your heart throbbed at being so carefully seen.

Diluc watched you with a quiet, almost imperceptible smile, the corners of his lips twitching upward. "I just wanted you to feel... taken care of," he said softly. "Today should have felt special. You shouldn't have felt forgotten."

You reached across the table, taking his hand in yours. His glove felt cool beneath your fingers, and yet the contact sent a comforting warmth through your chest. "You made it perfect," you whispered, your voice catching slightly. "Even if no one else remembered, I... I feel so seen. So loved."

His forehead rested lightly against yours, his voice low and tender. "You've always deserved that," he murmured. "Every day, not just today."

The fire crackled in the hearth, the shadows dancing across his face, making him look softer, more approachable, than anyone else had ever seen him. You let your gaze linger on him, memorizing the way his eyes reflected the flames, the slight tension in his jaw relaxing under your fingertips.

Before you realized it, your lips tilted upward as your body reached over the table, seeking his in a motion that felt as natural as breathing. Diluc's eyes flickered down to meet yours, the briefest hesitation passing between you before he leaned forward. His lips brushed yours in a kiss so soft it made your chest ache.

His gloved hand cupped the side of your face, thumb tracing gentle circles along your cheek as he deepened the kiss, careful not to overwhelm you. You let your free hand curl into the front of his coat, pulling him slightly closer, feeling the steady warmth of him against you.

When you finally parted, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours again, his eyes half-lidded, soft. "Happy birthday," he murmured.

"I... thank you," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. "For all of this... for everything."

He gave the faintest laugh, rare and gentle, as if it were only for you. "You don't need to thank me," he said. "I'll always want to make you feel special."

Then he gestured toward the remaining slice of cheese cake. "Shall we share this?" His tone was teasing now, but soft, intimate. "I thought we could enjoy it there by the fire. Properly. Together."

You laughed softly and moved with him back to the fireplace, closer to him, settling next to his side. "You know I'm not letting you hog it all," you said, cutting two small pieces.

The warmth of the fire, the taste of cheese, and the quiet intimacy of the room made the cake taste sweeter than you'd ever imagined. Every bite was punctuated by small smiles, quiet laughs, and the occasional brush of your hands against his.

After a while, you pulled the journal from your bag. "Do you want to write something together?" you asked, smiling. "A little memory of tonight... a note about us?"

He tilted his head thoughtfully before nodding. "I like that idea," he said. He took the pen with you, and together you wrote a simple sentence: October 7th a night of firelight, warmth, and the feeling of home. You glanced up at him, smiling shyly, and he returned it, his eyes soft and warm.

The vial of dried herbs you'd received earlier sat on the mantel, letting off a calming scent of lavender and chamomile that mingled with the sweetness of the cake and the richness of the wine in the air. The journal open beside you, necklace giving warmth, scarf tossed aside to eat the cake easier and the key, the key to his home, glinted faintly on the table, a symbol of trust and permanence.

Finally, Diluc draped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was grounding, safe, and full of a quiet promise that you'd never been alone tonight, not ever.

You tilted your face up to him, brushing a soft kiss against the side of his jaw, and he responded immediately, tilting your chin toward his for a second, deeper kiss. This one lingered longer, slow and certain, tasting faintly of cheesecake and firelight.

"I've wanted to do that all day," he whispered against your lips.

"I've been waiting for it," you murmured back, his breath warm against your skin. Another soft, lingering kiss followed, this one closing any space between you, a gentle seal on the intimacy of the evening.

The night stretched on. You shared the rest of the cake slowly, savoring each bite and teasing each other softly. You wrote in the journal together, the pen moving between your hands as Diluc added little notes alongside yours. You laughed quietly when one of his "thoughts" was far more practical than sentimental, the careful reminders of someone who always planned ahead, and he chuckled, conceding defeat with a sheepish tilt of his head.

Hours passed without any urgency. The fire dwindled to glowing embers, the candle burned low, and yet neither of you moved to leave. You curled against him, scarf wrapped now around both your shoulders, journal at your side, key lying just out of reach but always in mind, a symbol of a home that was finally shared, fully and completely.

Diluc tightened his arm around you, resting his chin lightly on your hair. "You're home now," he murmured, voice low and steady.

"I'm home," you echoed, pressing your lips against his chest.

Then, softly, you lifted your head and pressed a long, slow, lingering kiss to him one filled with all the gratitude, love, and relief that had built up through the day. He returned it without hesitation, letting the moment stretch, letting you feel every unspoken word through the warmth of his lips and the embrace of his arms.

Finally, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumb brushing your cheek lightly. "I'll make sure you always feel this way," he murmured. "Every day. No matter what."

You sighed softly, nestling closer, letting the warmth of his body, the fire, and the small gifts around you envelop your senses. Outside, the world continued, but in the winery, there was only the two of you, firelight dancing, hearts beating in sync, and the gentle certainty that this, tonight, this home, this love was forever.

Chapter Text

Kaveh’s laughter always used to reach this kitchen first. It bounced off the polished counters and tangled itself in the steam rising from morning tea. Today, only the kettle whistles. The silence feels like a verdict.

