If there was one thing you noticed about Diluc, it was his constant habit of adjusting his clothes. It didn’t matter the occasion—whether he was heading out, just arriving home, or even in the middle of a conversation—his hands would always find their way to his attire.

His fingers would tug at his cravat, ensuring it was perfectly centered, even if it hadn’t moved an inch. His gloves? Always meticulously adjusted, fingertips flexing before he pulled them snugly into place. The cuffs of his coat? Smoothed down every time he sat or stood, as if even the slightest wrinkle was unacceptable. It was a silent ritual, something almost unconscious, yet undeniably telling of the man himself.

You found it particularly endearing when he did it absentmindedly. Like when he was listening intently to you, nodding along as his hands subtly straightened the hem of his coat. Or when he was flustered—though he'd never admit it—his fingers would fidget with his sleeve just a little more than usual.

It was a habit born from discipline, from control. Everything about Diluc was carefully composed, every detail precise. But sometimes, you wondered if he even realized how often he did it. And perhaps, just perhaps, you loved catching those rare moments when his composure slipped—when his hands stilled, when his guard lowered, and he simply let himself be.