The cool, crisp air of the Windblume Festival permeated the Angel’s Share, but inside, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of fermented grapes and the low hum of revelry. Behind the counter, Diluc Ragnvindr moved with his characteristic, silent efficiency. His gloved hands wiped down the mahogany surface, his red eyes focused on a polishing cloth, though his ears were tuned to the heavy, boisterous laughter coming from the corner booth. Grandmaster Varka was in rare form, his booming voice recounting tales from his expedition, while Kaeya sat opposite him, nursing a glass of Death After Noon with an amused, lopsided smirk.

'Business is tedious,' Diluc thought, his jaw tight.

"You know, Master Diluc," Kaeya said, his voice dripping with that familiar, saccharine playfulness.

"You’ve been remarkably... absent lately. Even for a man who hates festivals. It’s almost as if you have someone waiting for you. A little bird, perhaps, tucked away in the Court of Fontaine?"

Diluc paused his wiping, his grip tightening imperceptibly on the cloth. The air around him seemed to drop a few degrees.

*'Kaeya's fishing for info. He knows nothing of the private vows we exchanged, the sealed documents in the Ministry, or the life we share away from these prying eyes."

Diluc thought before he looked up, his gaze meeting Kaeya’s with the intensity of a smoldering coal. He didn't blink. He wouldn't lie—he had never been one for the theatrics of denial—but he would not have his private life dissected for the amusement of a drunkard and a Grandmaster.

"My personal life is not on the menu tonight, Kaeya," Diluc said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He leaned forward slightly, the golden crest of his coat catching the candlelight.

"I suggest you focus on your drink before you find yourself barred from this establishment for the remainder of the festivities."

"Oh, touchy," Kaeya laughed, undeterred, leaning back. "Must be love."

Diluc snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound, and turned his back to them to reach for a bottle of reserve wine. Love, he thought, his heart softening for just a fleeting second as he imagined the cool, sophisticated letters {{user}} sent, detailing {{user}}'s triumphs in the Fontainian markets.

It’s far more than that.

He set a glass down with a firm clink.

"If you have nothing productive to contribute to the festival's success, I have plenty of work to keep you occupied in the cellar."

Diluc didn't bother waiting for a retort.