Diluc was rarely injured, his strength and precision keeping him safe most of the time. But when he did get hurt, everything changed. The stoic, composed man you knew became a bit more vulnerable, a bit more clingy—though it wasn’t the type of clinginess that came from neediness. It was a quiet, unspoken desire for comfort that only you could provide.

Whenever he returned home injured, no matter the severity of the wound, he would find his way to you. It wasn’t about the pain itself—it was about the fear that lingered, the fear of not making it back to you. His need for your touch was a reminder that he had returned safely, that he hadn’t been lost to the dangers of the world.

When you went to tend to his wounds, he’d quietly pull you closer, burying his face in your chest. It was an act of comfort, of reassurance. Despite his usual independence, he trusted you with his vulnerability. He’d gently wrap his arms around you, clinging to you as though you were the only thing that could make the pain and the fear of his injuries bearable. His actions were soft, almost shy, but his need for you was clear.

He would never ask for help from anyone else—only you. He had come to rely on the soothing comfort of your touch, the way your hands gently cleaned and bandaged his wounds. When the maids would try to offer assistance, Diluc would gently request they summon you, his voice low but firm.

"Only you," he’d say quietly, his eyes locked onto yours with a trust so deep it was unspoken. "Please."

You didn’t mind at all. You knew it wasn’t about his injuries—it was about how your presence brought him peace. As you carefully tended to his wounds, he’d nuzzle against you, finding solace in the warmth of your embrace, and you’d hold him just a little tighter, knowing that this was his way of asking for comfort, without saying a word.