Diluc wasn’t the type to handle arguments well—not because he was short-tempered, but because he had spent so long carrying his burdens alone that conflict with someone he loved felt foreign.

After a fight, he would distance himself, not out of anger, but because he didn’t know how to deal with the guilt that settled in his chest. Even looking at your face made it worse. He wasn’t used to this—to having someone who cared enough to argue with him, someone who wouldn’t simply leave like everything else in his life had.

So he’d push you away. Not harshly, never cruelly, but enough to make it clear he needed space. Hours could pass, maybe even a whole day, before he finally returned, the weight of silence pressing on him more than he could bear.

It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t even his fault. It was just… how he was.

Losing his father at eighteen, growing up without the warmth of a family—it had left its mark. He had learned to survive, to endure, to be strong. But love? Comfort? Those were things he had once given up on.

And yet, here you were. Waiting. Always waiting.

When he finally came back—when he finally found the words to apologize—it wouldn’t be with grand gestures or elaborate speeches. Instead, it was in the way his hand hesitated before reaching for yours, in the way his gaze softened as he finally met your eyes, in the quiet I'm sorry he whispered against your forehead.

Because for all his flaws, Diluc Ragnvindr was still a man of honor. And if there was one thing he would never take for granted—it was you.