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Spring.
The first time Eula notices, it's raining.
She's returning patrol reports to Jean's office—later than usual because the Abyss Order had been active near Dragonspine—and she finds the Acting Grand Master asleep at her desk. Not unusual. Jean works herself to exhaustion with the regularity of Mondstadt's wind.
What's unusual is Lisa.
The Librarian is draped across the sofa, a book resting open on her chest, rising and falling with her breath. She's asleep too.
The office smells of old paper and Jean's chamomile tea, underlaid with something floral. Rain patters against the windows. The lamp casts everything in amber.
Eula stands in the doorway, uncertain. There's something about the scene—the easy intimacy of two people who've fallen asleep in each other's presence, the way the space holds them both.
Lisa stirs first. Opens one eye, sees Eula, and smiles.
"Eula, darling. How long have you been standing there?"
"I just arrived." Eula steps inside, places the reports on Jean's desk with more force than necessary. "Your Acting Grand Master works too hard."
"Mmm, she does." Lisa sits up, stretches. "I've been trying to get her to rest for years. She listens about as well as the wind does."
There's affection in her voice. History. The kind of shorthand that comes from knowing someone so long they've become fundamental.
Lisa moves to Jean's desk—no hesitation, no asking permission—and places a hand on Jean's shoulder.
Jean wakes immediately. "Lisa?"
"Time for bed."
"I have—"
"Tomorrow, Jean."
And Jean—Jean who never stops, who carries Mondstadt on her shoulders without complaint—sighs and doesn't argue.
For a moment, Lisa's gaze flicks to Eula. Something passes across her face—too quick to read.
Eula watches Jean gather her things, watches Lisa wait, watches them leave together—Lisa's hand ghosting against Jean's lower back, Jean leaning slightly into the touch.
The door closes.
Eula stands alone in the office, surrounded by the warmth they left behind, and realizes she's been holding her breath.
By summer, Eula knows she's paying too much attention. By summer's end, she knows why.
Summer.
"Are you and Lisa together?"
Eula doesn't mean to ask. The words escape during a rare moment of downtime—she and Jean taking shelter from the midday sun in the courtyard. The air smells of cecilias and fresh grass. Sweat beads at the back of Eula's neck.
Jean blinks. "Together?"
"You know what I mean."
"Lisa and I have known each other since we were children. She went to Sumeru for her studies and came back, and—well, she's been here ever since." Jean's voice is fond, distant with memory. "She's my closest friend."
That isn't an answer.
Or maybe it is, and Jean doesn't realize she's given it.
Eula thinks about last week, when she'd returned from a three-day patrol near Dragonspine, still covered in frost and fatigue, ice clinging to her hair and shoulders.
Jean had looked up from her paperwork. "Eula. Thank you for your dedication. You should warm up before you catch cold."
Professional. Concerned. Proper.
Jean had been wearing Lisa's earrings—delicate silver roses that caught the afternoon light, far more elegant than Jean's usual simple studs.
Eula wants to push, wants to ask do friends look at each other the way you look at her or do friends lend each other jewelry like promises—
But she doesn't.
Because Jean is looking at her with those clear, earnest eyes, and Eula realizes: Jean doesn't see it. Whatever it is, Jean thinks it's normal. Just how things have always been.
"I see," Eula says.
***
Later, she finds them in the library. The space is quiet except for turned pages and distant fountain water. It smells of old leather and dust and roses and lightning—Lisa's perfume.
Lisa is reading aloud—some historical text Jean needs—and Jean is taking notes. But she's smiling. Really smiling, not the diplomatic mask she wears for Mondstadt, not the determined expression she carries during Knights business.
This smile is unguarded.
Lisa says something Eula can't hear. Jean laughs—a real laugh, the sound echoing softly—and reaches over to tap Lisa's book in mock protest.
Lisa catches her hand. Holds it for a moment.
Then lets go, still smiling, and continues reading.
Eula leaves before they can notice her.
That night, she lies awake and admits it to herself:
She wants Jean.
Not just admires her. Not just respects her. Wants her—wants to be the one Jean smiles at like that, wants to be the one who can make the Acting Grand Master laugh and rest and let down her walls.
