It still felt new to him. The sound of a home that wasn’t just quiet halls and flickering candles, but laughter, the soft clinking of cups, and your voice somewhere within it.

He wasn’t used to it—having someone waiting for him. Someone he could actually say “I’m home” to and mean it.

Every time he opened the door, he braced himself for that familiar emptiness, only to be met with warmth instead. Sometimes it was you running into his arms, sometimes just your quiet steps until you were close enough for your arms to find their place around his neck. You always greeted him the same way—with a kiss waiting to happen, soft and real, like something he never thought he’d deserve.

And every single time, without fail, he froze. Like a statue carved of hesitation and disbelief. You could feel it in the stillness of his chest, in how he didn’t breathe for a moment. His hands would hover, then finally—slowly—one would cradle the back of your head, the other finding the middle of your back. Not firm, not claiming… just present.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to touch you. It was that he was afraid he might shatter something precious if he did.

His kisses were the same—hesitant at first, careful, almost unsure how much he was allowed to want this. But as seconds stretched and your warmth sunk into him, you’d feel him melt—his breath steadying, his hold tightening just enough to draw you closer.

Sometimes it was you pressing your palms against his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath his coat as he whispered against your lips. Other times it was his hands framing your face, hesitant but reverent, as if memorizing proof that you were truly there.

And in those quiet moments—the ones that started with “I’m home” and ended with your head against his chest—Diluc realized he no longer had to face the world alone.

He still hesitated, yes. But you could feel it each time: he was learning to let himself be loved.