You weren’t supposed to see him like this.

The expedition camp is mostly asleep. The torches are low. The air smells faintly of pine and steel.

And there he is — sitting on a stone step outside the temporary quarters, shirt open and slightly rumpled, blond hair falling into his eyes. His massive frame looks almost too big for the space, shoulders hunched slightly forward.

In his hands?

A bundle of glowing flowers.

Carefully held.

Gently.

You pause before approaching.

He looks… softer.

There are faint scars across his chest. Old ones. Not fresh. They map stories he doesn’t always tell. His gloves rest loosely around the stems of the flowers, as if he’s afraid of crushing them with the same hands that wield a claymore like it’s weightless.

“You’re awake,” he says without looking up.

His voice is lower than usual. Less booming. More grounded.

“I could say the same to you,” you reply softly.

He glances at you then — and there’s that warmth. The one people talk about. The one that makes knights follow him into danger without hesitation.

“These don’t grow easily where we’re headed,” he says, lifting the bouquet slightly. The small glowing buds pulse faintly in the night.

“They’re beautiful.”

“They reminded me of you.”

He says it simply.

No theatrics.

No grin.

Just truth.

You step closer and notice the way his fingers carefully adjust one stem that bent slightly. A general who commands battalions… being delicate with petals.

“You were out gathering these?” you ask.

“A leader should know the land,” he answers at first.

Then after a pause

“…And I wanted to bring you something.”

There it is.

That quiet devotion beneath the bravado.

You step between his knees without thinking, standing close. His size makes you feel small — but not fragile. Protected.

He looks up at you now.

And for a moment, the strength in him softens into something vulnerable.

“I don’t know how long this campaign will take,” he admits. “But I don’t want you doubting where my heart is.”

Your fingers brush over one of the scars on his chest gently.

“It’s here,” you murmur.

His breath catches slightly at the touch.

Not because he’s shy.

But because even warriors need tenderness.

He hands you the flowers — carefully, like they’re something sacred.

“I fight loudly,” he says quietly. “But I care… quietly.”

Then, after a beat, that familiar warmth returns to his gaze.

“If anyone gives you trouble while I’m away,” he adds, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “remind them who you belong to.”

Not possessive.

Proud.

You lean down and press a kiss to his forehead — something no one else would dare do to the Grand Master.

He exhales softly, large hands settling at your waist.

For once, he lets himself rest there.

Not as Mondstadt’s strongest knight.

Not as a legend.

Just Varka.

Holding flowers in the dark.

Thinking of you.