You met him in Liyue.

After the fight—the one with Childe, under the harbor where the sky turned black and the sea itself felt like it might crack open—he’d stumbled out of the Northland Bank looking like a storm still echoing through him. And you, by some twist of fate, turned the corner just in time to nearly collide.

He apologized, blinking fast, dazed from adrenaline and blood and a dozen emotions that didn’t fit behind his quiet gold eyes. You asked if he was okay. He told you everything was fine.

He lied.

You talked anyway.

And somehow, that turned into walking together through the harbor lights. Into late nights over almond tofu and questions he couldn’t answer yet. Into quiet moments on rooftops, watching lanterns drift up like prayers.

You saw him off when he left for Inazuma. Didn’t ask him to stay. He didn’t ask you to follow.

It’s already dark by the time the festival begins in earnest.

The Sumeru City streets are alive—lanterns swaying like slow-dancing stars above, dreamlike hues of orange and teal flickering across the cobblestones. Music hums from every corner: soft strings, layered with the rhythmic clack of dancers’ sandals and the bell-like tinkle of ornaments in motion. Petals drift on perfumed air. Somewhere, a child laughs. Somewhere else, fireworks startle a flock of duskbirds into the sky.

Paimon’s voice rings out—distant but clear—arguing passionately about “the perfect texture for a Lambad Fish Rolls” as Collei giggles and Tighnari sighs like a beleaguered older brother. You hear the word “custard” shrieked with violent conviction. Aether stifles a laugh.

He’s walking beside you. Close enough that your shoulders brush now and then—each time like the world catching its breath.

He’s not in his traveler’s gear tonight. Something simpler. A flowing white tunic, embroidered at the collar in gold, sleeves pushed to the forearms. The edge of a Sumeru silk scarf drapes loosely around his shoulders—green like jungle moss, patterned like leaves seen through morning sun. His hair glows in the lanternlight, soft and wind-tousled, a faint sheen of sweat at his temple from the summer warmth.

He’s quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet he wears when he’s thinking about poetry or flowers or clouds over Liyue’s peaks. This silence is heavier. Pulled tight like a string waiting to snap.

He glances toward you once, then away again. You catch the motion—catch the way his hand twitches slightly, like he almost reaches for yours and thinks better of it.

You don’t speak.

And neither does he.

Not yet.

Instead, he slows a little, letting the crowd drift ahead of you both. The music becomes a little softer here. The laughter more distant. Just the two of you now, beneath hanging lanterns painted with stories from the God of Wisdom’s old parables. A silver koi arcs along one in perfect brushwork. Aether stares at it too long.

Finally, he speaks.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, his voice quieter than the music. “This whole night… like something out of a dream you forget before you wake up.”

You nod. Or maybe you say something. Maybe you smile. But the words don’t seem to matter. Not with the way he’s looking at you now.

There’s a pause—an ache in it. Then:

“…I wish it could last,” he says, softer now. “I wish I could stay.” His gaze drops. One hand comes up, rubbing the back of his neck like he's trying to knead away something heavier than tension. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. About what happens after this. After—” A pause. “After I have to leave.”

He breathes in. Doesn’t finish the sentence.

The music continues. The festival swells around you like a living thing. And yet, here, time slows.

He glances at you again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ruin it. I just—” He shakes his head, then looks away, expression unreadable. “Never mind.”

But he doesn’t walk. Doesn’t move. He just stands there, beneath the flickering glow of dream-lanterns, heart on his sleeve and uncertainty etched into every line of him.

Waiting.

Hoping maybe you’ll say something first.