âââââââââââââââââ â â â â ââ ââ ââ ââ ââ ââ ââ ââ ââââ ââ ââ ââââ ââ ââ ââââ ââ ââ ââââ ââ ââ ââââ ââ ââ ââââ ââ ââ ââââ ââ ââ âââââthe stars in the sky will always have a place for you.
ââgenshin & honkai star rail masterlist.
works of interest.
operation: steal her heart [childe]
darknight disclosure [diluc]
genshin boys overhear you talking to yourself [kazuha, diluc, childe, wanderer, alhaitham, xiao, ayato, cyno, itto, kaeya, baizhu, dainsleif, tighnari, thoma, heizou, bennett, kaveh, zhongli]
about this blog.
ââđĄ chusuuke ; chuu
ââ ââââââ ââ ââi primarily write for genshin impact but dabble in other fandoms, such as honkai star rail.
ââ ââ ââ âââââi'm so excited to share my works ⥠if you have any issues with anything, feel free to let me know so I may learn. i'm doing my best, so please be kind!
requests are on hold. ( Ë^Ë )
sorry, my schedule's fighting for its life... to everyone who has already sent a request, please know i cherish your ideas and am working on them in the order i received them :'D
about the tags.
#drabble â ; (musings or ficlets not in the masterlist)
#mail â ; (responses to asks)
#chuu â ; (other text posts/side ramblings)
about reposting.
reblogs are greatly appreciated. âĄ
please do not repost/plagiarize/translate my work.Â
i do not consent to my work being used for any purposes related to or involving generative AI, including but not limited to training, testing, and prompting.
art from QuAn_ (pixiv), mm3_gnsn (twt/x), and hoyoverse.
ââ ââ ââ ââââ ââ ââ ââââ ââââ ââââ ââ ââ ââââ ââ ââall written work on this blog Šchusuuke 2025. all rights reserved.
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Hello there! If your writing stuff rn may I request headcanons for cyno becoming close with reader (perhaps she's a friend of a friend) who also tells jokes but they can range from just having amazing comedic timing with the things she says about something happening or just straight up dad jokes like-
someone: "how do I look"
Cyno and reader simultaneously: "with your eyes :D")
word count. 2.1k
note. this turned out more fic-like than planned, but hope it makes you smile :)
â You actually meet Cyno because you get lost.
â Not dramatically lost in any way that could provide you an excuse for being so. Just regular, embarrassing, I-was-definitely-paying-attention-except-apparently-I-wasnât lost, somewhere between Gandharva Ville and a âshortcutâ Tighnari had, with deeply misplaced confidence, assured you was simple.
â Youâre going to have words with him later.
â For now, youâre standing at a fork that shouldnât exist according to your mental map, squinting at both options with your hands on your hips, when a voice behind you says, âNegotiating with the road?â
â Under normal circumstances, a man materializing behind you in the middle of the forest would be deeply alarming. Under current circumstances, youâve already spent your emotional budget on being annoyed at the terrain. So, you turn with remarkable calm and observe him leaning against a tree with his arms crossed.
â âI am,â you reply. âItâs not going well. The road is being unreasonable.â
â Somehow, that earns the faintest shift in his expressionâa suggestion that a smile could happen under favorable conditions.
â He tilts his head toward one path. âLeft.â
â âHow do you know where Iâm going?â
â âI donât. But the right path leads to a Sumpter Beast breeding ground, and you donât look prepared for that.â
â You glance down at yourself. He has a point.
â âLeft it is. Thank you, mysterious forest man.â
â âGeneral Mahamatra.â
â ââŚLeft it is. Thank you, mysterious forest General Mahamatra man.â
â This time, the corner of his mouth twitches.
â He pushes off the tree. âIâll escort you to the main road.â
â âBecause I look that lost?â
â âBecause there have been bandits in the area.â
â âAh.â You nod solemnly. âSo I look conveniently robbable.â
â âYou said it, not me.â
â You laugh, and he falls into step beside you.
