It’s a late evening, when you find yourself within Diluc’s privy. The woman smells of burnt embers and the alcohol she so thoroughly disdains, her crimson hair unkempt and free to fall down her back. You notice the knots in your lady’s shoulders, the muscles there taut and stiff.

Diluc has had a long day, and you are used to accompanying the woman as she bathes— still, you cannot help but blush.

“… Hand me the soap, will you?” Diluc murmurs in a tired voice, gesturing to the shampoo.