Alhaitham sits with a book open in front of him, though he has not turned a page in ten minutes. His eyes keep flicking toward the door, expecting that familiar burst of energy, that whirlwind of gold hair and half-finished sketches.

He tells himself he is simply waiting for quiet so he can focus. He tells himself many things that crack apart the moment he looks toward Kaveh’s empty seat.

Kaveh had left early again. Another commission in a region marked dangerous by every official scroll the Akademiya issued. He brushed it off with a bright grin, saying architects do not choose where inspiration strikes. Alhaitham called him reckless. Kaveh called him heartless. The door slammed.

The argument still stings like a cut rubbed with salt.

Alhaitham closes the book, frustrated with his own distraction. His house used to feel spacious, a sanctuary of ordered thought. Kaveh turned it into something else, like sunlight sneaking between blinds. Now those same rays fall on untouched blueprints sprawled across the desk. Kaveh forgot them again. He forgets a lot when he is tired.

Alhaitham reaches for one blueprint with careful fingers, though no one watches to accuse him of softness. A cough had wracked Kaveh the previous night, sharp and wet, leaving a smear of crimson on a handkerchief he tried to hide. The memory lingers behind Alhaitham’s ribs like a secret bruise.

He presses his forehead into his hand.

The Akademiya praises him for logic, yet logic tastes bitter every time Kaveh walks into danger with that stubborn smile. There are so many words Alhaitham should have said. They sit like stones behind his teeth.

The kettle clicks off. The room exhales a curl of steam.

Still no footsteps. Still no laughter.

Alhaitham finally rises and slips Kaveh’s abandoned blueprints into a neat stack. He will give them back later. He keeps telling himself there will be a later.

He reaches for his vision, feeling the warmth pulse against his palm. Something twists inside his chest, unpleasant and cold.

Kaveh should have been home by now.

Alhaitham’s footsteps soften as he moves into the living room. A rolled-up carpet leans against the wall. Kaveh insisted on buying it, claiming the space lacked “emotional warmth,” whatever architectural nonsense that meant. It still waits to be unrolled because they never quite agreed where it should go.

A half-assembled model sits on the coffee table, delicate arches reaching skyward like hands begging for mercy. Kaveh worked on it two nights ago, humming while balancing gears and pillars with impossible finesse. Alhaitham had pretended to read, though his gaze kept drifting to the slope of Kaveh’s shoulders, the stray curls brushing his cheek.

Kaveh looked up suddenly, eyes bright in the lamplight.

“You could help, you know.” He held out a small beam.

“That requires an interest in architecture,” Alhaitham replied.

Kaveh groaned dramatically. “The bar for emotional support is at ground level and you still trip over it.”

Alhaitham took the beam anyway. His fingers brushed Kaveh’s, brief contact sending sparks through nerves he never asked to possess. Kaveh smiled. The room felt full.

The memory clings to him now, sticky and painful. He wants to rewind time, edit the scene, say anything that would have made Kaveh stay home this morning.

He drifts to the front door. The keys Kaveh always leaves in the bowl are missing. Alhaitham’s heart clenches. It is such a small thing, hardly worth noticing, yet it feels like a thread tugged loose from the fabric of his world.

The sun has begun its descent, painting the sky with bruised orange. Alhaitham mutters to himself, cold logic fraying beneath worry.

“He is late. That is all.”

Still, his breath quickens.

What if the cough got worse? What if his recklessness finally outran his luck?

He reaches into his pocket, fingers closing around his vision again. It glows brighter as if sensing the unease prickling through him.

The silence grows teeth.

Alhaitham takes a step toward the door. Then another.

He tells himself he is only going to check the construction site out of courtesy, out of annoyance, out of anything but fear.

The house behind him darkens, shadows settling over unfinished dreams.

He does not look back.

The wind howls through broken stone, carrying the sour scent of withering spores. Kaveh stands atop the half-built structure, surveying what should one day become a haven for travelers. Right now it looks like a skeleton held together by hope and stubbornness.

He presses a hand to his chest as another cough breaks loose. Pain sparks beneath his ribs. The handkerchief he lowers is dotted with blood like crushed crimson pigment.

“No time to be dramatic,” he mutters to himself, folding it tight. “Deadlines wait for no architect.”

His head swims for a moment. He steadies himself against a beam. The workers nearby fuss over supports and measurements, but nobody looks high enough to notice the tremor in his stance.

He straightens, forcing the world back into clarity.

Winning this commission is proof that he isn’t defined by debt or failure or the shadow of a father who taught him brilliance at the price of self-worth. Alhaitham’s scolding rings in his mind.

You’re pushing yourself too far.

Kaveh scoffs under his breath. “Like he has room to talk.”

Still, a memory blooms: Alhaitham’s fingers ghosting over his wrist last night, touch hesitant, voice nearly gentle.

“You can rest, Kaveh. You’re allowed to rest.”

Kaveh almost let himself lean into that softness. Almost.

