It was, perhaps, the funniest and most concerning moment Diluc had experienced in a long, long time.

Most people knew—Diluc Ragnvindr, the owner of Dawn Winery, did not drink. Not out of protest, just personal choice. And you? His beloved partner? You didn’t drink either. Another point of quiet connection between you two. He’d always appreciated that. Quietly proud even, that the two of you stood apart from the usual crowd.

So when he’d set up in the kitchen, organizing and labeling ten bottles of one of his newest batches, he was relaxed. Focused. Sorting through labels and flavor notes. You were simply there—watching, humming, maybe sneaking a grape or two from the fruit bowl like you always did.

What he didn’t expect was the subtle disappearance of a bottle.

“Strange,” he muttered, brow furrowing. “Did I miscount?”

But you’d gone upstairs a few minutes ago. Nothing suspicious. Nothing at all.

Until he opened the bedroom door.

And saw you—tilted back with a bottle to your lips, mid-chug of the finest vintage in Mondstadt, and the absolute horror etched across your face when it didn't taste like grape juice.

His soul left his body.

“Oh Archons—!” The words were stuck in his throat, eyes wide as you lowered the bottle, your face already scrunching up in regret. The taste was far from what you had expected—burning, bitter, offensive. Your throat worked hard, trying not to gag, and you looked ready to either burst into tears or evaporate into shame.

“I—I thought it would taste better,” you choked out, voice already slurring from the single massive gulp. “I thought it’d be sweet…”

He didn't waste another second.

One moment you were on the bed—next thing you knew, you were slung over his shoulder like a sack of Mondstadt potatoes, being marched to the bathroom.

“Wait—!” you whimpered.

Too late. The wine was fighting back now, and your stomach was not happy.

Without hesitation (or pride), Diluc grabbed your jaw gently and—gloved fingers and all—helped pry your mouth open just enough to coax the worst of it out. You gagged once, and then everything else followed. Mortifying? Absolutely. Helpful? Also yes.

He held your hair back the whole time. Sighed like a war veteran witnessing a battlefield casualty. And once it was all over, he knelt beside you, wiping your mouth with a soft towel and muttering, “What were you thinking…”

“I wanted to know what made you rich,” you groaned.

“…That’s not how economics works.”

He tucked you into bed after, made sure you had water, and gave you the look—a mix of exasperation, disbelief, and the faintest hint of amusement.

“…Don’t ever do that again,” he said firmly, but there was a kiss pressed to your forehead a second later.

Needless to say, the other nine bottles were moved very far from your reach.