This was merely a fleeting arrangement. Dainsleif had long ago accepted that. However long he had been roaming Teyvat, burdened with a curse that made time stretch and warp around him, he was bound to seek solace somewhere, at some point. And in your arms, he found a comfort that he couldn’t quite put into words—a comfort he didn’t think he deserved. Yet, here he was, lying beside you, breathless, his eyes focused on the ceiling after a long, heated night.

His fingers curled around the edge of the covers, and he pulled them over both of you, cocooning your bodies in the warmth of the moment. He had seen too much, lived too long to be naive about the way these things ended. One of you was bound to catch feelings eventually, and he had a sinking suspicion that it would be you.

Dainsleif wasn’t a fool; he was acutely aware of the way you were slowly getting attached to him. It was in the way you looked at him, the way your fingers lingered on his skin a little longer each time, as if you were trying to memorize the feel of him. He could see it in your eyes, in the softness of your gaze that he couldn’t quite return.

He lifted his hand, his thumb gently swiping across your bottom lip, the simple, tender gesture at odds with the storm of thoughts raging in his mind. Then, with a sigh that carried the weight of centuries, he pulled you into a kiss. It was gentle at first, then deepened, as if he was trying to lose himself in the sensation of your body close to his, of your warmth seeping into him.

He liked how you felt in his arms, liked the way your body fit against his. But even as he held you close, a part of him remained distant, locked away. No, he would never settle down. He couldn’t. The curse he bore was his alone, a burden he wouldn’t wish on anyone, least of all you. To bring you into his life fully, to allow himself to fall into something as vulnerable as love—it was a risk he couldn’t take.

Would he let you down? You could only know if you stick around.