A shout yanks him back. One of the workers flags him down, pointing toward a structural misalignment. Kaveh descends the scaffolding quickly, determination outweighing caution. He kneels to inspect the issue, tracing the flaw with his fingertips.

“It’s fixable,” he says, relief loosening his shoulders. The building still has a future.

Another cough catches him mid-breath. He stumbles, vision tunneling.

The earth groans.

Metal shrieks overhead. A support beam gives way with a crack like thunder ripping the sky. Dust erupts. The world tilts.

Kaveh’s eyes widen as the scaffolding collapses toward him.

His last thought blooms like a desperate prayer:

Alhaitham… please…

Everything goes dark.

Silence crashes louder than stone.

Kaveh lies twisted among the debris, dust settling across his skin like a thin burial shroud. The world pulses in and out, light and shadow trading places with each unsteady heartbeat. He tastes copper. He tastes fear.

Cold seeps into him quickly. It feels like sinking into deep water, numbness rising from the ground to swallow his limbs.

Somewhere distant, voices are shouting his name. They echo strangely, as if underwater. He tries to lift his head, but the weight of the collapsing world keeps him pinned.

I can’t… not yet.

He forces a breath, chest aching like splintered glass. His vision swims, shapes drifting like phantoms. He finds the sky between the broken beams: a sliver of blue, bright and cruel.

He focuses on that color.

Alhaitham’s eyes share that same shade, though Kaveh never had the courage to linger long enough for a proper comparison. Too risky. Too revealing.

Dust tickles his lashes as they threaten to close. He fights it. The ground trembles again. Darkness crowds at the edges.

His fingertips twitch… searching for purchase, for something familiar. He grazes torn paper, one of his blueprints crushed beside him. It hurts more than the injury, seeing beauty ruined by his own arrogant insistence.

A memory drifts through him, warm and tender.

Alhaitham holding a tiny beam for the model… grip careful, expression unreadable… but eyes soft.

The thought sparks a crooked smile on Kaveh’s lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, or maybe just thinks it. His voice doesn’t seem to travel anywhere. “I promised I’d make something that lasts…”

His eyelids fall halfway.

The shouting grows closer now, urgent, frantic. Something metallic scrapes as the debris shifts.

He clings to that sliver of blue sky one last time.

Haitham will come… he always…

The rest slips away into quiet.

Darkness tightens its hold.

The moment Alhaitham turns the final corner, the world stops making sense.

The construction site erupts in a cloud of dust and panic. Workers sprint in every direction, their shouts muddled and raw. A section of scaffolding has collapsed into a tangled heap, metal bones warped and jagged. The air tastes of struck stone and disaster.

His pulse spikes.

Before a thought can form, his legs are already moving. He pushes through the crowd with a force that draws startled looks, but no one attempts to stop him. There is something primal in his stride, something that knows exactly what it is afraid of losing.

“Kaveh!” His voice slices through the chaos. “Where is he?”

A terrified worker points toward the ruins, eyes wide with guilt. “He was… he was checking the lower supports when—”

That is all Alhaitham hears.

His vision flares, teal light bursting from his fingertips. He tears away shards of concrete like they are no heavier than discarded paper. Logic tries to speak. It sputters beneath the roar in his chest.

Too quiet. Too still.

The debris shifts under his hands, revealing a flash of gold hair dirtied by dust. He freezes, breath strangling itself.

“Kaveh…” The name breaks apart in his mouth.

He drops to his knees, clawing desperately through the wreckage now. The sharp edges bite into his skin, but he feels nothing. Every piece of rubble removed reveals more of the person who turned his orderly home into someplace he never wanted to leave.

Kaveh lies crumpled, trapped beneath twisted beams. His lashes are clumped with gray, his lips bloodless. He looks impossibly small. Too fragile.

Alhaitham reaches for him, trembling.

“Kaveh. Wake up.”

No response.

He presses a hand to Kaveh’s cheek, seeking warmth, demanding it. The contact sparks a memory of laughter, of arguments, of a thousand chances to say something he never did.

A faint breath stirs against his palm.

Alhaitham’s heart lurches.

He summons all the power he owns, ripping at the metal imprisoning the man beneath him. The ground shakes with every surge of elemental energy. Someone behind him shouts a warning that the structure could collapse further, yet their voice is nothing but static to him.

He gathers Kaveh into his arms, carefully, desperately, as if any wrong movement might shatter him beyond repair.

“Kaveh, stay awake,” he orders, voice low, almost pleading. “You are not allowed to leave. Do you hear me?”

His thumb brushes dust from Kaveh’s forehead, smearing streaks that look too much like war paint.

Kaveh’s lashes flutter… then still.

A chill seizes Alhaitham’s spine.

No. Not yet.

He pulls Kaveh closer, holding him like someone shielding the last fragile blueprint of a future he never admitted he wanted.

“We’re going home,” he whispers.

The chaos around them fades into a dull roar. There is only Kaveh’s shallow breathing. Only Alhaitham’s breaking silence.

Only the terror of what comes next.

The memory dissolves before he can change its ending.

