People forget how busy Diluc Ragnvindr is.

They see the composed owner of the Dawn Winery, the polite businessman who disappears into meetings that stretch across cities and days. They see the bartender who works the counter like it’s second nature, the noble who stands tall at events, the shadow who protects Mondstadt long after the streets go dark.

They don’t see how those roles stack.

They don’t see how rarely he sleeps.

You do.

You notice the way his coat stays on longer than it should, the way his movements grow economical—efficient to the point of self-denial. You notice how his replies shorten, not from irritation, but from fatigue he refuses to acknowledge.

He never complains.

Not once.

So one night, when he returns long past midnight, boots quiet against the manor floor, you don’t greet him with questions. You simply step into his path and take his gloves from his hands.

He pauses.

A subtle thing. A man unused to being stopped.

“…You’re still awake,” he says.

“You didn’t come home,” you reply gently.

He exhales, slow and controlled, like admitting defeat without ever naming it.

“I intended to,” he says. “I lost track of time.”

You reach for him then—not urgently, not accusingly. Just fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, grounding him in the present.

“When was the last time you rested?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Because the truth is—Diluc doesn’t rest. He endures. He moves from duty to duty because stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering everything he’s lost, everything he still fears losing.

Instead of responding, he presses his forehead briefly to yours. Just long enough for his composure to crack at the edges.

“I rest,” he says finally, voice low. “When I know Mondstadt is safe.”

You tilt your head slightly. “And when are you safe?”

That’s when he stills.

Because the answer has been in front of him all along.

Later, you find him seated beside you, his head resting against your shoulder, eyes closed—not sleeping, not yet—but breathing more evenly than he has all day. His arm wraps around you, protective even in stillness.

This is his break.

Not a vacation. Not a day off.

You.

He doesn’t stop being