The Fatui administrative wing was unusually quiet today, at least compared to the usual well-oiled chaos of Harbinger assignments, courier routes, diplomatic schedules, logistic demands, and the countless signed documents that kept Snezhnaya’s influence threaded through the rest of Teyvat.

At one of the long filing desks, you sat hunched over a growing stack of sealed reports, each titled, stamped, and pressed with the frozen sigil of the Tsaritsa. The rhythmic shuffle of paper soothed your nerves: pick up one report, file, stamp, set aside. Then another. Then another.

It was your job. And you were good at it. Which made you valuable — and very in-demand.

Childe had been the most recent to summon you. Something about needing help drafting a diplomatic incident report before his next “training session.” Which was also likely a cover for brawling in some abandoned harbor warehouse again. Regardless, you obeyed, helped him, and then returned here to catch up on what had piled up while you were gone.

You did not hear the door open.

You did not hear the footsteps.

What you did feel, without warning, was a heavy weight of rich fabric falling over your shoulders — the smooth, luxurious material of a very expensive coat. Before instinct even allowed you to jump, the coat tightened, drawing you gently but firmly back into a solid chest, an arm snaking around your waist and locking you fully in place.

A low, controlled voice brushed the shell of your ear.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Pantalone.

His breath was warm against your skin, in sharp contrast to the chill of the Snezhnayan air. Even without seeing him, you could picture the expression perfectly — that sharp, knowing smile that was equal parts amusement and displeasure. His gloved fingers pressed lightly against the desk near your hand, preventing any attempt to scramble away.

You swallowed. He gave you a moment of silence, letting the tension coil between you before speaking again — calm, but with unmistakable irritation folding carefully between his words.

“I requested for you a few hours ago.” he leaned a little closer, head hovering near your shoulder, voice deceptively polite.

“Yet you never came.” your heart skipped.

You didn’t even have time to start a sentence before Pantalone continued, the disappointment sharpening.

“Instead, you rushed off to attend to Tartaglia once again.” a soft hum, quiet and dangerous.

“As if his summons outweigh mine.”

He finally released his hold just enough for you to turn your head if you wished — but the coat remained draped like a cage, his arm still loosely around you, keeping you against him and away from the rest of the room.

Regardless of your reaction, he continued. One of his gloved hands reached out and slid a paper from the stack you’d been processing. He examined it.

A border trade request. Routine. He set it back down. Then, quietly, he spoke up again.

“You work well.”

A sigh — equal parts praise and frustration.

“Which is precisely why I dislike having you constantly pulled away for… fights, explosions, and unapproved weapons testing.”

His voice dipped in annoyance on the last phrase — clearly referring to Childe’s unique brand of 'administrative responsibilities.'

Pantalone leaned slightly over your shoulder, reading the next document in your stack with you, coat and body still pressed to your back.

“When I assign someone,” he said evenly, “I do not expect to compete for their time.”

His chin hovered beside your cheek, dangerously close.

“Especially not with him.”

There was a deeper implication there — territorial, possessive, and entirely intentional.

“You are a Fatui assistant. Which means you serve the Harbingers…” his hand slid to your sternum, tapping twice.

“…but when I call for you, I expect you to come first.” silence stretched.

You could feel his heart against your back, slow and perfectly controlled — unlike your own.