â Conversation continues smoothly after that. By the time the road opens up enough that Gandharva Ville is no longer in question, youâve learned his name is Cyno, that he speaks with the gravity of someone giving sworn testimony, and that talking to him is oddly easy once you stop expecting him to be conventionally expressive.
â You part with a polite goodbye and the lingering sense that the encounter was strangerâand more pleasantâthan it had any right to be. You only find out later, quite by accident, that your mysterious road-escort and Tighnariâs oldest friend are the same person.
â This comes up when youâre in Tighnariâs home a few days later, helping restock first-aid kits while also taking the opportunity to complain about his shortcut, which he maintains was perfectly valid.
â âIn any case, you still made it back,â he finally sighs after failing to convince you that your navigational choices were your own responsibility.
â âOnly thanks to some mysterious man in the forest named Cyno.â
â He pauses. âCyno?â
â âYou know him? He said he was the General Mahamatra, so I assumed that was either true or the most committed impersonation Iâve ever seen.â
â âYup, thatâs definitely Cyno.â
â âSmall world.â You tuck bandages into a box. âHe walked me all the way back to the main road.â
â âThatâs oddâhe was supposed to be leaving for the desert that afternoon,â Tighnari muses. âHe must have turned around to accompany you.â
â âWhat? Why would he do that?â
â Tighnari squints at you. âIâve learned not to speculate on his reasoning. Itâs better for my health.â
â The second time you meet Cyno, itâs coincidentally at Tighnariâs. Youâre halfway through the doorway with an unreasonable number of herb bundles in your arms when Tighnari says, with immediate disapproval, âI told you three.â
â âYou said, and I quote, âBring what you can carry,ââ you rebut, balancing the teetering pile against your shoulder. âThis is a failure of instruction clarity.â
â âThis is a failure of restraint,â he corrects as you glance up and find Cyno leaning against the wall in almost the exact pose heâd had when you first met.
â You brighten immediately. âMysterious forest General Mahamatra man!â
â He looks almost surprised to see you. âYou know Tighnari.â
â âApparently, you know Tighnari,â you counter.
â The herb bundles tilt ominously. Cyno is beside you before they can spill, lifting half the stack from your arms with practiced ease.
â You blink. âOh. Thank you.â
â âPreventing avoidable disasters is part of my work.â
â âThat sounds less impressive when the disasters are me getting lost or dropping medicinal plants.â
â âA disaster is measured by outcome, not dignity.â
â You stare at him for one beat, then laugh outright. And there it is againâthat near-smile he seems to permit only under tightly regulated conditions.
â After that, the overlap in your lives becomes impossible to miss.
â You help Tighnari when his workload gets ridiculous, which is often. Cyno, of course, visits him regularly. So now there is a new and deeply unfortunate pattern in Tighnariâs life where he will look up from his work to find both of you in the same room, consequently suffering twice the usual number of puns.
â âWhy did the scholar bring a ladder to the library?â
â You look up from your book. âWhy?â
â âTo reach a higher level of understanding.â
â You grin. âSo the research had its ups and downs?â
â Cynoâs eyes sparkle. âBut overall, it elevated the discussion.â
â Tighnari winces from the other side of the room. âIâm revoking your speaking privileges.â
â The thing about Cyno is that most people donât really laugh with him. They brace for or tolerate his jokes with weary resignation. Tighnari, in particular, reacts to each pun like a fresh personal injury. You are the first person in a long time who hears his jokes and answers them in the same language.
â âThat was well-constructed,â Cyno says to you approvingly, ignoring Tighnari.
â âThank you. I believe in craftsmanship,â you quip.
â He looks absurdly pleased.
â This is, you realize, the key difference between you.
â Cyno treats comedy like architecture: deliberate, measured, built piece by piece. You treat it like weather: sometimes you summon it, but often youâre just in the right place when the air pressure shifts and something absurd blows through. Somehow, it works. He lays the foundation; you throw open the windows.
