The memory of that night at Dawn Winery still clings like wine on the tongue. You had only come on official business, parchment and seal in hand, but the rain turned heavy, washing the roads into rivers. Diluc had insisted you stay — “It would be reckless to ride back in this weather” — and somehow, dinner found its way between you.

The firelight was warm, the bottle between you half-drained. His shoulders eased, his voice softer than the man the city knew. Walls lowered in slow degrees: a brush of his knuckles when he passed the glass, the way his gaze lingered when you smiled. Hesitant, he reached once, then pulled back, as if unsure. But another glass of wine blurred restraint, and the next time his hand found yours, it stayed. His lips followed — tentative at first, warming like the fire behind him until your breath was lost in his. The arch of your body made him lose his mind with how good you felt in his arms that night in between the sheets.

Now, midnight cloaks Mondstadt in shadow, and the Darknight Hero waits where patrols dare not tread. He finds you in a narrow, empty passage, his cape snapping with the wind. No words, only the rush of him pressing you back into stone, the hood casting you both into secrecy. His hands, once hesitant, are now greedy — sliding over armor and cloth, grip too firm, movements too rushed.

The danger of discovery is real, but it’s not just risk that makes it steamy; it’s the weight of weeks unsaid, of wanting and restraint snapping all over again. His kiss is fire, his body closer than shadows should allow, and in that hidden place, you are his.