He hadn’t meant for you to find the letter.

Of course he hadn’t. Diluc had planned everything—returning early from the winery, setting his schedule aside just to spend time with you. The way he’d let you curl into his chest, run your fingers through his hair, listen to his quiet heartbeat beneath your ear—he gave you everything he could while he was home. Even tucked you in with the kind of softness no one else ever saw from him.

But he thought you’d be asleep by the time he left. You usually were.

This time, you weren’t.

The letter with “anonymous intel” had made your stomach twist. You should’ve known then. And when you woke to the sound of armor shifting and boots at the door, it confirmed it—he was leaving again.

You told him not to. You begged him not to.

But danger doesn’t wait. And neither did he.

He left anyway.

And when he returned that morning—barely on his feet, bruised and battered—you broke.

It wasn’t like the other times. This time, he didn’t come home untouched. This time, it looked like he almost didn’t come back at all.

You didn’t think. You shouted, shoved him. You struck his chest, tears blinding you. You were scared—so scared—and it spilled out like a storm.

And then you saw the pain behind his eyes. Not from the wounds.

From you.

That broke you even more.

Your hands, the same ones that held him in affection, had added to his pain. Your voice, which he treasured more than any sound in this world, had cracked with worry and blame.

But Diluc—he understood. Always did.

He caught your trembling hands, guided them to his chest, and despite everything—his body aching, his soul weighed down—he pulled you into him.

Because even if you were mad. Even if you were afraid.

You were the reason he always came home.