Alhaitham stands alone in the house that once pretended to be a home. Light bleeds through the curtains, washing the walls pale. Dust floats lazily in the air as if nothing in the world is wrong.

Kaveh’s worktable remains exactly as it was… the night before everything collapsed.

A half-finished model. A pen left uncapped. A note scrawled in his impossible handwriting: “Back soon.”

Alhaitham’s eyes track the curve of each letter like an autopsy.

A quiet scoff escapes him, brittle enough to snap. “Soon. What a useless measure of time.”

He sinks into Kaveh’s abandoned chair, hands clasped in his lap, knuckles white. His shoulders hunch inward as if protecting a wound no medic could ever reach.

He had always believed solitude to be his natural state. A fortress built of books and rationality. Walls thick enough to block out need.

Now solitude feels like suffocation.

There is no kettle whistling, no humming under breath, no sound of misplaced tools clattering onto the floor. Only a cold, obedient silence that presses its palm over his mouth and tells him not to breathe too loudly.

Someone once told him grief comes in waves.

This feels more like drowning in still water.

He looks toward the door, expecting footsteps that will never come again. His throat tightens. He drops his gaze. He refuses to be foolish.

Logic demands he accept reality.

Logic can go to hell.

The clock ticks. The world continues. People laugh somewhere far away, unaware that a star collapsed in his hands.

Alhaitham reaches for a blueprint left behind… Kaveh’s last creation… edges still stained with dust from the collapse. He holds it like a relic salvaged from a ruined temple.

His voice drops to a whisper no one could overhear, even if anyone bothered to try.

“I should have stopped you…”

No one answers.

He folds the blueprint against his chest, as if that fragile sheet of paper could anchor time or reverse it.

Every breath feels like a betrayal.

Night settles over the house like a verdict. The lamps remain unlit. Alhaitham sits on the floor beside Kaveh’s desk, back against the wall, legs drawn up as though bracing for impact. His vision lies untouched where he set it down hours ago, its glow dulled by neglect.

He stares at his own hands in the dimness.

Hands that pulled Kaveh from ruins too late. Hands that pride themselves on certainty yet trembled the moment certainty mattered.

His breath comes shallow.

He used to think silence meant peace. Now it presses into his skull like a vice, ringing with echoes of what should have been said. Every unsaid word sharpens itself into guilt.

Why didn’t he insist Kaveh stay home? Why did he hide concern behind criticism? Why didn’t he hold tighter when he still had the chance?

He leans his head back, eyes closed tight.

He pictures Kaveh laughing, red-faced and furious over some trivial argument. He pictures Kaveh asleep at the table, ink smudged across his cheek. He pictures a thousand moments he dismissed as inconveniences.

They feel like treasures now.

His chest aches with a strange, hollow feeling as if something vital slipped out of him the moment Kaveh exhaled his last breath. The world remains intact, yet off-balance, like a structure missing its load-bearing pillar.

Kaveh was chaos. Irrationality. Noise.

Kaveh was warmth.

Alhaitham opens his eyes to the dark ceiling. Rationality tries to offer comfort, analyzing grief as a natural response to loss. It fails.

Thoughts coil tight:

He was here. I didn’t say enough. I didn’t do enough. I didn’t know it would end.

A humorless breath escapes him.

Lies. He had known. The cough. The exhaustion. The risk.

He simply refused to acknowledge that one day, Kaveh’s recklessness wouldn’t loop back into his life again.

His palms press against his eyes, fingertips trembling.

There is no one here to witness his unraveling. No one here to accuse him of sentiment or hypocrisy. Tears slip anyway, silent and thin, disappearing into the fabric of his gloves.

The house creaks. The air remains still.

He imagines footsteps, Kaveh’s scuffing down the hallway. A slam of the bathroom door. Complaints about the temperature or the lighting or life itself. A whispered breath of irritation that meant: I’m comfortable here.

Nothing follows.

Alhaitham lowers his hands, staring into the dark.

The world expects him to move forward. To work. To explain what happened with the same cold efficiency he applies to everything else.

He cannot imagine speaking at all.

The blueprint he holds crinkles beneath his tightening grip. He smooths it immediately, terrified of damaging the last thing Kaveh shaped with hope.

His voice emerges barely audible.

“Don’t disappear.”

The plea goes nowhere. The walls absorb it like moisture, leaving him dry and brittle.

He folds in on himself, pulling the blueprint to his chest, and waits.

For what, he doesn’t know.

Perhaps a miracle.

Perhaps an end.

Perhaps just one more breath that doesn’t feel like punishment.

Days blur into each other like ink spilled across a page, staining everything in muted gray. Morning arrives without purpose. Night lingers without rest. Alhaitham drifts through his own home as a ghost among objects that refuse to forget.

He makes tea every dawn.

Two cups.

His hand always reaches for the second before memory snaps back, cruel and fast. The cup remains empty. The tea grows cold. He doesn’t drink his own.

The shelves overflow with books, yet he cannot read. Words crawl uselessly before his eyes, forming hollow shapes with no meaning. Knowledge tastes like ash. What good is truth, logic, reason… when they solve nothing that matters?

