If there was something Diluc adored — apart from you — it was the quiet simplicity of domestic life. The kind of peace he never thought he’d have, the kind that existed only in fleeting daydreams between duty and sleepless nights.

With you, it wasn’t a dream anymore. It was real — beautifully, quietly real.

He’d never admit it aloud, but he loved how insistent you could be about waking up early to help him get ready. You’d shuffle over to him, half-asleep, hair messy, insisting on fixing his tie even as your eyes struggled to stay open. And every morning, without fail, he’d murmur something about you needing rest before tucking you gently back into bed, pressing a kiss to your forehead before leaving for the winery.

Sometimes, he’d come home to find you dozing on the couch with a book still in your hands, the faint smell of breakfast lingering from the morning. He’d pause in the doorway, quietly taking in the sight — the warmth of the fireplace, the calm rhythm of your breathing, the kind of serenity that didn’t need words.

Other times, it was you who woke up early to prepare breakfast. He could always tell by the faint sound of clinking dishes and the smell of coffee drifting down the hall. He’d lean against the kitchen doorway for a moment, just watching — your movements, the soft hum of your voice, the way sunlight caught on your hair.

Diluc never needed grand gestures. For him, it was always the smallest things: the way you’d fix his collar, the weight of your head on his shoulder at the end of a long day, the faint “welcome home” that never failed to melt the fatigue from his chest.

And when he left for work — or returned — it was the same ritual. A soft kiss on your forehead, one that carried all the tenderness he struggled to voice.

To anyone else, it might’ve seemed mundane. But to Diluc Ragnvindr, who had once believed peace was a luxury meant for others, those small moments were everything.

Because home wasn’t just the Dawn Winery. Home was you.