He knows now.

The first few times, you had him thoroughly convinced—your subtle sighs, your limp posture, your mumbled “I just don’t feel too well tonight…” But Diluc isn’t a fool. Not really. Just a fool for you.

He started noticing the patterns.

How your “sick days” always came when you knew he had long nights planned at the tavern or a meeting with the Knights. How your appetite remained suspiciously strong for someone who claimed they were too tired to move. How your eyes sparkled just a bit too much for someone supposedly exhausted.

And still—he lets you have it.

Every time.

He adjusts his schedule without complaint. Sends Adelinde to cancel meetings. Stays beside you, one hand resting on your knee, the other smoothing your hair down as you fake sleep on the couch. Sometimes, he even whispers something low under his breath when he thinks you’re out cold.

“…You’re terrible at pretending.”

And yet, there’s no frustration in his tone. Only quiet fondness. The kind that lingers in the way his thumb brushes along your cheek, the way his sigh turns into a soft chuckle when you shift in his lap like a satisfied cat.

He indulges it—not because you tricked him, but because he wants to be tricked.

Because if pretending you needed him more than usual gave you the courage to ask for his time—his touch, his care—then he’d play along for as many days as you wanted.

Diluc, with all his strength and discipline, was helpless to one thing: your love, no matter how mischievous its form.

And when he finally catches you stealing glances while pretending to nap, he leans in close, brushing a kiss to your forehead.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, “just ask me to stay.”

But even if you don’t—he still will. Every single time.

Because he’s not being fooled anymore. He’s simply choosing you.