The winery is finally quiet when Diluc leaves it behind.

Ledgers closed. Staff dismissed. Responsibilities, for the moment, set aside.

By the time he reaches the manor, his steps slow—not from fatigue, but anticipation.

The first thing he does when he enters isn’t remove his coat or loosen his gloves.

It’s look for you.

He finds you where he expects to—light spilling from a room, your presence felt before it’s seen. His shoulders ease the moment he knows you’re home. Safe. Waiting.

Diluc approaches without announcing himself. He never startles you; he knows your rhythms too well. A gloved hand rests briefly at your waist as he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple or cheek—never rushed, never performative.

A quiet I’m home without words.

Only after that does he set his things aside.

Some days, he brings you small things.

A bottle of cider he knows you like, set carefully on the counter. Fresh bread from town, still warm. Occasionally flowers—not extravagant, just honest blooms from the road, chosen because he thought of you when he passed them.

If it’s late, he asks about your day with his full attention, even as he removes his gloves. He listens like it matters—because to him, it does more than any report or negotiation.

He doesn’t unload his burdens onto you.

Instead, he allows himself to rest near you.

Sometimes that means standing behind you, arms loosely around your waist, chin resting near your shoulder as you talk. Other times, it’s sitting beside you in silence, his knee touching yours—a grounding presence.

If you’re tired, he notices immediately.

His voice softens. His movements slow. He guides you gently toward rest, even if it means postponing his own routines. You’ll feel his coat draped over your shoulders, his hand warm at your back.

At night, when the manor settles, he holds you closer than the world ever sees.

Not possessively.

Protectively.

Because the man who bears Mondstadt’s weight so effortlessly?

Only truly sets it down when he comes home to you.