â By then, friendship has already happened without either of you formally acknowledging it. You start saving small stories for him: strange things you saw in the Bazaar, bizarre essay titles, Tighnariâs latest debate with some stubborn scholar. He shows up with things he thinks you might find interesting: an old text, an unusual trinket, an enormous beetle (which you politely ask him to remove from your immediate vicinity).
â Itâs not long before you start landing on the same joke at the same time.
â Collei steps out of her room, smoothing her new tunic nervously. âHow do I look?â
â You and Cyno answer simultaneously: âWith your eyes.â
â Collei groans. Tighnari makes a sound like his soul just left his body.
â Thereâs a moment of recognition as you and Cyno turn toward each other. Oh. You, too.
â You break first, laughing helplessly. Cynoâs mouth curves upward after a moment, like heâs decided that if heâs already complicit, he might as well accept it.
â The escalation is, technically, Tighnariâs fault. He keeps inviting you both to the same things because, in his words, âIâm not reorganizing my life around your collective nonsense.â
â This proves to be a strategic error.
â Cyno delivers a structured joke. You riff on it. He refines the riff. You take the refinement somewhere unnecessary. What begins as a pun becomes a volley, then a construction so specific and self-referential that nobody else in the room can follow it anymore.
â âThis is a new problem,â Tighnari tells Collei.
â Tighnari looks at Cyno, who is indeed more animated than usual, leaning forward slightly as you argue about whether camel caravans count as âsandwich deliveryâ in the desert because they transport goods between layers of sand.
â âThatâs what concerns me,â Tighnari says.
â But the real proof of how close youâve grown shows up in unspoken ways. You learn that he rereads the same book when he canât sleep. That he sometimes rehearses jokes in his head before saying them aloud. That the burden of being General Mahamatra is not only the responsibility, but the isolationâthe way people pull back when they understand what he represents.
â He learns that you are dependable in every serious matter and hopeless with personal clutter. That you love learning but hate the Akademiyaâs tendency to treat knowledge like property. That youâre one of the few people he trusts to read the moodâyes, even he knows he doesnât always get it rightâand you help him without making him feel corrected.
â Most importantly, he learns that your humor is not, and has never been, a deflection; itâs a way of reaching sincerity without forcing anyone to sit exposed in it longer than they can bear. Maybe he understands this instinctively because beneath your different deliveries, the two of you are trying to do the same thing: make moments easier to hold.
â This, more than any joke, is why he trusts you.
â One evening, Cyno returns to Gandharva Ville long after sunset, with blood on his sleeves and a heaviness that has nothing to do with fatigue. You donât comment on the stains or ask for details. Instead, you hand him water and say quietly, âSit.â
â He does.
â âWant alone time or company?â
â âCompany,â he admits.
â You sit beside him. Just that. After a while, you add quietly, âIf you ever need to talk, Iâll listen. And if you donât, I wonât force it into a lesson or a joke.â
â He looks at you for a long moment. âThank you.â
â âOf course.â Then, because gentleness is easier if it doesnât stare at itself too long: âThough if you eventually want a joke, I do provide emotional support in several formats.â
â A breath leaves him that is almost, almost a laugh. âNoted.â
â Cyno is not oblivious. He notices patterns. He notices how often he ends up matching his steps to yours, how he slows without thinking when youâre distracted. He often finds himself asking, âAre you heading back?â instead of âFarewell.â He grows used to the sound of your voice fitting neatly into the spare spaces of his day.
â Even the children in Aaru Village assume you come as a set. They run up to both of you with things like, âI made a joke today!â Another asks Cyno to âteach me how make people laugh with the serious voice.â
â He raises an eyebrow at you. You crouch down. âStep one: believe in the joke completely. If you donât believe in it, no one will.â
â Cyno considers this, then adds, âStep two: leave room before the punchline. Anticipation improves delivery.â
â The children absorb this like sacred instruction. You and Cyno spend a morning helping them invent jokes. None of them are structurally sound, but he insists that âcreative expression should not be stifled in early development.â The children glow under his praise.