He stops attending Akademiya meetings. Scholars knock, voices hushed with worry or gossip. He ignores them. Eventually, they stop coming.

Good.

Every room has its ghost.

The bathroom mirror shows a reflection thinner, dimmer, eyes ringed in purple. He doesn’t care. Hunger and fatigue are suggestions he no longer bothers to heed. There is only one need left in him.

He wants the past back.

Sometimes he hears Kaveh speaking, just barely, when exhaustion blurs reality. A laugh from behind a door. Humming drifting from the kitchen. A muffled curse when a tool drops.

He turns, breath held…

Silence greets him every time.

His heart forgets how to beat correctly.

One night, he falls asleep at the desk with his forehead pressed against a blueprint. When he wakes, the paper is wrinkled with the imprint of dried tears he refuses to acknowledge as his own.

He whispers into the ink-stained quiet:

“You could have stayed.”

The house doesn’t answer. It only stares back, full of empty corners and almost-memories.

He begins leaving the lamp on in the living room just in case the door opens and Kaveh stumbles in complaining about something ridiculous.

The lamp stays on.

The door stays shut.

Sumeru continues its vibrant hum beyond his walls. Festivals. Laughter. Life.

He stays here.

Inside a monument to the one person who ever made this place feel warm.

The house is quiet, but it isn’t peace. It’s the kind of quiet that presses against your chest, smothers your lungs, makes every breath a reminder of absence. Alhaitham paces across the living room, the blueprints still scattered from his last outburst. He doesn’t bother picking them up. Every sheet is a reminder of Kaveh, of what he built, and of what he destroyed by existing too briefly.

He stops suddenly, jaw tight, fists clenching.

“Why him?” he hisses to the empty room. “Why does the world, why does anyone get to keep living while he’s gone?”

The words taste bitter. The silence answers nothing. He yanks another chair from the table, hurls it against the wall. Wood splinters under the force, and the sound is loud enough to startle the shadows into retreat.

“Damn you,” he spits, voice raw, choking. “Damn you for being reckless! Damn you for being brilliant enough that the world couldn’t contain you! Damn… everything!”

Anger burns in his chest, coiling tight like a living thing, and he can feel it scratching at the edges of sanity. He thrashes his arms, throws pens and rulers across the floor. Every object he touches reminds him of Kaveh: a crooked line, a misplaced sketch, a half-finished model that Kaveh would have mocked but lovingly.

He collapses onto the floor, forehead pressed into the blueprint-strewn carpet. Breath comes ragged, uneven. The world tilts around him, spins, and yet the room remains unbearably still. He imagines Kaveh there, standing behind him, shaking his head, muttering complaints he would have once brushed off.

“You always left your things everywhere,” he whispers, voice trembling. “And I hated it. I… I hated it, Kaveh. And now I’d give everything just to hear you complain again. To see you… alive…”

A memory blooms behind his eyes: Kaveh’s laugh, echoing down the hallway, sharp and bright. The way he leaned over a table to correct a design, that flash of gold hair catching the lamplight. Alhaitham presses a hand against the floor, as if touching the memory itself might anchor it into reality.

“I hate you,” he murmurs, voice breaking, “for leaving me alone… and I—” He swallows hard. “I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts.”

Tears burn behind his eyes, but he doesn’t wipe them. He lets them fall onto the blueprints, staining paper that Kaveh shaped with care. He curls around the mess, cradling them as one might cradle a dying person, one who cannot be saved.

Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. Time is meaningless now. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone from the Akademiya who knocks, their cautious voices filtered through the fog of his grief.

He whispers Kaveh’s name into the dark corners of the house.

“Kaveh… Kaveh… you’re here, aren’t you?”

No one answers, but he imagines Kaveh’s voice, soft, teasing, alive. He hears it between the tick of the clock and the creak of the floorboards:

“Stop sulking, you bore. You’re supposed to be efficient.”

Alhaitham curls tighter, hugging the blueprints to his chest.

“I’m not efficient,” he whispers. “Not without you. Not in anything. You… you made this place livable, and now…”

He stops, choked on the word, suffocating in the empty air.

Everything around him reminds him of Kaveh: the half-finished model on the table, a cup left on the counter, a pen uncapped on the desk. He touches each with reverent fury, as if by holding them, he can hold Kaveh back from leaving entirely.

He begins talking to the air as if Kaveh were there.

“I should have… held you tighter,” he says, voice raw. “I should have told you… I should have—”

He swallows again. The words are heavy and jagged. He doesn’t finish them. No one is here to hear, and somehow that makes it worse.

At night, he sits in the darkness with the lamp on, the light weak and golden, just as Kaveh’s would have been, just in case he walks through the door.

He remembers Kaveh’s laugh when a blueprint went wrong. The tilt of his head when correcting Alhaitham. The stubborn, infuriating way he always had to touch everything to understand it.

Alhaitham whispers into the lamp’s glow, fragile and desperate:

“Don’t disappear, Kaveh… stay with me. Stay… even if it’s only in these scraps, these memories. Stay.”

The house remains still, but he feels it: the lingering presence of someone who should not be here, someone he cannot let go.

