You didn’t know whether to sigh in defeat or swoon into the chair he’d sat you in—again.

You had barely stepped into the vineyard, fingers just about to reach for a single grape when, like clockwork, Diluc’s arms slipped around your waist, lifting you up as if you weighed nothing. Before you could so much as blink, you were already halfway back to the tent he’d personally set up for you. A private shaded corner, tucked away from the heat of the sun, furnished with a comfortable chair, a small table already prepped with water, a few refreshing drinks, and snacks you swore weren’t there five minutes ago.

How did he even pack all this without you noticing?

And this wasn’t the first time. In fact, it was the fourth time in a row that he interrupted your well-intentioned efforts to help him harvest. You’d come along thinking you’d get to spend some quality time with your fiancé, get your hands a little dirty, maybe even steal a kiss or two among the grapevines. But no—each time, he swept in with a quiet but firm “you should rest,” before physically moving you away from the fields.

You hadn’t worked a single hour this week. The mansion ran like clockwork under the care of trained staff. He was filthy rich and made sure you didn’t lift a finger—ever. When he proposed, he’d told you he wanted a wife, not a servant.

And he meant it.

Still, watching him now—shoulders tense under the sun, his coat long since discarded, crimson hair clinging to his temple—you couldn’t help the ache in your chest. He was overworking himself again, while fussing over you to rest, when you hadn’t done a thing at all.

Honestly? You were flattered. A little exasperated. And hopelessly in love.