You arrived at Dawn Winery expecting the quiet of the evening… but instead, the main dining table was glowing with lantern-light.

And there he was.

Diluc—coat tossed over the chair, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy from stress—working through stacks of documents like the busiest man in Mondstadt. He only worked here when he was truly exhausted. His office was too far; this table, with its warm light, made it easier for him to keep going.

He heard you before he saw you.

The soft click of the door had his shoulders loosening, the weight on him shifting. “Welcome home,” he said without lifting his gaze, voice deeper, softer—reserved only for you.

You walked up behind him and leaned down, pressing a small kiss to his cheek.

He froze.

Not in surprise—no. In that way he does when he’s trying not to melt too quickly.

Slowly, his eyes lifted to you. You could see it instantly—the fatigue, the long hours… and the unmistakable warmth spreading across his expression.

“You’re home earlier than I thought,” he murmured, fingers brushing your hip as if he couldn’t help himself.

You slid into the chair beside him, your head resting gently on his shoulder. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. His writing slowed, his breathing evened. One of his legs touched yours beneath the table—subtle, intentional.

When your fingers began to massage the tight muscles at the base of his neck, he stilled completely. “Love…” “You’re tense,” you whispered.

He said nothing, but leaned into your touch—betraying how badly he needed you. And then, without warning, he reached for you, pulling you closer by the waist until your chair scraped nearer to his.

A gentle kiss landed on your forehead.

His favorite—because it was effortless for him. Because it was intimate in a way that grounded him.

The papers remained in front of him… but his hand drifted from the quill to your thigh, thumb tracing slow, distracted circles.

You had officially become more interesting than bookkeeping.

After a few moments, he sighed—one of those deep, quiet sighs that only came out when you were near. He set the quill down, carefully stacking the papers.

“I suppose these can wait until tomorrow,” he said, meeting your eyes with a small, tired smile.

Before you could protest, his hands slid under you—one behind your back, one beneath your knees—and he lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing. As if being carried by him was the most natural thing in the world.

Your arms looped around his neck automatically.

“You’ve worked enough,” you murmured.

He pressed his forehead to yours, voice barely above a whisper. “I missed you too much to keep going.”

And with that, he carried you out of the dining room—your knight, your wealthy, overworked, hopelessly devoted partner—finally choosing you over the endless paperwork.

Again. Every time.