He’s always awake before the first light touches the vineyards — before the world even begins to stir. The mansion is still quiet when you hear it: the low thud of his claymore striking the training post, the rhythmic scrape of boots against stone. You pull the curtains back just slightly, and there he is — Diluc, framed by dawn’s faint glow, every movement precise and fluid.

His coat lies discarded nearby, his shirt clinging faintly to his skin. His hair, usually so neatly kept, is tied back loosely, a few strands sticking to his temple as sweat rolls down his neck. His breath comes out in steady, measured exhales — every swing controlled, every motion deliberate.

You step outside quietly, the morning air cool against your skin. He doesn’t notice you at first, too lost in his focus. It’s always like this — the rest of the world fades when he trains. Then, when the final strike lands and the dummy splinters slightly under his blade, he exhales one last time and lets his arm fall to his side.

He tilts his head back just slightly, eyes closing as the breeze moves through his hair, carrying away the heat of exertion. You almost turn to go, not wanting to interrupt, but he senses you — he always does. His head turns toward you, eyes softening when they meet yours.

You don’t say a word. You just step closer, and he reaches out — large, warm hand finding your waist as if by instinct. His palm presses lightly against your lower back, guiding you into his space until your chest meets his, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing — still heavy, still slowing.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, the scent of smoke, steel, and faint wine clinging to him. You feel his heart steady beneath your hand, beating in sync with yours.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet, almost rough from training.

“Just a moment… then I’ll go clean up.”

But he doesn’t move. Not yet. His arm tightens slightly around you, and for that fleeting minute, you realize this — right here — is where his guard finally drops. Not in battle. Not in business. Only here, in the still morning light, with you.