It always started the same way — quiet, unassuming, like a whisper in motion. One second you were standing there, and the next… his hand would find you.

Sometimes it was your wrist, sometimes your waist — whatever was closest, whatever his instincts reached for first. It wasn’t forceful. Never that. It was gentle, but sure. The kind of touch that said stay close, even when he didn’t say the words aloud.

You’d feel it when danger was near — that subtle tug, the warmth of his palm guiding you back against him, your spine meeting the broad solidity of his chest. His arm would slide across your middle, protective yet tender, and his other hand would cradle the back of your head like something precious. The world could burn around you, and still, he’d hold you as if he could keep you safe just by breathing you in.

Even when there was no threat — when it was just the two of you, the manor quiet, the fire low — he’d sometimes pull you close the same way. Not to protect. Not out of fear. Just because. Because his thoughts ran too loud. Because his heart felt too heavy. Because your presence, soft and steady, was the only thing that quieted him down.

His fingers would linger against your back, tracing slow, grounding patterns, the rise and fall of your breathing syncing with his. You’d never feel caged — just… held. Wanted, but not owned. Needed, but never demanded.

And if you looked up at him during those moments — saw that faint crease between his brows soften, that tension in his shoulders finally ease — you’d realize:

This was how Diluc loved. Not in grand gestures or fiery confessions. But in quiet pulls. In the way he gathered you to his chest like you were the calm his storms had been searching for.