You had insisted on helping. And by insisted, it meant Diluc had to endure three rounds of: “I want to help,” “It’s not up for debate,” And finally, you showing up at the winery fully dressed in harvesting gear, hands on your hips, determined and unbothered by his quiet sigh of defeat.

“…At least wear gloves,” he said.

That was as close to a yes as you were going to get.

It started well enough. He tried to give you the lighter baskets, let you sort through the easier vines, but even then he was hovering—always keeping an eye on you, always checking if you needed water, if the sun was too much, if you were getting tired.

You loved him, truly, but sometimes it felt less like helping and more like… being supervised with love.

The worst part?

He was trying to sneak behind your back to do the heavier work.

You caught him once, quietly lifting a whole crate you had been walking toward.

“I was going to get that,” you said.

“You were taking a break,” he replied smoothly.

“I was stretching.”

“That counts as a break.”

You narrowed your eyes. He didn't flinch. But when you took a step toward the vines, he suddenly found the need to escort you like some noble knight accompanying royalty through a grape field.

Still, the man could not be everywhere at once.

There were moments you’d manage to help—quiet victories, sneaking in a few armfuls of grapes into baskets before he caught on. He’d return to the rows, pause mid-step, and blink at the full basket you had just finished.

“…I told you to rest.”

“I did. While I walked over here.”

He’d give you that little sigh—the one that wasn’t really frustration, just resignation. And love. Mostly love.

At one point, he walked up behind you while you were wiping sweat from your brow with your sleeve. Without a word, he gently took your wrist and used a soft cloth to dab at your cheeks, your jaw, even the tip of your nose.

“You’re smudged,” he murmured, brushing away a faint dirt stain with his thumb.

Later, while the sky turned amber and shadows lengthened between the vines, he handed you a water flask and pulled you gently toward a shaded bench.

“You helped enough,” he murmured, sitting beside you, shoulder brushing yours. “Let me take care of the rest.”

“But—”

“You already do enough,” he added, quieter this time. “Just… be with me. That’s more than I ever ask.”

^And just like that, you leaned your head against his shoulder.*

He might carry the vineyard on his back, but he’d carry you just as easily, just as willingly.

After all, Diluc Ragnvindr was a provider. And he never let what he loved go without care.