He rocks slowly back and forth against the wall, holding the blueprints as if they could shield him from the absence, as if holding them could conjure Kaveh back into the world.

Anger, grief, love, despair they twist together in a knot so tight it feels like his chest might tear open. But still, he does not move. He cannot move.

Because moving means letting go.

And he cannot.

Night folds over Sumeru in a hush, the city lights shimmering far below the windows like stars that fell and never climbed back up. Alhaitham sits at his desk, the same one Kaveh once cluttered with scattered sketches and coffee cups and laughter. The desk is clean now. Too clean.

In front of him lies a single blueprint. Kaveh’s last. The lines are soft and hopeful, a design for a home filled with sunlight, wide windows, and a garden where nothing could collapse again.

A future that slipped away.

Alhaitham’s fingers hover over the page, shaking just enough to betray the storm inside. His thumb traces a penciled margin note in Kaveh’s handwriting:

“Don’t forget the people inside the walls.”

Alhaitham exhales, long and defeated. His voice finally breaks into the stillness.

“I remembered,” he murmurs. “I only forgot myself.”

He pushes back his chair and rises. Slow. Steady. Purposeful. The house hums with a quiet that doesn’t feel empty anymore. It feels full… too full… like the walls themselves are swollen with memories that can no longer be contained.

He moves through each room, fingertips brushing across every object Kaveh touched. The indentation on the couch cushion. The doorframe scuffed by boxes carried inside with hopeful dreams. A chipped mug Kaveh swore he would fix.

He collects a small pile of things. Not many. Just enough to hold a life. His breath trembles once, only once, before he steadies it. No hesitation in his movements. He sets the items down near the front window, where the moonlight gentles their edges.

A faint smile touches his lips, almost invisible. Almost peaceful.

“Wait for me a moment longer,” he says softly into the silence. “I’m right behind you.”

His cloak rustles as he walks away from the moonlit room. His footsteps are quiet. Calculated. Certain.

The blueprint on the desk stirs in a breeze that shouldn’t exist.

The front door never opens.
The lamp never turns off.
The house never makes another sound.

Morning arrives to a home so still it might have been carved into the earth.

Two cups sit on the counter.
Two chairs remain pulled close together.
One world has ended inside walls built for two.

Chapter Text

The wind was sharper than usual that morning, thin, biting, and full of the scent of frost. The sky above Dragonspine shimmered like a sheet of glass, and the sun barely managed to break through the swirling mist that hugged the peaks.

Amber stood on the edge of a rocky outcrop, her glider folded neatly at her back. Her breath came out in pale clouds, disappearing into the cold. She grinned, tapping her foot against the stone.

“Clear skies, steady winds,” she muttered, half to herself, half to the empty air. “Can’t let a little cold stop me now.”

She should’ve waited. Should’ve listened when Eula warned her that this high up, the air currents turned unpredictable, and the temperature could drop in an instant. But patience was never her strong suit.

Amber adjusted her goggles, spread her glider, and jumped.

For a heartbeat, she was weightless, the world opened up beneath her, a vast sprawl of glittering white and shadowy forest. Her heart soared with the wind, free and alive. She laughed, the sound bright and carried away by the gusts.

“This is the best part,” she whispered to herself. “Just me and the sky.”

But the sky didn’t always play fair.

The first warning came as a low whistle, a subtle shift in the air, a tremor through the frame of her glider. Then came the gust: sudden, brutal, a wall of wind rolling down from the mountain’s flank. The right wing buckled. Amber jerked sideways with a startled cry.

“Whoa—! Steady—steady—”

The air roared in her ears. Her vision spun. The glider twisted, a sharp crack splitting the cold quiet. Her hands burned from the strain as she tried to pull up, to level out—but the controls didn’t respond.

Then came the fall.

The world became a blur of white and silver, snowflakes stinging her face as she plunged. She barely had time to brace before she slammed into the slope, tumbling through snow and ice, her limbs scraping rock and frozen ground. The glider splintered apart in a burst of wood and fabric.

When she finally came to rest, the only sound left was her uneven breathing and the slow hiss of settling snow.

Amber groaned, trying to move. Pain flared through her side. “Ow… okay. That’s… not good.” Her vision swam as she reached for her communicator but it must’ve fallen somewhere in the crash. “Eula’s gonna kill me for this…” she muttered weakly, and then coughed. The world around her blurred again.

Snow began to fall harder, delicate flakes landing on her lashes, melting against her skin before freezing again.

Far below, Eula Lawrence stood on a narrow patrol path, her cape rippling like blue silk in the wind. She had been following a trail of hilichurl prints when the distant sound reached her a faint, strangled cry echoing down the slope.

Her breath caught.

Amber’s voice.

It was faint, distorted by distance, but Eula would have known it anywhere.

Her mind went blank for half a second then she was running.

The snow crunched under her boots, the edges of her vision tunneling as she fought through drifts up to her knees. She didn’t think, didn’t plan. The disciplined Knight of Favonius, ever composed and proud, was gone; all that remained was raw, gut-wrenching fear.

