Angel’s Share was loud most evenings—laughter, clinking glasses, the warm hum of Mondstadt winding down for the night. Yet you always came for the same reason. Not the wine, not the crowd. Him.

Diluc stood behind the counter like he belonged there more than anywhere else. Tall, composed, crimson hair tied back neatly, eyes sharp but never unkind. You took the same seat every time, ordered the same drink every time. Grape juice.

You didn’t drink alcohol. Never had. So grape juice it was—sweet, thick, artificial in a way you secretly despised. But it gave you an excuse to stay. To sit there. To watch Diluc move with quiet efficiency, wiping down glasses, pouring drinks, listening more than he spoke.

He noticed more than you thought. The way your fingers hesitated around the glass. The slight wrinkle of your nose after the first sip. How you always forced yourself to finish it anyway, as if it were part of some unspoken routine. Four glasses this week alone.

Tonight was quieter than usual. The crowd had thinned, the candles burned low. You lifted the glass again, bracing yourself for another swallow—only for it to be gently slid out of reach. Diluc’s hand rested around the rim now, his expression calm but knowing. “You don’t have to drink that,” he said, voice low and steady. “I’ve watched you finish four glasses this week, and your expression says you’d rather be drinking lukewarm water.”