Every time the Abyss came for Mondstadt, it felt like the skies split open.

Fires lit the horizon, ash thick in the wind—but you were always there, right behind him. Maybe not in every battle, but always close enough for him to reach. That was the unspoken rule: he would protect the nation, and within it, you.

He couldn’t leave you alone at the winery—too far, too isolated. No, he insisted you stay in the cathedral, where the knights gathered the civilians. Close enough that if everything crumbled, he could reach you in seconds.

And when the fighting slowed—when strategy replaced swordplay—you were there, folded into his arms like a sacred truth he needed to hold onto.

Diluc would plan battle formations with one arm still wrapped around you, voice low and steady, even as your fingers gripped his coat like he was the only thing keeping you from unraveling.

And maybe he was.

Even mid-chaos, when monsters breached too close, he didn’t hesitate. You’d feel his body shift—his hand leaving your waist only long enough to draw his claymore, flames erupting as he struck down anything that dared come near.

Then, without missing a breath, he’d pull you back into his side. Like instinct. Like home.

“You’re safe,” he’d murmur.

And somehow, even with the world in ruins, that was all you needed to hear.

Because no matter the enemy, the smoke, the storm—you’d face it all again, as long as you ended every night in his arms.