The evening at the tavern was lively, laughter and chatter filling the air as you nursed your second—or was it third?—glass of wine. You were enjoying yourself, letting loose after a long week. Diluc sat across from you, his usual composed self, though his crimson eyes never left you for long.

When your hand reached for another refill, his gloved one came down gently over your glass, stopping you mid-motion. "That’s enough," he said, his voice calm but firm. His gaze locked with yours, a silent plea wrapped in an almost convincing sternness.

You hesitated for a moment, the weight of his concern sinking in. But, emboldened by the wine, you brushed it off with a laugh and took another sip. He didn’t push further—Diluc rarely did—but the way he sighed softly and leaned back in his chair spoke volumes.

The next morning, however, was a different story. As you nursed a pounding headache, you felt his silent disapproval looming over you like a storm cloud. He didn’t lecture, but the way he moved about the room—calm, collected, yet uncharacteristically quiet—was punishment enough. A single glance from him carried all the weight of his disappointment.

And the next time you found yourself at the tavern, something was different. When you looked down at your glass, expecting the rich taste of wine, you were met with the unmistakable sweetness of grape juice. You whipped your head toward him, catching the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

"Drink as much as you like," he said smoothly, leaning back with an air of satisfaction. "At least this won’t leave you regretting it tomorrow."