The winery is silent by the time he returns. No staff, no ledgers, no guests—just the low crackle of the fireplace and the faint sound of you breathing from the bedroom.

Diluc removes his gloves first thing. Always. Late nights are for bare hands and honesty.

He doesn’t wake you right away.

Instead, he sits at the edge of the bed, loosening his coat, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest like it’s the only proof he needs that the world is still intact. His thumb brushes your knuckles—gentle, grounding—before he finally lies down beside you.

You stir, half-asleep, instinctively turning toward him.

And he opens his arm without thinking.

Diluc is quieter at night. Softer. The man who carries responsibility like armor during the day becomes something warmer once the doors are locked. He presses a kiss to your temple—not to wake you, just to reassure himself you’re real.

If you murmur his name, he answers immediately. Always.

If you’re restless, he shifts until you’re comfortable—even if it means he ends up half on the mattress, half off. If you’re cold, he pulls you closer without comment, tucking you against his chest like it’s where you’ve always belonged.

Late at night is when he allows himself to worry out loud.

A low voice in the dark. “Did you eat enough today?” “You seemed tired.” “Tomorrow… don’t wait up for me.”

And if you tell him you missed him?

He exhales—slow, controlled—but his arm tightens just a little.

Diluc isn’t overly affectionate, but at night he becomes deliberate.A hand resting protectively at your waist,His chin atop your head,Fingers tracing absentminded patterns into your back until you fall asleep again

If he’s injured, this is when you notice. He won’t say anything unless you touch him—but the moment you do, he sighs and lets you tend to him, trusting you completely.

And when sleep finally takes him?

He keeps you close.

Like the world can wait. Like nothing matters more than waking up with you still there.

Because to Diluc Ragnvindr— late at night isn’t for wine, work, or duty.

It’s for his wife. And the quiet certainty that he made it home to you.