The ship hadn’t left yet.

Crew moved about with practiced ease, ropes creaking, lanterns being lit one by one as dusk settled into the harbor. The cold crept in gently, the kind that promised sharper teeth farther north.

She stood beside me at the railing, elbows resting against the wood, watching the water darken. Quiet again. Thoughtful again. I’d learned by now that when she went quiet like this, it meant something heavy was circling.

“So,” I said, because silence was starting to feel dangerous. “Mondstadt.”

She hummed softly. “What about it?”

“How did you end up there in the first place?” I asked. Casual tone. Careful. “You’ve never really said.”

Her shoulders stiffened. Just a fraction.

I noticed. Of course I did.

She didn’t answer right away. The ship rocked gently beneath us, like it was breathing, waiting.

“…You sure you want that story?” she asked.

I glanced at her. The way her fingers curled slightly against the railing. The way her gaze stayed fixed on the horizon like she was afraid to look at me while she spoke.

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

She exhaled slowly, like she was letting go of something she’d been holding too tight for too long.

“My brother and I,” she began, voice quiet, “we weren’t from Teyvat. Not originally.”

I stayed silent.

“We were traveling between worlds,” she continued. “Exploring. Together. That was always the plan.”

Her lips curved faintly at the memory, then fell.

“Our ship crashed,” she said. “Something attacked us. I don’t remember all of it clearly. Just light. Pain. Falling.”

My jaw tightened.

“When I woke up,” she went on, “I was alone.”

I could feel it then. That pull in my chest. That uncomfortable, dangerous ache that had been getting worse every time she let me see behind the curtain.

“I survived,” she said. “But so did he. I know he did.”

“How?” I asked gently.

She finally looked at me.

“Because I can still feel him,” she said simply. “Because family doesn’t just… disappear.”

The word landed hard.

Family.

“Meeting the Anemo Archon in Mondstadt,” she continued, “and Morax in Liyue… every step I take, every god I meet, it brings me closer. Not farther. Closer.”

Her fingers tightened on the railing. “That’s why I travel. Not for adventure. Not really.”

“To find him,” I said.

She nodded. “He’s the last piece of my family. And I won’t stop until I find him.”

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

This wasn’t a goal. It was a vow. One I recognized all too well.

I laughed quietly, shaking my head. “You know,” I said, “you’re terrible at pretending to be aimless.”

She smiled sadly. “And you’re terrible at pretending you don’t care.”

That got me.

I turned fully toward her now, resting my forearms on the railing, studying her face like I was trying to memorize it before it slipped away.

“You keep going,” I said slowly, “even when the world keeps taking things from you.”

She shrugged. “What choice do I have?”

I thought of Teucer. Of Tonia. Of Anton. Of the way I’d torn myself apart to keep their world intact.

“I get it,” I said.

Her gaze softened. “I thought you might.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Too full. Of things I wasn’t ready to name.

I felt it then, unmistakably. Not just admiration. Not just respect. Something warmer. Something that wanted to stay.

Dangerous.

“You know,” I said lightly, because if I didn’t joke I might say something irreversible, “if you keep getting sentimental like this, people might think I have feelings.”

She arched a brow. “Do you?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Every instinct screamed deny. Deflect. Laugh it off. Turn it into a sparring match and walk away victorious.

Instead, I looked out over the dark water and said, quieter than I meant to, “I’m… working on not being terrible at things.”

She didn’t push. Didn’t tease.

And in that moment, with the ship waiting and winter calling us north, I realized something terrifying.

If I let myself fall for her, I wouldn’t fall halfway.

I’d fall like I did everything else.

Obsessively. Completely.

I was so doomed.