It had started as a small thing — a headache, maybe a chill. You’d told him not to worry, that it was nothing serious. But Diluc Ragnvindr was not a man who took “I’m fine” at face value.

When he woke that morning, the first thing he noticed was your warmth — or rather, the faint heat clinging to your skin. His hand brushed your forehead before his mind even fully woke, and the subtle fever beneath his palm made his chest tighten.

“…You’re warm,” he murmured under his breath. The words came out softer than his usual tone, almost hesitant.

You blinked sleepily, mumbling something about him needing to get ready for work — that the winery wouldn’t run itself. But Diluc didn’t move. He just sat there at the edge of the bed, his crimson hair slightly tousled, still in his sleep shirt, eyes fixed on you with that quiet worry he never quite knew how to hide.

“I’ll go later,” he said finally.

But later never came.

The morning drifted on, and he stayed. He brewed you tea himself, though he rarely touched the kitchen unless necessary. You heard the faint clinking of porcelain, the soft rhythm of his footsteps as he moved quietly so as not to wake you. When he returned, he sat beside you and pressed the cup into your hands, his gloved fingers lingering to steady yours.

Every so often he’d check your temperature again, his hand brushing your hair back, his thumb tracing gentle lines along your cheek. He didn’t say much — he never needed to. His presence was the reassurance.

When you asked if he shouldn’t be working, he only hummed, noncommittal. “I sent word. They’ll manage for today.”

You smiled faintly, half-apologetic. “You really didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he interrupted quietly, eyes soft but certain. “If something happened to you while I wasn’t here, I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

He stayed like that — your guardian flame in human form — the whole day. He barely left your side, only getting up to bring you soup, or water, or to open the window a crack when the air grew heavy.

At some point, you drifted off again, your head resting against his chest. You felt his hand settle at your back, fingers tracing small circles against the fabric of your shirt. His voice, low and barely audible, murmured something against your hair — something that sounded like a prayer, or maybe just a promise:

“I can rebuild a day’s work,” he whispered, “but I can’t rebuild you.”

And even as you slept, you felt the faint press of his lips against your temple — a quiet vow that no matter how many duties waited for him beyond that door, you would always come first.