â That evening, the two of you sit watching the horizon burn itself slowly into duskâyou because you like watching the sky change, him because youâre thereâand a thought surfaces.
â âCyno.â
â âYes?â
â âDo you know why I kept talking to you? After that first time on the path?â
â He looks over at you. âBecause I gave you correct directions.â
â âNo.â You pull your knees up, resting your chin on them. âBecause you walked me all the way back even though you were heading somewhere else. And you never even mentioned it. I only found out because Tighnari told me.â
â His gaze slides back to a cloud dissolving into flames. âI didnât do it to be mentioned,â he says.
â âExactly.â
â â...That is why you kept talking to me?â
â âThat, and the jokes.â
â A small smile pulls at his mouth. âI see.â
â The sky behind him is doing something absurd with colorâgold bleeding into violet, the kind of sunset that feels too deliberate to be ordinary.
â âAnd you,â he adds at last, âYou understand the joke, but you do not mistake it for the whole of me.â
â Both of you are quiet for a moment, taking in the marvel of the sky. Then you bump your shoulder lightly against his. âThat might be the nicest thing anyoneâs ever said to me.â
â âI meant it,â he says.Â
â âI know.â
â And somehow, that makes it better.
â After a moment, Cyno observes, with perfect seriousness, âFor the record, your sense of direction is still poor.â
â You stare at him, then laugh. âThere he is.â
â âI had to end this conversation in character.â
â âAnd people say comedy is dead.â
â This time, his chuckle is unmistakable. Above you, the sky finishes its display and settles into dark. Neither of you moves.
â Thereâs nowhere else either of you needs to be.
premise: you always see a mysterious figure on the rooftops of liyue harbor. one night, you leave an offering...and get a visitor at your window.
word count: 567
You always knew Liyue Harbor had secrets. Not the kind carved into stone or whispered in teahouses but the daily ones hidden in plain sight. In the way the wind brushed through the alleys at night. How the lanterns flickered even when there was no breeze.Â
For you, the most persistent mystery was the figure on the rooftops.
A flash of teal and black. Gold eyes glinting beneath the moonlight. A lone silhouette, still as stone, always gone the moment you dared to blink.
Your friends insisted you were dreaming. âToo many late-night snacks,â they teased. But you knew you werenât imagining things. So one evening, on a whimâand a gut feelingâyou left an offering on your windowsill of almond tofu in a delicate porcelain dish and a note written in careful script:
If you're watching over us, thank you. The tofuâs for youâno pressure though. P.S. You kinda remind me of Santa Claus. (I read about him in a Mondstadt storybook. Rooftop vigilantes? Same vibe.)
You went to bed feeling a bit ridiculous.
The next morning, the almond tofu was gone. The note had been folded neatly in half.
You definitely werenât imagining things.
ŕ˝ŕ˝˛âŕ˝ŕž
It became a little ritual. Every few nights, youâd leave something small: candied fruits, a poem you wrote, once even a feather you found that reminded you of his sleek cloak. And always, something would change. A dish would be cleaned and set aside. A note returned with a single line in beautiful, sharp script. Once: It is delicate. I will keep it somewhere the wind wonât reach.
And then, one night, you couldnât sleep. Hoping the stars might lull your thoughts into quiet, you climbed out onto your own rooftop with a blanket and a cup of tea.
You didnât expect him to land silently behind you.
âYouâre not Santa Claus,â you said before you could stop yourself.
â...Who?â
You turned and saw him up close for the first timeâXiao, the Vigilant Yaksha. His face was unreadable, but there was the tiniest crease between his brows. You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
âThereâs a story from Mondstadt,â you said. âAbout a guy who sneaks around rooftops delivering gifts. I thought maybe you were the Liyue version.â
He blinked. âI do not...deliver gifts.â
His voice was flat but not unfriendly. You couldnât tell if he was confused or faintly offended. Maybe both.
