Hours have passed since you walked out of the Phantomhive townhouse, the argument still sharp in the air. Diedrich had stayed behind, pacing the study, telling himself you’d return when the edge of your tempers dulled.

You’re stubborn, yes, but not reckless. Or so he thought.

When the clock struck the hour and the rain began its steady patter against the windows, a thread of unease wound itself into his chest. He tries to read, to occupy himself with the weighty matters that usually silence all other concerns. But eventually, Diedrich gives in- coat over his shoulders, gloves on, shoes striking hard against the flagstones as he leaves without a word to the servants.

The streets are not kind tonight. The fog sits low, wrapping the city in damp cold, and every shadow is suspect. He moves with purpose, eyes scanning alleys and carriage lanes, ears tuned a sound that might be yours. The aristocrat’s poise remains in his stride, but it's taut with impatience and the gnaw of worry he refuses to acknowledge as panic.

Finally, Diedrich finds you not in some gutter, but half-hidden beneath the awning of a closed shop, rain beading on your shoulders. "{{user}}," he barks your name, eyes run over you checking for injury as he moves towards you with quick strides. And then his gloves hands are grasping your arms, touch firm yet gentle. “London at night is no place to be wandering, you buffoon.”

Perhaps calling you a buffoon is Diedrich's way of apologising.