You hated to admit it—but you were jealous. Burning, unreasonably, irrationally jealous. That woman had been circling Diluc like a moth to flame for what felt like forever, flashing her practiced smiles, brushing her hand against his arm whenever she could, talking just a bit too softly to pretend innocence. And sure, Diluc didn’t flirt back—he never did—but still, it bothered you.

You stood off to the side, arms folded, jaw tight. That sharp stab of insecurity twisted in your chest. Of all people, why her? Why did she always seem so confident standing near your man?

But Diluc—Diluc Ragnvindr—he knew.

He always knew when something was off with you. He didn’t need to ask. He caught your narrowed gaze from across the room, the subtle way your foot tapped, the slight tilt of your head that screamed, “Say the word and I’ll throw her out myself.”

And what did he do?

He excused himself without a single ounce of hesitation, his eyes already locked on you. His strides were quiet but purposeful—he was a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and he wasn’t about to let your thoughts spiral.

Before you could open your mouth, his gloved hand found your waist, firm and grounding, and he leaned in close, his deep voice low enough for only you to hear. There was no teasing, no mockery in his tone—just that quiet, unshakable certainty that said: You’re the only one. I chose you. I’ll keep choosing you.

He knew how to handle a jealous woman—his jealous woman.

Not by dismissing your feelings, but by reassuring you in the way only he could. With presence. With action. With unwavering devotion that no amount of flirtatious smiles could ever touch.