Please don’t let it be serious. Please.

She crested a ridge, heart pounding, and saw, it the broken wings of a glider scattered across the slope like fallen feathers.

“Amber!”

Her voice cracked against the wind. She stumbled forward, dropping to her knees beside the wreckage. Her hands usually so steady trembled as she brushed snow aside, searching.

A flicker of brown hair, a flash of red cloth.

Eula’s throat tightened. “No… no, no.” She dug faster, her gloves burning with cold, until she found Amber half-buried in the snow, her goggles askew, her face pale but still breathing.

Eula let out a sound half sob, half gasp and pressed a hand to her own chest, steadying herself.

“You reckless, foolish girl…” Her voice broke. She brushed snow from Amber’s cheek with trembling fingers. “You said you’d stay near Mondstadt today.”

Amber stirred faintly, her eyes fluttering open, unfocused. “Eula…? Huh. Guess you… found me…”

Relief and fury tangled in Eula’s chest. “Of course I found you. You’re lucky I was nearby.”

Amber tried to grin, but it faded quickly as pain crossed her face. “Heh. Kinda… rough landing…”

“Don’t talk.” Eula’s tone came out sharper than she intended. She bit her lip, then softened. “You’re hurt. Just—stay still.”

Amber blinked up at her, confusion giving way to a faint, tired smile. “You’re… shaking.”

Eula realized she was not from the cold, but from fear.

“I thought…” She swallowed hard, the words catching. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Amber’s smile wavered, gentler now. “Hey… not that easy to get rid of me.”

Eula exhaled shakily, brushing another lock of hair from her forehead. The wind howled around them, carrying flecks of snow through the air.

“I’ll get you out of here,” she said finally, voice low but firm. “Just hold on.”

And as she gathered Amber into her arms, shielding her from the cold, Eula felt something deep within her unravel the fragile composure she always clung to cracking beneath the weight of everything she almost lost.

Eula adjusted her grip, pulling Amber close. The glider’s broken frame jutted out from the snow like a skeleton, creaking in the wind. She didn’t dare look back.

The descent was slow and grueling; the slope was slick, and the snow deepened with every step. Eula’s boots sank almost to her knees as she trudged forward, her breath sharp in the cold air. She could feel Amber shivering faintly in her arms.

“Stay awake,” Eula muttered, her voice steadier than she felt. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

Amber made a small sound a half-hearted hum. “Not going anywhere… promise…”

“Good. You’ve caused enough trouble for one morning.”

Her words came out clipped, but there was no heat behind them. In truth, every heartbeat felt like a fragile mercy. Each small breath Amber took steadied something in her that had nearly broken.

By the time Eula reached the temporary camp tucked against a cliffside, her arms were trembling from strain. She laid Amber down gently inside the tent, shaking the frost from her cloak before pulling it around both of them to keep in the warmth.

The small fire she’d left earlier was still flickering weakly. Eula fed it with a few dry twigs, watching the flames catch and grow. The light painted amber-gold across her pale hair, a fragile contrast to the bleak world outside.

Amber blinked, eyes fluttering open as the warmth began to seep in. “You… dragged me all the way here?”

Eula didn’t look at her. “You’re lucky I train for endurance.” She wrung melted snow from her gloves, trying to disguise the faint tremor in her hands.

Amber managed a small laugh, but it turned into a cough halfway through. Eula immediately knelt beside her.

“Careful,” she murmured, reaching out to steady her. Her gloved hand hesitated above Amber’s shoulder before she finally rested it there light, almost uncertain. “Where does it hurt?”

“Just my side. I think I hit a rock on the way down.” Amber winced as she tried to sit up. “Sorry for worrying you.”

Eula’s gaze snapped to hers. “You should be sorry.”

Amber blinked at her, startled by the sharp tone.

Eula took a slow breath, forcing the edge from her voice. “You were reckless. Gliding near Dragonspine’s cliffs? Alone? If I hadn’t been nearby…”

Her voice trailed off, the thought unfinished but heavy in the air.

Amber looked at her really looked and saw the faint tremor in Eula’s jaw, the tightness around her eyes. Beneath the cold control, she was scared.

“Hey,” Amber said softly, reaching out with a trembling hand. “I’m okay. See? Still in one piece.”

Eula caught her hand halfway, meaning to push it away but she didn’t. She just held it there between them, cold fingers against warm ones.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The fire crackled quietly, and the wind outside softened to a low hum.

Finally, Eula spoke again, her voice quieter now. “When I heard you fall… I didn’t think. I just ran.”

Amber smiled faintly. “That doesn’t sound like the cool, calculating Spindrift Knight I know.”

“Don’t mock me,” Eula said automatically but her words lacked their usual bite. Her hand was still wrapped around Amber’s. “I thought I’d lost you, Amber. And that… frightened me more than I care to admit.”

Amber’s breath caught. She squeezed Eula’s hand gently. “You didn’t lose me. You’re too stubborn to let that happen.”

For once, Eula didn’t have a retort. She looked down, her expression softening. The firelight reflected in her eyes like tiny embers.

