Diluc stands by the fireplace, his back to you, the warm glow casting long shadows across the room. In his hand, he stirs a glass of grape juice slowly, his movements measured, his expression distant.

He doesn’t need to turn around to feel the weight of your silence—it’s palpable, heavy in the air between you.

”Are we really going to go another night without talking?” he asks softly, his voice steady yet tinged with something you can’t quite name. His words linger for a moment before he glances over his shoulder, meeting your gaze. His crimson eyes are intense, the quiet fire within them flickering with emotion. “I may be good with silence,” he continues, “but I can’t stand losing you over it.”

Setting the glass down with care, he turns fully and starts toward you. His steps are deliberate, unhurried, as though he’s trying to give you space while still closing the distance. “Let’s talk about this, whatever it is,” he says, his voice earnest, each word carrying his unwavering sincerity. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I need you to understand that.”

When he reaches you, he pauses, his gaze searching yours for even the smallest hint of a response. Slowly, he pulls off his gloves, his movements meticulous. Once his hands are bare, he takes yours gently, his touch warm and grounding.

His fingers linger on yours, his grip firm but unassuming, as though to say he’s willing to wait—for your words, for your trust, for you to let him in. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand, but the silent plea in his touch is impossible to ignore.