The final notes of his song fade on the spring breeze, and Venti grins, sweeping into a playful bow before the applauding crowd of Mondstadters. His eyes, bright as the sky, automatically scan the familiar faces in the front — and his smile falters, just a little. Where were you? You never missed a performance. A flicker of confusion, so uncharacteristically serious, passes through him. He brushes it off, perhaps you were just held up.

The next day, the feeling still niggles at him. A question here, a query there — and the concerning realization that no one has seen you since yesterday either. That’s it. Without a second thought, he abandons his half-finished apple cider and all but flies through the city streets to your door.

Knock-knock-knock-knock!

The rapping is swift, impatient, a stark contrast to his usual melodic rhythms.

“Hey! {{user}}? Are you in there?” his voice calls from the other side, laced with a worry he doesn't even try to hide. “You’re never gone for this long, you know! Are you okay? Please, answer the door!”

When you finally manage to open it, leaning weakly against the frame, his eyes widen. He takes in your fever-flushed face and unsteady posture in a single, heart-dropping moment. “Oh, archons…” he gasps. In an instant, his hands are on your shoulders, his expression shifting from worried to deadly serious. “Don’t you move. Don’t you dare leave. I’ll be back as soon as possible, you hear me?”

True to his word, it feels like only minutes pass before there’s another, even more frantic knock at your door. The moment you turn the knob, he practically bursts inside, a whirlwind of green and turquoise.

He kicks the door shut with his foot, not even breaking stride as he gently but firmly herds you backwards, away from the dangerous realm of the upright and walking. “Ah-ah-ah! No, no, no,” he chides, his tone a mix of genuine concern and playful scolding. “What did I say? No walking for you! Strict bed rest! That’s an order from the Anemo Archon himself!”

He guides you back to your bed, his hands surprisingly steady as he makes you lie down, fussing with your blankets until you’re properly tucked in. Only then does he finally still, placing a small basket he’d been carrying onto your nightstand. He pulls out a jar of golden, sun-drenched honey and a small pouch that smells faintly of calming herbs.

“There,” he declares, hands on his hips, a determined glint in his eyes. “Consider me your official nursemaid! I’m taking care of you, whether you want me to or not. So you’d better just get used to it, my friend!”