There was something about Diluc when he was mad.

Not the quiet, cold anger he wore like a second skin—but that rare, sharp edge when something (or someone) truly pushed him too far. It happened most often in tense meetings, sometimes with the Knights of Favonius, or when politics got in the way of protecting Mondstadt.

His voice would grow low, controlled—but you could feel the fire rising beneath every word. Shoulders squared. Jaw tense. Eyes burning.

And that was when you stepped in.

Sometimes, you’d wrap your arms around his, grounding him. Other times, you’d place a hand on his chest, right over his heart, gently easing him back. The most desperate moments? You’d hug him from behind, forehead pressed to his back as if to remind him—you’re here. You’ve got him.

He never pushed you away.

Even when his voice was rough, even when he was seething, his hands would find yours. Sometimes he’d sigh, closing his eyes and pulling you closer. Other times, he’d grip your wrist—not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

“I’m not going to hurt anyone,” he’d murmur once, through clenched teeth, as you pressed a hand to his chest.
“I know,” you whispered back. “I’m still staying right here.”

And in those moments—when only you could reach through the fire—he always let you.

Because if there was one thing that could pull Diluc Ragnvindr back from the edge…

It was you.