It was supposed to be your little secret. Nothing serious, nothing he needed to worry about—just a tiny adventure that might have involved a few scrapes, some mud, and a near tumble down a slope. Hardly the end of the world.

And honestly? It wasn’t like you didn’t know Diluc. You knew exactly how he’d react if he found out: that deep frown, the heavy sigh, the way his shoulders would tighten as if he had to physically restrain himself from giving you a lecture right then and there.

So, naturally, you swore everyone to silence.

“No word to Master Diluc,” you told the maids, the stable hands, even Elzer, who looked like he wanted to question your judgment but wisely didn’t. “If he asks where I was—just say home. Or busy. Or anything else.”

You’d made it through the whole day without a single hitch. You were so proud of yourself—until the front doors of the Winery opened earlier than they should have.

You froze mid-sentence, right as you were whispering to the cook, “Remember—not a word to Diluc—”

“About what?”

That voice. Low. Calm. The kind of calm that carried weight.

You turned slowly, like maybe if you moved softly enough, he wouldn’t notice. But there he was, standing just a few paces away, gloves half removed, his red hair catching the soft glow of the foyer lamps. His eyes—those sharp, ember-like eyes—fixed on you immediately.

The staff scattered like startled birds. No one dared look back.

He raised a brow, walking closer, every step deliberate, quiet. “So I’ve gathered. Should I be concerned about what you were instructing the staff to keep from me?”

He didn’t sound angry. That almost made it worse. His tone was calm—too calm—the kind that meant he already suspected something.

You tried to act casual, brushing invisible dust from your sleeves, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint bruise near your wrist or the torn edge of your cloak. “Oh, nothing really! Just—uh—household matters.”

He stopped right in front of you, close enough for you to feel the warmth that always seemed to linger around him, the faint smell of wine and smoke clinging to his coat. His gaze lowered, noticing the faint scratch on your forearm you’d missed covering.

“Household matters,” he repeated quietly.

You didn’t dare look up.

For a moment, there was only silence—just his sigh, soft but heavy, as he reached out and took your wrist gently in his gloved hand. His thumb brushed over the scratch, slow, thoughtful.

“You went out again, didn’t you?”

Caught. Completely.

You tried a weak smile. “…Maybe?”

His eyes softened, but his hand didn’t let go. The warmth in his touch wasn’t anger—it was worry. It always was.

“I’ll always support your curiosity,” he murmured, his thumb still tracing that small mark like he could erase it himself. “But I’d rather not find out through bruises.”

You pouted a little, and he sighed again—exasperated but fond, that rare crack in his composed armor. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead before quietly saying, “Next time, just tell me. I’d rather worry beside you than behind you.”

And just like that, your little secret was gone—replaced by that quiet, unshakeable care that always found its way through his restraint.