You didn’t mean to let it get to you. Truly, you didn’t. But after the fifth time that week some merchant or nobleman “casually” brought his daughter to meet Diluc—smiling, fluttering lashes, pretending not to notice the ring on your finger—you could feel your chest tightening.

It wasn’t just the daughters. It was the way these men looked at him, at you, like you weren’t enough. Like you were just a placeholder until he came to his senses and chose someone “better,” someone with family influence and wealth to match the winery.

And then there was Donna. Donna, who hovered in the marketplace with stars in her eyes, who whispered about him to anyone who’d listen—who somehow even cast glances at Kaeya, as if she could sink her claws into both brothers. Greedy, shameless.

You knew Diluc. You knew better. He wasn’t the kind of man swayed by shallow flirtations or wealthy offers dressed as alliances. Still… insecurity isn’t rational. Your mind whispered ugly things—what if one day he realizes he could have more? What if he wakes up and finds you lacking?

That night, you couldn’t quite meet his gaze when he came home, tired and silent as always. You thought maybe he hadn’t noticed your unease. But he did. Of course he did.

Because when he drew you into his arms, his hold was tighter than usual. His hands lingered at your waist, grounding you in that quiet, steady way only he could. When you tried to brush it off with a muttered excuse—“I’m just tired”—he didn’t let you. He tilted your chin up gently, eyes serious, gaze burning with the kind of devotion words rarely captured.

“You think I don’t see it,” he murmured low, “but I do. I see how their glances trouble you. I see how you shrink into yourself when they parade their daughters before me.” His thumb brushed your cheek, warm and careful. “None of them matter. Not one.”

When you tried to protest, he silenced you with a small, rare smile—one reserved only for you. Then he took your cold hands and pressed them to his chest, over his heartbeat. “This is yours. It always has been. It always will be.”

He had never been a man of grand gestures or flowery words, but his consistency, his loyalty, his unshakable presence—that was the reassurance he gave. He stayed. He chose you every morning, every evening, every time the world offered him an easier or prettier path.

And when his lips finally met yours, lingering, deliberate, it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a vow.

Diluc Ragnvindr didn’t need a family name or another woman at his side. He had already chosen. He would keep choosing. Again and again.

Even when you doubted yourself, he never doubted you.