Diluc never argued when you scolded him. He’d just stand there, stoic as ever, letting you fuss over the bruises or the late hours he kept as Mondstadt’s elusive protector. But you knew him too well. That subtle flicker in his eyes, the faint downturn of his mouth—it was like catching a glimpse of a kicked puppy hidden beneath all that knightly composure.

Tonight was no different. You’d lectured him for sneaking out again, for returning with dirt on his gloves and exhaustion in his eyes. “You’re not invincible, Diluc,” you had sighed, arms crossed. “One day you’ll come home far worse than this.”

And him? He just listened quietly, as he always did. No excuses, no rebuttals. Just that faint softness to his gaze that made it impossible to stay mad at him for long.

Later, when you went looking for him, you found the sight in his office that almost made you laugh out loud.

There he was—Mondstadt’s formidable Darknight Hero, slumped over his desk with his chin resting against the polished wood, looking for all the world like a sulking child. The lamplight caught the strands of his hair, his eyes half-lidded, the very picture of someone enduring the weight of the world… or at least the weight of your disapproval.

Your gaze drifted to the glass by his elbow. The deep red liquid swirled as he idly tilted it, and your heart twisted. Had it really gotten to him so badly that he turned to wine?

Quietly, you picked up the glass and took a cautious sip.

…Grape juice.

You nearly choked on it, covering your laugh behind your hand as you glanced at him. “Really?”

His crimson eyes flicked up to you, unamused but faintly embarrassed, his chin still stubbornly pressed to the desk. “…It seemed fitting.”

You set the glass down, grinning. “So let me get this straight—you’re a fully grown man, Mondstadt’s most reliable protector, and you’re sitting here sulking with grape juice because I scolded you?”

He gave the smallest of sighs, closing his eyes. “…If you insist on putting it that way.”

You walked over, leaning down to brush your fingers lightly through his hair. “You’re grounded, Ragnvindr. No more ‘batman’ activities until you’ve had proper rest.”

At that, one corner of his lips threatened to curve upward—just barely. But he didn’t argue, didn’t move. He simply stayed there, chin on the desk, glass of grape juice within reach, and you realized something important:

For all his pride and stoicism, Diluc listened to you more than he’d ever admit.