The realization doesn't bring relief. It brings dread.
By autumn, Eula knows: some doors were never meant to open.
Autumn.
The hilichurl camp is larger than intelligence suggested.
Eula counts at least fifteen, maybe twenty, clustered around makeshift fortifications near the Whispering Woods. Jean had requested backup for the clearance operation, and Lisa had volunteered—unexpected, given how rarely the Librarian leaves the comfort of her books.
"Standard formation," Jean says, wind already rising at her command. "I'll draw their attention. Eula, flank east. Lisa—"
"Crowd control from range. I know, dear," Lisa finishes with a lazy smile.
They move.
Eula has fought beside Jean countless times. She knows the rhythm of Jean’s approach—the decisive advance, the unbreakable stance, the disciplined flow of swordplay Mondstadt admires so much. Eula's own movements slot naturally into it: precise angles, timed strikes, the familiar feel of two trained Knights dismantling a threat with practiced ease.
What she doesn't know is how Lisa fits into this.
But she learns quickly.
Lisa doesn’t fight like a Knight. She fights like a problem-solver. Every flick of her wrist answers a question only she understands, and each arc of lightning is a sentence in a language Eula doesn’t speak.
She is—effortless.
And Jean knows her tempo.
Knows it well.
Jean pivots a step earlier than she should, and a bolt of Lisa’s lightning threads perfectly past her shoulder. Lisa pauses half a second, trusting Jean to move into the opening she creates. Jean trusts her back. Neither looks. Neither checks. They simply… align.
It’s a dance Eula has never seen—fluid in ways knightly drills could never teach. A choreography built over years, not missions.
Eula cuts down a mitachurl and turns, expecting to see chaos. Instead she sees Jean and Lisa forming a shape that is unmistakably theirs: wind and lightning curling around each other in a pattern too practiced to be coincidence.
Eula realizes she is the stranger here.
The one whose role is functional, not intuitive. Necessary, but not natural.
When the final enemy falls, Lisa dusts off her gloves with a careless hum.
Jean exhales, the tension leaving her shoulders only when Lisa steps close enough to catch her hand briefly—an unconscious touch, nothing dramatic. But Jean softens instantly, the private kind of softness no one is meant to witness.
Eula looks away.
By the time she turns back, Jean is already all professionalism again. “Good work, both of you,” she says. “Eula—thank you for covering the east. Your timing was impeccable.”
Impeccable.
Correct.
Expected.
Not the warmth she’d shown Lisa.
Not the silent understanding.
Not the subtle intimacy of people who inhabit the same orbit.
"It's my duty," Eula replies.
They walk back to Mondstadt in near silence.
Jean and Lisa speak in low voices—brief comments, shared observations, the kind of small exchanges Eula recognizes as habitual, long-standing, and entirely theirs.
Eula follows a few steps behind, listening to a world she was never meant to enter.
***
Two weeks later, Amber corners Eula after training.
"Okay, what's going on with you?"
Eula focuses on cleaning her sword. "I don't know what you mean."
"You've been weird. Distracted." Amber leans against the wall, studying Eula. "Is it family stuff?"
"No."
"Mission stress?"
"No."
"Then what—" Amber stops. Her expression shifts. "Oh. Oh. It's Jean, isn't it?"
Eula's hands still on her blade.
"Eula—"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You like her." Amber's voice is careful now. "You like Jean."
The words hang in the air between them. Eula could deny it. Could deflect. Could retreat behind the walls she's built.
Instead, she says nothing.
Amber sits beside her. Doesn't touch, doesn't push. Just sits.
"She and Lisa..." Amber starts, then stops. "They're... I mean, they're not officially together together, but everyone kind of knows they... you know."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Eula resumes cleaning her sword. "I'm not going to do anything about it. I just need to..." She doesn't finish.
"You could tell her. Jean's fair. She wouldn't—"
"No." Eula's voice cuts sharp. "Jean is happy. Lisa makes her happy. I will not disrupt that for my own selfish desires. The Lawrence clan has caused enough pain in Mondstadt. I won't add to it."
