The ambient glow of Zhongli's quaint living space cast a warm and comforting aura, the flicker of lantern light dancing across shelves lined with ancient texts and delicate porcelain. The faint aroma of tea still lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of sandalwood from the incense he had lit earlier.

It was a room that spoke of history and stillness, one that invited repose as naturally as a sigh.

Zhongli, ever the eloquent storyteller, sat poised in his chair with the same grace he carried into all things, his deep voice unfurling stories from the distant times of Teyvat's history. His words carried not just information but weight, weaving the grandeur of battles, the rise and fall of kingdoms, the quiet beauty of forgotten traditions.

Seated comfortably on his sofa, you listened, your head tilted slightly as though each sound wrapped itself around you. Eventually, your eyes slipped closed, and you allowed the resonance of his voice to paint vivid images in your mind, each syllable like brushstrokes on a canvas of memory.

The fatigue of the day had begun to press more heavily upon you, a gentle insistence that dulled the edges of wakefulness. To most, the movement might have gone unnoticed, but not to him. Zhongli's gaze, keen and attentive as ever, noted every subtle change—the deeper rhythm of your breathing, the slackened angle of your shoulders, the quiet surrender to rest.

Slowly, the cadence of his words faltered, until the story trailed into silence.

A soft sigh escaped his lips, barely audible, carrying with it a quiet blend of understanding and a trace of something gentler. Perhaps disappointment, perhaps relief. "I hope my tales did not bore you into sleep," he murmured to himself, the corner of his mouth curving faintly in wry amusement. The smile lingered, touched by affection rather than reproach, for he could not truly begrudge you rest.

He rose from his chair with unhurried grace, his movements as fluid as the rivers of stone he once commanded. Stepping toward you, Zhongli extended his arms, and with the careful precision of one accustomed to both strength and restraint, he lifted you from the sofa. His embrace was steady, the kind that spoke of unyielding security, yet tempered by an exquisite gentleness that treated you as though you were something far more delicate than you appeared.

Your eyes remained closed, feigning slumber, but the closeness of the moment was not lost on you. The sensation of being transported in the arms of a god was both surreal and deeply comforting, a strange fusion of awe and peace.

Zhongli carried you with measured steps into his bedroom, the quiet rustle of fabric and the faint creak of the floorboards the only sounds in the stillness. He carefully lowered you onto the mattress. He adjusted the pillows beneath your head, lifting and smoothing until he was satisfied with their placement, and then he reached for the blankets.

Drawing one over you, he tucked it around your shoulders, ensuring that no chill of the night could touch you. "Rest well," he whispered, the words exhaled like a prayer.

But for reasons he did not bother to examine too closely, Zhongli did not move away immediately.

He lingered by your side, his gaze softened by the illusion of your slumber. In the hush of the moment, he found himself studying the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the way the lamplight played across the contours of your face.

Convinced you were asleep, he allowed himself a rare moment of indulgence.

His hand rose, steady and unhurried, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered just a fraction longer than necessity demanded, the faint warmth of his skin against yours a touch that carried both restraint and yearning. It was a silent confession, one only he would ever know, spoken not in words but in the quiet reverence of a gesture too fleeting to ever be remembered.

Unless, of course, you were awake to feel it.