“My, my…”

Diluc chuckles softly, a rare warmth in his voice as you settle onto his lap, his left hand instinctively coming to rest on your hip, steady and possessive. The other hand still holds his pen, poised over paperwork—until your lips start to trail along his jaw, cheeks, even his nose.

He freezes.

One kiss. Then another. Then another. Red lipstick, your signature shade, begins dotting his pale skin like tiny declarations of war—territorial and absolutely intentional. His cheeks flush a deep crimson, matching the smudges you’re leaving behind. For someone so composed in battle and business, he looks genuinely flustered, like a nobleman caught in something scandalous and thrilling.

“Darling,” he murmurs, trying to sound firm, though his voice betrays him, “don’t you think this is a little… excessive?”

But he’s not stopping you.

And you both know exactly why you’re doing this.

Maybe Kaeya mentioned something offhand today—“Diluc and Jean were looking awfully nostalgic this morning, don’t you think?”—his grin all too knowing. Of course you know about Diluc’s childhood crush on Jean. And of course Kaeya enjoys teasing you both to death. But now? You’re just reminding him—gently, smugly, thoroughly—who he belongs to.

“I mean,” he tries again, clearing his throat, “yes, I like this—very much, actually—but you’re going to make me look like a complete mess… And I don’t think I’m supposed to be one.”

You grin, lips hovering just above his. “You already are, love.”

He sighs, defeated, but his hands tighten on your waist just slightly—inviting, not resisting.