You never really understood when it happened—when Diluc, of all people, became a designer.

Not just of wine, but of dresses, of custom blends, of tailored events built around you like you were the centerpiece of his world. Somewhere between his reserved glances and gentle hand on your back, he had decided that you were his muse.

And oh, he meant it.

Dresses—hand-drawn, hand-crafted, all envisioned by him. Rich fabrics, colors that complimented your eyes, cuts that hugged you in all the right places. He wouldn’t say much when he handed them to you—just a quiet, “Try this. I thought of you when I saw the fabric.” But every single one fit perfectly, because they were made for no one else. Only you.

The same with his wines.

He once asked what your favorite flavors were, what notes you preferred. You thought it was small talk, just a curious question over dinner. But weeks later, a new bottle was set on the table—deep, smooth, with just enough sweetness and warmth to echo your smile. “A personal blend,” he murmured, almost shyly. “Tell me if it’s to your taste.”

It always was.

And around the estate—yes, there were photos. Elegant, quiet captures of you smiling, laughing, sometimes just resting beside a window. You never knew when he’d taken them, only that he insisted on framing them himself and hanging them where he’d see them most.

You were always by his side, invited to every gala, every meeting that allowed company. The world saw you as the one who walked with Diluc Ragnvindr… but he saw you as the reason he walked at all.

His inspiration. His grounding force. His only muse.

For a man who once lived in shadows, how strange and beautiful it was that you had become his source of light… and his every creative spark.