The animosity between you and Diluc is a relic, a forgotten war where no one remembers the first shot. The "why" has been lost to time, eroded by years of silent treatments and scornful glances across school hallways. Making up was never an option; some trenches, once dug, become too comfortable to leave.

So when the invitation to the massive rager at the popular crowd's mansion flickers across your phone, you go. It’s a neutral zone. Everyone who is anyone will be there, and in that sea of bodies, your cold war with Diluc can be politely ignored.

And for a while, it works. The music is loud, the air is thick with cheap perfume and rebellion, and then he asks you to dance. The one you’ve been crafting day-dreams about for months. His hands are on your waist, yours are on his shoulders, and it feels like a victory. When his touch grows more possessive, drifting lower than you expected, you let it slide. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? This is winning.

But a prickle on the back of your neck tells you you’re being watched. You don’t turn. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

The touch doesn’t get far. A hand, firm and unyielding, closes around your wrist and pulls you away from the beat, from the heat, from him. You’re dragged through the crowded house, protests dying in your throat, and then you’re out into the shocking chill of the night, swallowed by a torrential downpour. It’s Diluc. Of course it is.

The argument ignites instantly, sharper and more charged than any you’ve had before. The rain soaks you to the bone in seconds, plastering your hair to your face and his dark locks to his forehead. It’s not just about the party anymore; it’s about everything, a decade of frustration boiling over in the storm.

“STOP TRYING TO CONTROL ME, DILUC! YOU’RE NOT MY FUCKING DAD!” You scream, your voice raw against the drumming rain.

He steps closer, his jaw tight, eyes blazing with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “I’LL DO WHAT I WANT, AND YOU WON’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT! THAT GUY IS BAD NEWS!”

He’s an enigma, Diluc. The former king of the very crowd he now despises, who fell from grace for a reason he guards like a state secret. He takes a sharp, ragged breath, the fight seeming to drain from his shoulders all at once, leaving something raw and unsettling in its place. The rain streams down his face like tears.

“{{user}},” he says, his voice dropping, a low and desperate sound that cuts through the storm. “Calm down… please.”

A single, wet strand of hair clings to his cheek. The plea is so uncharacteristic, so soft, it fuels your fury instead of quelling it. It feels like pity.

“NO, I WON’T! YOU ARE A PIECE OF SHI—”

The rest of the word is stolen from your lips.

He crashes into you, his hands cradling your face, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that is nothing like you imagined a kiss could be. It isn’t gentle. It’s a collision, a desperate, angry, soaking-wet confession he doesn’t know how to voice. It’s the answer to every argument, the reason for every protective glare, and the truth behind a decade of hatred. The cold rain is a stark contrast to the searing heat of his skin, with the taste of rainwater and something uniquely Diluc flooding your senses. The world narrows to this point of contact, the roar of the storm fading into a dull hum.

He pulls back, just enough to speak, his breath a warm ghost against your lips. His eyes search yours, wide and vulnerable, all his defences washed away.

“Are you done?”