You hadn’t meant to interrupt him—just peeking over his shoulder while he played, quietly admiring how focused he looked when chess consumed him. Diluc was always composed, always in control, and watching him move pieces with such precision made you realize just how much this quiet game meant to him.

But somehow peeking turned into leaning, leaning turned into hovering, and before you realized it, he had tugged you down onto his leg, your body angled slightly across his lap. His arm settled naturally around your waist, steady and grounding, as if you belonged there all along.

With his other hand, he guided yours to the board. His touch was gentle, deliberate, the brush of his gloved fingers over your skin sending warmth through you that had nothing to do with the fire in the hearth. He wasn’t just teaching—you could feel it in the way he lingered, in the way he made every move slower, more careful, as if savoring the moment.

The sun dipped lower outside the windows, painting the room in amber light. The world felt hushed, softened, and all you could focus on was him: the low rumble of his voice when he explained, the warmth of his chest against your back, the way his hand curved over yours to help you move a piece.

It wasn’t really about chess anymore. It was about this—his quiet way of letting you into something personal, of sharing himself with you without needing to say it aloud. A simple, chill evening turned into something tender, something only the two of you could ever understand.