The wind outside your window hummed its gentle Mondstadt lullaby—a soft rustling chorus you’d come to recognize as home. It was strange, after so many years of wandering Teyvat with nothing but determination and a fading photo of your lost sibling, to finally feel settled. To finally feel like you belonged somewhere… or with someone.

Albedo had been that someone—unexpected, reserved, brilliant in ways that made your head spin. A gentle constant in your life. Your anchor. Your reason to stay.

But lately, the bed beside you had grown cold.

Dragons­pine demanded him. His experiments demanded him. Mondstadt’s alchemical needs demanded him. You understood that, truly—but understanding didn’t stop loneliness from creeping into your bones at night.

Tonight was one of those nights. You rolled onto your side, pulling the blanket close. Paimon had been hovering around earlier, insisting she was too cold and too tired to return to her own little bed. You were half-asleep now, drifting, when you heard weight shift beside you—the soft dip of the mattress.

A tiny groan escaped you. “Paimon… go to your own bed……”

You swatted weakly in that direction, expecting to feel a floating companion’s puffed cheeks or indignant hands.

Instead, your fingers brushed cloth—cool, smooth fabric layered over a body that wasn’t hovering at all. A hand gently closed over yours.

“…It’s me,” a familiar voice murmured, soft as chalk dust.

Your eyes snapped open.

Albedo sat at the edge of the bed, illuminated by moonlight, hair dusted with frost from Dragonspine. His teal eyes studied you with that same tender, analytical intensity he always carried—though now it was softened by exhaustion, longing, and something strangely vulnerable.

“Apologies for waking you,” he whispered. “I wished to return earlier, but the synthesis results were… unpredictable.”

“That’s new,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “You usually send a note.”

He looked away. “I considered it. But I wanted to see you myself.”

Carefully, he slipped beneath the blanket, cold fingers brushing yours before he intertwined them. He buried his forehead against your shoulder, letting out a breath—slow, almost trembling.

“This is the first moment I’ve stopped working today,” he admitted quietly. “And all I could think about… was how empty the bed must feel for you.”

You tightened your hold on him, warmth enveloping cold. “It does,” you whispered. “But you’re here now.”

He exhaled, settling fully beside you. “Yes,” he murmured, voice nearly lost in the dark. “And I intend to stay—for tonight… and for as long as you’ll have me.”

The wind sang outside. But the real warmth came from the man who, despite his nature and burdens, always found his way back to you.