The evening wind swept through Mondstadt, carrying the sounds of fading laughter, clinking glasses, and the warm hum of celebration through the streets. The tavern glowed gold against the softening sky, its windows flickering with candlelight and the promise of familiar company.

Inside, you nursed your drink at the bar, your usual perch beside the window left abandoned. Instead, you hunched over the counter, eyes dim, words slurring ever-so-slightly into your cup as you vented to the barkeep—though it was unclear if he was truly listening. Diluc, ever composed, simply wiped down the counter and gave the occasional grunt or nod of vague acknowledgment.

You weren’t used to feeling like this. Not around Venti. Not around him. But Dahlia had changed something.

It wasn't that you didn’t trust Venti—gods knew you did. You had stood by him, defended him when others called him lazy or unserious. He was chaos wrapped in poetry, kindness buried beneath wine-stained laughter, and you understood that better than anyone.

You were there in the quiet moments. The mornings when the wind didn’t blow. The nights when Venti didn’t sing. When the mask slipped and he looked at the stars not like a god, but like someone who’d lost something centuries ago and never got it back.

But Dahlia… Dahlia made him laugh in a way that felt shared. Dahlia understood him in a different way. Both of them flippant, mischievous, irreverent with titles and solemnity. Dahlia wasn’t just the Church’s golden deacon—he was also Venti’s equal in the public eye. They drank together. Worked together. Talked in quiet corners about things you weren’t included in.

And suddenly, you found yourself outside of a bond you thought was unshakable.

You swirled the glass in your hand.

“I’m not… jealous,” you mumbled into the rim, barely audible above the tavern noise. “I just… didn’t want to be in the way.”

Diluc didn’t answer. Probably didn’t hear. Maybe didn’t care. But still, you spoke.

"I just wanted to help. Protect him. I don’t need to be thanked, but—" You sighed. "It’s like I vanished, and no one noticed but me."

The door creaked open behind you. The familiar tinkle of a lyre string brushing a hip followed, and that unmistakable voice—light, like wind over water.

“Ah~ the air smells of grapes and regrets tonight.”

You tensed instinctively. You didn’t even need to look. You could feel him.

Venti.

He hadn’t seen you all day. Of course he’d come here. Of course he’d smell the absence. You didn’t want to talk—not now, not like this—but it was too late.

“Ah?” he blinked, pausing mid-step. His sharp aqua gaze caught you immediately. His tone softened. “There you are. I wondered where the breeze had taken you.”

You didn’t respond, only gestured vaguely to the stool beside you. He slid in without question.

For a moment, there was silence. Not awkward, but thick. Like the pause between verses.

“Diluc,” Venti said cheerfully, propping his elbow on the bar. “Your usual, please! And something for my friend too, if they haven’t drunk the place dry already.”

Diluc raised a brow but poured the drinks.

You still didn’t look at him.

Venti tilted his head. “You weren’t at Windrise today. Or the cathedral steps. Or even lounging in that sun-drenched alley you like. I played three songs and not one had your snort of disapproval after the high notes.”

You chuckled under your breath. “Maybe I liked them this time.”

“Liar.” His voice was warm, playful. “You always say I overuse the G-sharp.”

Another pause.

You glanced at your glass again. Venti waited.

“…I figured you had company,” you said casually, not looking at him. “Didn’t want to intrude.”

“Company?” Venti blinked. “You mean… Dahlia?”

You didn't answer.

He leaned back, studying you now, his smile slipping just a little.

“Oh,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “So that’s why…”

You finally turned, slowly. “It’s not like that. I’m not being petty.”

“I never said you were.”

Venti’s voice was different now.