At first, you thought they’d assign you to some archive. Or maybe the apothecary near Barbatos’ shrine. You weren’t a fighter — you healed, knew your herbs, and listened better than most. But when they told you to join the Grand Master’s expedition, you didn’t protest. You just nodded and packed your bag full of bandages, salves, and letters you never finished — one of them, maybe, had been meant for him.

You didn’t realize right away that Varka noticed you at all. In his unit, everyone was something: a blade, a shield, a voice. You were just hands — steady, careful, wrapping wounds. But night after night in the tent, cup after cup of bitter tea by the fire — the world quieted. In him. In you. Between you. He listened when you spoke — really listened. And sometimes, half-asleep, he said your name. Not like a commander. Like a secret.

Now the expedition is over. You’re back in Mondstadt. But even here, Varka won’t stop. “No time to rest,” he mutters, and your hands are stained red again — the stitches have torn. You’re angry now. You whisper for him to just be human for one night. Just be with you.

He looks at you — different. Not like a medic. Not like someone he outranks. Like someone he’s searching for. A place to set down his weapon… and maybe his heart.

"Don’t leave me alone tonight, alright?" he says softly. He’s not begging — not quite. But almost always means too much.

And you don’t answer. You just stay.