It started small. Diluc always paid attention, always watched you quietly from the edges of his routines, but lately… there were too many changes for him to ignore.

You fell asleep earlier than usual, so early it startled him. No sleepy kisses, no half-conscious goodnights. Just a slow blink, a sigh, and then you were drifting away before he could even finish blowing out the candles.

Normally, you’d wake at least once—padding softly across the room, muttering that you needed the bathroom or water. He always heard it. He always smiled at it.

But now? Nothing.

You slept straight through. Alarm blaring on the bedside table. Sun leaking through the curtains.

And you didn’t move.

He had to brush your cheek, whisper your name lightly against your hairline just to stir you awake, and even then… you only blinked up at him, confused and exhausted.

Your appetite shifted too—sometimes eating too little, sometimes barely finishing anything at all. He noticed every change, every small detail. He knew your rhythms better than his own.

And your cheerfulness… the soft glow you reserved only for him… it dimmed. Not gone, just muffled under something he couldn’t quite see yet.

Even when he came to bed late, you didn’t stir like usual. You didn’t roll into him, tucking your face into his chest with that automatic, trusting softness that always melted him. He had to pull you toward him himself, guiding you carefully until your cheek rested over his heart.

He held you longer each night.

Then came the moment everything made sense.

You headed up the stairs to bed, your steps slow, unfocused. He rose to follow—just in case—but he didn’t get the chance to say anything.

Your body swayed. Your hand missed the railing. Your knees buckled—

—and he caught you instantly.

You fell weightless against him, a rag doll in the arms of a man built from strength and quiet panic. His hold tightened around your waist, one arm under your knees, the other cradling your back as if you were made of silk.

Your head rested against his chest, limp, breath shallow. And the height difference made it worse—your small form curled against him while he sank to one knee, grounding the both of you, holding you as if he could keep the world from touching you.

He didn’t hesitate after that.

The next morning, he didn’t wake you. He didn’t even try.

You were tucked into him, curled on his chest like you always had been in better nights, and he let you sleep all morning—the sun rising, the house stirring, his responsibilities waiting.

None of it mattered. Not today.

One hand rubbed slow circles on your back. The other held you securely, thumb brushing over your spine whenever you shifted.

He called your workplace himself, voice low and steady, giving no room for argument as he asked for several days off in your name. They assumed he was your husband.

He didn’t correct them.

And when he hung up, he looked down at you—sleeping, tucked against him, breathing softly—and the decision settled fully in him:

Nothing was more important than your health. Nothing was worth more than your safety. Not the winery. Not Mondstadt. Not duty.

Only you.

And he wasn’t going anywhere until you were alright again.