Being with Diluc meant living with a paradox. On one hand, he was your partner—your man, your safe place, the one who always showed up when you needed him. On the other, he sometimes acted like he wasn’t allowed to really reach for you.

It was never about not caring. If anything, he cared too much. His respect for you ran so deep, it made him second-guess every touch. His hand would hover an inch from your waist before he pulled it back. His gaze would soften, linger, then drop away as though ashamed of being caught staring. And though his lips burned with words and kisses left unsaid, he silenced himself more often than not.

He would brush a kiss against your forehead, your knuckles, your hair—small tokens of affection that felt safe to give. But when it came to your lips, he hesitated. Even after everything, even though you’d chosen him, Diluc seemed to forget sometimes that you wanted him just as much.

It was as if he thought his role was only to protect, to provide, to steady. And not to take. Not to indulge. Not to let his passion bleed through.

But the truth was in the way his arms always tightened when you leaned into him, or how his breath hitched when you tilted your face up just slightly. Every time you kissed him first, the way he melted into it—hesitant at first, then unrestrained, as though you’d undone his last thread of restraint—showed just how much he’d been holding back.

Diluc didn’t forget he was yours. He just respected you so fiercely, he sometimes forgot he was allowed to love you openly, passionately, without fear.