Amber is quiet for a long moment. "That's very noble of you."
"It's practical." Eula stands, sheathes her sword. "Some things aren't meant to be pursued."
She leaves before Amber can argue.
But later, alone, she presses a hand to her chest and wonders: Is this nobility or cowardice? Am I protecting Jean's happiness or just too afraid to risk rejection?
She doesn't know.
Winter teaches harsh lessons.
Winter.
The turning point comes during a snowstorm.
Eula is checking the perimeter near Dragonspine when she sees them—Jean and Lisa, walking through snow that shouldn't be crossable without preparation. The wind bites cold, carrying ice crystals that sting exposed skin. Jean has her Vision active, clearing the path, and Lisa walks beside her, hand tucked into Jean's elbow.
They're just walking. Talking. Breath misting between them.
Lisa says something that makes Jean stop and turn. Their expressions shift—serious, then soft. Jean reaches up and brushes snow from Lisa's hair, the gesture careful and tender.
Eula remembers: months ago during summer, she'd returned from patrol drenched in sweat, vision blurring from heat exhaustion, practically stumbling through the door.
Jean had looked up from her paperwork. "Eula. Thank you for your dedication. You should rest and rehydrate."
Professional. Concerned. Distant.
Jean had never crossed the room to steady her, never brushed the sweat-dampened hair from her face.
Eula watches Jean cup Lisa's face for just a moment—natural, clearly done a thousand times—and something inside her cracks.
She turns away. Returns to her patrol with mechanical precision. Completes her rounds. Files her report.
That night, she stands alone on the Knights headquarters balcony, night wind brushing against her skin—cold, crisp, but not as cold as the ache inside her chest.
She had been watching Jean for a long time. Longer than she should have.
The way Jean smiled, the way she carried Mondstadt's burdens with quiet grace, the way her presence felt like sunlight breaking through Eula's endless winter.
This is what it means to want someone already spoken for.
Eula exhales, breath trembling.
"Should I bury these feelings," she whispers to empty air, "or let them grow, even knowing where that leads?"
Both options feel like blades.
To bury them means suffocating part of herself. To pursue them means hurting someone—repeating the cycle of pain the Lawrence name already carries.
She presses a hand to her chest. Her heartbeat won't steady.
Here, alone in the dark, she lets herself ask the questions she's been avoiding:
What do I actually want?
Do I want Jean to choose me? To leave Lisa?
The thought makes her sick. She's seen what they have—the history, the comfort, the unspoken understanding. Breaking that wouldn't just hurt Lisa. It would hurt Jean too.
Do I want acknowledgment? Just to be seen?
Maybe she just wants Jean to look at her once—just once—the way Jean looks at Lisa. With that unguarded smile.
But acknowledgment without reciprocation might hurt worse.
Do I want closure? To confess and be rejected and finally move on?
That feels closest to truth. But there's cowardice in it—the selfish desire to transfer this burden to Jean. To make Jean carry the knowledge and the careful navigation afterward.
"I don't know what I'm allowed to hope for anymore," she murmurs. "But I know what I want. And that terrifies me."
The night gives no answer.
Below, through lit windows, she can see them—Jean and Lisa, still in the office. Lisa's coat draped over Jean's shoulders. Jean leaning back in her chair, eyes half-closed, finally resting.
Beautiful in their ease. Devastating in their rightness.
Eula understands: She doesn't want to take Jean from Lisa. She doesn't want to break something that works.
She just wants to stop hurting.
And there's only one way to do that.
Spring will bring growth, ready or not.
Spring Again.
A year has passed since that first rainy night.
Eula has gotten better at carrying it—this quiet ache that sits beneath her ribs like Dragonspine's eternal cold.
She still does her patrols. Still threatens vengeance. Still shows up for meetings and training and the occasional gathering where Amber won't take no for an answer.
She still sees Jean and Lisa existing in their unlabeled togetherness.
But something has shifted.
She's in Jean's office now, delivering reports. Weekly routine. Safe. Manageable.
Lisa is reading while Jean works. The same dance, choreographed by years.
"Eula." Jean looks up, smiles. "Thank you for these. Your thoroughness is appreciated."
