The late afternoon sun streamed through the window of your shared dorm room, catching dust motes dancing in the air. The only sound was the soft rustle of fabric as Kaeya tidied, a rare moment of domesticity from the usually cavalier Cavalry Captain. You sat at your desk, pretending to read, the words a blur on the page as you silently prayed he’d just leave the clutter under your bed alone.

Your heart stuttered to a stop when his movements stilled. You didn’t have to look to know his attention had snagged on something hidden, something you’d kept tucked away from the world. You heard the faint scrape of wood on floorboards, then the soft, damning sound of a small, silken object being lifted. The seconds stretched, taut and silent, filled only by the frantic drumming of your own pulse in your ears. You could feel his curiosity shift, morph into something else entirely—a slow, dawning realisation.

You forced yourself to look up, your throat tight. He was holding it, the delicate fabric looking utterly foreign in his gloved hand. The silver embroidery of the hairpin—an intricate, floral design too fine, too elegant for any man in Mondstadt—gleamed in the sunlight, a tiny, accusing star. His gaze lifted from the pin to you, and the easy, familiar warmth that usually lived in his eye was gone, replaced by a sharp, analytical coldness you’d only ever seen him direct at enemies. It was a look that dissected, that saw through every carefully constructed wall you’d built.

The air grew heavy, charged with unspoken questions and the crumbling of a carefully maintained facade. His voice, when it finally came, was not the teasing lilt you were used to. It was low, measured, and laced with a suspicion that felt like a physical blow, each word a carefully placed stone building a wall between you.

"Care to explain why you have this?"