This man?

He’s marriage-coded.

There’s no official vow, no shared surname, no public ceremony in Mondstadt’s plaza.

And yet… you might as well be married already.

He never says much about it. No grand declarations, no possessive words. But his actions?

They’re so constant, so thoughtful, so quietly him that they wrap around your life like the most natural thing in the world.

You once joked offhandedly that you always forget to eat breakfast. Just a passing comment between yawns and rushed goodbyes.

The next week, a shift begins.

A new rhythm to your morning. You’d blink awake to the scent of tea—your favorite kind, perfectly steeped, waiting on the table beside a warm, light meal. Sometimes there’s a handwritten note, tucked discreetly beneath the cup:

“Don’t forget to eat. Stay safe. – Diluc.”

The handwriting is careful. Straight lines. No flourishes. But the warmth is unmistakable.

After work?

You don’t even check the time anymore.

He’s always there—waiting outside your workplace like clockwork, dressed in dark red and black, coat in hand. Sometimes with a carriage. Sometimes just himself, offering his arm for the walk back home.

“Was it a long day?” he’ll ask, voice low.

You nod, tuck your hand into his arm, and without needing to ask, he adjusts his stride to match yours.

Your off days?

You forget them. He doesn’t.

You’d wake up groggy, bleary-eyed… only to find a fresh bouquet sitting on your windowsill. Carefully arranged. Seasonal. Always your favorite colors.

Sometimes he leaves a book beside them. Sometimes a box of pastries from that shop he knows you like. He never brings it up. Never makes it a grand gesture.

He just remembers.

And the days you’re late?

Oh, the manor feels it.

He paces the hallway with a subtle tension in his shoulders, checking the clock every few minutes. Elzer tries to reassure him—“I’m sure they’re just caught up in something.”

Diluc nods.

Then immediately checks the time again.

“They said they’d be home by ten,” he mutters, glancing at the door. “It’s 10:07.”

A pause.

“…That’s seven minutes late.”

And just when he’s reaching for his coat—ready to scour Mondstadt for you—you walk through the door, humming softly, unaware of the slight panic you caused.

He doesn’t scold you.

He just pulls you close. Breathes you in. Then mutters, barely audible:

“Next time… send a message.”

He’s not flashy. Not loud. But everything he does says the same thing:

You’re already home. With him. Always.

Even without a ring on your finger, his love is steady—burning low and bright like the fire he always keeps lit for you at the Winery.

And if that’s not marriage-coded… nothing is.