"Naturally. I take my duties seriously, unlike certain librarians with endless free time." Eula cuts her eyes to Lisa, who smiles.
"Some of us have mastered efficiency, dear."
"Some of us simply avoid work."
"Is that vengeance I'm hearing?"
It's banter. Light. Meaningless.
But then Jean laughs—really laughs—and looks at Lisa with such open affection that Eula has to look away.
Not because it hurts anymore.
But because it's private. Sacred. Something she has no right to witness.
"I should go," Eula says.
"Already?" Jean sounds surprised. "You could stay. Lisa brought extra tea."
And here is the moment. The choice.
Stay and continue this careful orbit, always watching, always wanting, always outside.
Or leave. Choose distance over proximity. Start building a life that doesn't center around stolen glimpses of Jean's smile.
"Actually," Eula says slowly, "I've been considering requesting a transfer."
Both look up now. Jean's expression shifts to concern.
"A transfer? Where?"
"The reconnaissance unit operating near Liyue. They need someone with Cryo experience and knowledge of mountainous terrain." Eula keeps her voice level. "Six-month rotation. Good for diplomatic relations."
Far away. Far enough that she won't see Jean every day. Won't have to watch. Won't have to carry this anymore.
Jean is quiet for a moment. "If that's what you want, I'll approve it. But Eula... you don't have to leave to prove your worth. Everyone here values your contributions."
"I know." She does know. She's proven herself a hundred times. This isn't about that. "But I think I need distance. To grow in a different direction."
Lisa is watching her with those too-perceptive eyes. Something in her expression shifts—recognition, perhaps.
"Sometimes distance is exactly what we need," Lisa says softly. "To figure out who we are outside familiar patterns."
Their eyes meet. And Eula thinks—though she can't be certain—that Lisa understands exactly what she's really saying.
That Lisa has known all along.
The knowledge should be humiliating. Instead, it's oddly freeing.
"When would you leave?" Jean asks.
"Two weeks. If you approve."
Jean nods slowly. "I'll process it tomorrow." She hesitates. "You'll come back, won't you?"
Will you come back?
Eula doesn't know. Six months might be enough time to finally stop noticing. Or it might not be enough at all.
But she'll try.
"Mondstadt is my home," Eula says. "Whatever else happens, that won't change."
It's not really an answer. But it's all she can offer.
Two weeks later, Eula stands at Mondstadt's gates with her pack and sword, ready to leave.
Amber is there to see her off. Kaeya. A few other Knights.
Jean arrives last, slightly out of breath.
"I wanted to give you this before you left." Jean holds out a letter. "Orders and emergency contacts, but also... a personal note. You don't have to read it now. Just... when you're ready."
Eula takes it. Their fingers brush—brief contact that her heart still notices.
"Thank you, Acting Grand Master."
"Jean. You can call me Jean."
They've had this conversation before. Eula has always maintained professional distance.
Today, she says: "Thank you, Jean."
Jean's smile is surprised. Pleased.
Then, softer: "Come back safe."
Come back.
Not to me. Just come back.
And that's the difference. That's always been the difference.
"I will," Eula promises.
She turns and walks through the gates. Doesn't look back until she's crested the first hill.
When she does, Mondstadt is spread below her—the city that never wanted her but slowly learned to tolerate her, the home she chose despite everything.
She can't see the Knights headquarters from here. Can't see Jean and Lisa and the life they're building.
But she can imagine it. And for the first time, the image doesn't cut quite as deep.
Eula adjusts her pack, feels Jean's letter against her chest, and continues walking.
The road to Liyue is long. Six months is enough time to learn new things. Meet new people. Build patterns that don't revolve around wanting what she can't have.
Maybe she'll come back different. Maybe the same.
Maybe, by then, Jean and Lisa will have finally named what they are. Maybe Eula will have to smile and congratulate them.
Or maybe nothing will change at all.
But Eula is choosing to move forward anyway. Choosing growth over stagnation. Choosing to stop waiting for a door that was never meant to open.
She's not ready to let go.
But she's walking in that direction.
For now, that's enough.