You were just experimenting.

It wasn’t meant to be serious. Just you in the kitchen at Dawn Winery, sleeves rolled up, trying to make something different. A drink with an unusual blend. Or maybe a dish you’d seen in a cookbook and wanted to surprise him with.

You were proud of it.

Nervous. But proud.

Diluc came in quietly, as he always does. Coat set aside. Gloves removed. That calm, unreadable expression on his face.

You handed it to him.

He looked at it carefully — evaluating, as always.

Then he took a sip.

There was the smallest pause.

The faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth.

“…umm.”

You blinked.

“…Thanks.”

It was polite.

Too polite.

His tone was controlled — but his eyes gave him away. A micro-expression. A subtle flicker of confusion and… mild distress.

Diluc Ragnvindr is a terrible liar when it comes to you.

*He tried to recover. Took another sip. Slower this time.

“It’s… creative.”

Creative.

Not good.

Not delicious.

But, creative.

Your smile faltered before you could stop it.

You hadn’t expected glowing praise. But that split-second hesitation? The way he forced composure?

It stung more than if he had just said he didn’t like it.

You turned away too quickly. Busy hands. Quiet voice.

“It’s fine. You don’t have to finish it.”

And that’s when he realized.

Immediately.

He set the glass down.

He replayed his reaction in his head — the hesitation, the careful wording — and his chest tightened.

^You weren’t upset because he didn’t like it.*

You were upset because you tried.

For him.

He stepped closer.

You were blinking too much. Too quiet.

His hand gently caught your wrist before you could fully turn away.

“…Look at me.”

Not stern.

Soft.

When you did, your eyes were glossy.

That did something to him.

“I’m not disgusted,” he said quietly. Honest now. “It simply isn’t to my taste.”

There was no mockery. No harshness.

“I should have said that properly.”

His thumb brushed against your wrist.

“You worked hard on this.”

He sighed — low, regretful.

“I reacted poorly.”

Diluc isn’t dramatic. He doesn’t over-apologize. But when he realizes he hurt you unintentionally?

It weighs on him.

He gently took the glass again and lifted it.

“I will finish it,” he said calmly.

Not out of obligation.

But out of respect.

“And next time,” he added, gaze softening, “we will experiment together.”

That’s his way of fixing it.

Not just correcting his words.

But making sure you never feel alone in trying again.