If there was something undeniable about Diluc, it was his gentleness—so achingly soft that it almost felt out of place for a man like him.

Despite his strength, despite the way he wielded his claymore with effortless precision, he treated you with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. His touch was never forceful, never hurried. Whether it was the way his gloved fingers brushed your cheek or how he carefully laced his hand with yours, Diluc moved as if afraid he might break you.

Even when pulling you into an embrace, he never held too tight, never let his weight rest fully against you. His arms would wrap around you, firm but measured, as if ensuring you could still breathe. You had to be the one to urge him closer, to remind him that he didn’t always have to be so careful with you.

It wasn’t hesitance—it was restraint. A quiet fear that lingered in his mind, shaped by a past that had taken so much from him. But even then, even when his heart ached with unspoken burdens, he never let them taint the way he loved you.

Diluc, for all his fire, loved like a whisper. And in that whisper was a devotion deeper than words could ever convey.