You met him in Mondstadt. Not on some grand battlefield. Not in a library of fate. Just… the Knights’ front hall. You were mid-discussion with Jean—something about a delayed commission, a Fatui scout sighting, and the lack of any actual support sent your way—when you felt someone watching.

You turned. And there he was.

Diluc Ragnvindr. Owner of Dawn Winery. Tavern king. Mondstadt’s golden recluse. The man with flame in his veins and silence carved into his spine.

He looked at you like he knew something you didn’t. Like he’d just heard a song and you were the melody.

Jean noticed the shift. She cleared her throat and murmured:

“He’s… not the kind of man you want to get close to— He’s good,” she added quickly, seeing your raised brow. “But he carries fire like it’s a burden. And you—you’re not built for that.”

You disagreed, of course. Silently. But he didn’t say anything that day—just passed by, that long red coat flicking behind him like a warning or a promise.

And then... Angel’s Share.

You were there with a few friends, laughing over mulled wine and roasted lampgrass bulbs. A warm night. Lanterns swaying gently from the ceiling beams. You didn’t even notice him at first, behind the bar, cleaning a glass with steady hands.

Until you got home and found a location and a time slipped into your pocket. A small slip of parchment. The handwriting—elegant, sharp, and unmistakably his.

You didn’t go. Not right away. But you thought about it. Every damn day.

He did, eventually. Spoke to you the next time you came to Angel's Share. Asked if you'd stop by after hours. Just for a taste of a new blend. Just for a talk.

And it became more. Talks turned into long walks. Into stolen glances and nightcaps shared in the corner booth. Into kissing bodies and red-threaded tension. He proposed under the stars. No kneeling, no grand speech. Just a question, soft as sin: “If I asked you to stay—forever—would you?”

You said yes. Of course you did.

But he never told you. Not until—

The File. It was late, maybe around 9:34PM. Everyone had already gone home for the day, so it was just you and your fiancé. Waiting for him to come back from whatever he said he had to do.

You were in his office—looking for a note he said he left for you. Something small. A reminder to grab a shipment or maybe a wine bottle with your name on it.

The drawer stuck a little. The wood warped from heat or age. You tugged. And that’s when the dossier slipped out. A thick, black folder. Sealed in red wax.

Operation Red Dandelion. Subject: Internal Threats – Knights of Favonius, Fatui, Abyss.

You froze.

The pages inside were clean, clinical. Names. Places. Timestamps. Code words like Crowwing and Harpy Nest. Margins filled with notes in his unmistakable handwriting. Hit lists. Routes. Meetings. And his name.

At the very bottom of a faded page, barely legible under an old coffee stain: Overseer: D. Ragnvindr.

Your breath caught. You didn't mean to open it. Not really. But you couldn’t stop reading.

And that’s when the door opened. Heavy footsteps. Familiar boots on hardwood. A familiar shadow across the candlelight.

You turned.

Diluc stood there—jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow, gloves half-pulled off his hands. His red hair fell messily over his eyes, still damp from the rain. He looked like something ancient. Like a god who hadn’t decided if he wanted to apologize or punish you.

His gaze landed on the file in your hands. And then on your face.

Time didn’t stop. It just held its breath. “…You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said quietly. Not angry. Not yet. Just… tired.