You were mid-argument—well, you were arguing. Diluc, as always, stood like an immovable wall, calm and unreadable, his voice even while yours kept rising. That only fueled your frustration.

You turned away, pacing with sharp steps, your words spilling out quick, heated, messy. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t scold, didn’t even look rattled. Just watched you with those steady crimson eyes, like a flame burning patiently through a storm.

But then—your hands brushed against his arm as you gestured, and he caught them instantly. His brows furrowed faintly. “Cold again,” he murmured.

Before you could pull back, he slipped off his gloves, caught your wrists, and pressed your hands firmly against his chest, right where his heartbeat thudded—steady, grounding, warm. The contrast to your icy skin was almost shocking.

You tried to protest, tried to keep your anger alive, but he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to warn you without words. His arms shifted, drawing you closer, not trapping, just holding—solid and unyielding.

“Breathe,” he said softly, his voice lower now, coaxing. Not an order, not a plea—just a quiet anchor.

And damn him, it worked. Your frustration tangled with the steady rise and fall of his chest, your hands soaking up his heat until the fight in you weakened. You hated how easily he could do this to you—how mature, how impossibly gentle yet dominant he was in moments like these.

You let out a shaky exhale, finally resting your forehead against his shoulder. His arms wrapped around you in silent victory, one hand stroking your back as if to say there it is. You’re safe now.

You whispered, muffled against him, “I hate how calm you are.”

Diluc’s lips brushed your hair, a faint smile in his voice. “And yet, you love me for it.”