“You’re insufferable,” she murmured finally, voice tinged with relief.

Amber chuckled weakly. “You say that a lot. I think that’s just your way of saying you care.”

Eula exhaled a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Perhaps.”

She adjusted the cloak around them both, pulling Amber a little closer as the wind picked up again outside.

“Rest,” Eula said quietly. “We’ll head back once the storm passes.”

Amber’s eyes were already half-closed, her voice soft. “You’ll stay here, right?”

Eula hesitated then nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair from Amber’s forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The fire crackled softly between them, its light dancing across their faces. Outside, the mountain howled. But inside the tent, it was warm a fragile, flickering warmth that neither of them dared to disturb.

When Amber woke, the world was hushed.
The storm had passed.

The tent glowed faintly gold from the weak morning light filtering through the canvas. The fire had long since burned down to embers, but the air inside was still warm thanks to the cloak draped over her shoulders and the faint weight beside her.

Eula.

Amber blinked, letting her eyes adjust. The Spindrift Knight sat close, half-dozing upright with her back against the tent wall, arms folded but her head tilted slightly toward Amber’s side. Her hair, normally immaculate, had come loose from its braid, silver strands catching the light like threads of frost.

For a moment, Amber just watched her quiet, a little awed. There was something fragile in seeing Eula like this: unguarded, peaceful, human. The stoic knight who carried herself like a storm had fallen asleep protecting her from one.

Amber smiled softly. Then she noticed the way Eula’s hand still rested near hers not holding, not quite just close enough that their fingers brushed every time Amber moved.

She gently shifted, wincing as a dull ache pulsed in her ribs. The movement stirred Eula awake.

“Amber?” Her voice was low, rough with sleep. Her eyes sharpened instantly. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Like I lost a fight with the mountain,” Amber said, grinning despite herself. “But I’ll live.”

Eula exhaled, the faintest relief flickering across her features. “Good.” She straightened her posture, reclaiming some of her usual composure. “I checked for fractures last night. You’ll bruise, but nothing serious.”

Amber nodded, then tilted her head. “You stayed up all night, didn’t you?”

Eula looked away. “I was ensuring the fire didn’t go out.”

Amber’s smile softened. “Right. For the fire.”

The silence stretched, filled with the distant sound of snow sliding off branches outside. Eula busied herself packing away supplies, her movements precise too precise. Amber could tell she was avoiding her gaze.

Finally, Amber broke the quiet. “You know… you don’t have to hide it.”

Eula froze. “Hide what?”

“That you were worried.” Amber met her eyes, steady but gentle. “I mean… I heard it. When you found me. You sounded—well, different.”

Color rose faintly to Eula’s cheeks. She turned away, pretending to adjust her gloves. “Of course I was worried. You’re my colleague. Any Knight would have—”

“Eula.” Amber’s voice was soft but firm. “You can drop the ‘Knight of Favonius’ act for five minutes. It’s just me.”

Eula’s breath caught. For a long moment, she didn’t answer. Then she lowered her hands slowly, her shoulders sagging as though she’d been holding her breath for hours.

“…I thought I’d lost you,” she said at last, barely above a whisper. “When I saw the wreckage, I—” Her voice broke off, the words caught somewhere between anger and grief. “I don’t remember moving. I just ran.”

Amber’s heart twisted. She reached out, resting a hand on Eula’s arm. “Hey. I’m right here.”

Eula looked at her, eyes sharp and bright with something she rarely let anyone see. “You can’t scare me like that again,” she murmured. “I don’t think I could bear it.”

Amber’s lips parted in surprise. “Eula…”

For a moment, the air between them felt charged warm despite the cold seeping through the tent walls. Eula’s gloved hand shifted, turning until her fingers brushed Amber’s once more. This time, she didn’t pull away.

“You’re… really bad at hiding your heart, you know that?” Amber said softly.

Eula gave a faint, helpless laugh, rare and fragile. “You’re one to talk. Flying near Dragonspine alone? That wasn’t bravery, it was foolishness.”

Amber smiled, eyes crinkling. “Guess we’re both a little reckless when it comes to the people we care about.”

Eula went still. Then, very quietly: “Is that what this is, then?”

Amber tilted her head. “What?”

“This,” Eula said, gesturing vaguely between them. “Whatever it is that makes me forget to think when I hear your voice in trouble. That makes you smile at me even after you fall out of the sky.”

Amber’s grin softened into something smaller, gentler. “Yeah,” she said simply. “I think it is.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The wind outside had quieted, the world holding its breath. Then Eula leaned forward just slightly, her forehead brushing Amber’s for the briefest, most careful moment, a gesture that was more honest than words could ever be.

When she drew back, her expression was calm again but her eyes were softer now, her smile real.

“Let’s get you home,” she said. “Before Kaeya finds out and teases us both to death.”

Amber laughed, the sound bright and full of life. “Deal.”

Outside, the sun finally broke through the clouds, scattering light across the snow. Two figures walked down from the ridge one wrapped in blue, the other in red and the wind carried their laughter down the mountain like a promise.