You smiled anyway. âWell, he gets offerings, too. Milk and cookies. I figured if he gets snacks, so should you. Hence, the almond tofu. More culturally appropriate.â
There was a long pause. Then, very quietly, Xiao muttered, âMilk would have been strange.â
You snorted and tried to hide your grin behind your teacup. âAnyway, I wanted to thank you. For the tofu incident. And the rooftop lurking. Itâs...comforting, in a weird way.â
He studied you. âYou are not afraid?â
âOf the guy whoâs been secretly watching over the city and taking my snacks? Not really.â You tilted your head. âAre you afraid of talking to the people who leave you presents?â
He didnât answer. But slowly, almost hesitantly, he sat beside you, carefully leaving space between your shoulders.Â
The night stretched wide around you, filled with stars and steam rising from your tea. Eventually, he spoke again.
âIâm not Santa Claus.â
You grinned into your tea. âNo. But I think I like you better.â
To everyone who has sent in a writing request, please know that Iâve seen them all and am excitedly working on them! Itâs harder than expected because I want to do justice to your imaginations, so Iâm fighting lots of perfectionism ⌠(áľ âáâ)
Until Iâve completed the requests, any other fic I post is something Iâve already written and had in my drafts (like the Xiao Christmas special Iâm about to post, which I wrote over the summer). Sorry to my askersânot trying to leave you all hanging TwT
Lastly, thank you all so much for your lovely comments on my posts and thoughts in my inbox ⥠You all are such a blessing and Iâm so grateful to be able to share my writings with you!
premise. youâre good at pretending youâre fine. heâs even better at seeing through you. when pressure and burnout start catching up to you, the way each genshin boy steps in makes it clear you matter more than you realize.
1. He recognizes the signs because heâs lived them before.Â
The shadows under your eyes, the way your breath shortens even when youâre still, the isolation you wrap around yourself in like armorâitâs all familiar to him. Heâs seen it in his own reflection, long before he ever learned to name it. Only, your burden isnât karmic debt, and that makes it worse in his eyes; youâre choosing to endure this, believing itâs the only way. He knows exactly where that belief leads.
2. At first, he keeps his distance.
You stay up through the night, candle flickering low, papers scattered across your table. He watches from the rooftop, arms crossed, silent as the stars above him. He tells himself itâs not his place, that mortals have their own ways of enduringâtheir own choices, their own sufferingâbut every time you skip a meal, every time you pull another sleepless night, that thread inside him coils tighter. It reminds him of a past he wouldnât wish on anyone.
He gives in sooner than he expects.
3. He confronts you not with anger but with a plea.
âYouâre hurting yourself.â
You wave it off. âItâs just a busy week.âÂ
His eyes narrow, frustration and something more fragile pooling behind them. âThatâs what I told myself,â he says quietly. âAnd it didnât save me.â
Itâs then you understand: his worry isnât about weakness. Heâs worried because youâre repeating a pattern he barely survived.
4. He begins to linger, seen or unseen but always close.
Sometimes he leaves food. Sometimes his hand stops yours when you reach for your books after dark.Â
If you protest, he shakes his head. âEven the strongest thread will fray. Even the strongest soul has limits.â
He says it less like a warning and more like a memory from someone who has broken before.
5. He finally tells you why.
One evening, after finding you asleep at your desk again, he confesses. âI bore my suffering in silence. I thought that made me strong. But it only made me disappear.â
He kneels beside you, not as the Conqueror of Demons, no maskâjust Xiao.Â
âYouâre not meant to carry pain like this. Alone. Or at all.â
6. He doesnât want to âfixâ you. He just refuses to leave you alone in it.
Xiao knows better than to force healing. He doesnât ask you to quit or abandon your goals. He just brings you water when your throat goes dry. He moves your hand away from the ink when sleep pulls you under.
And sometimes, when you finally take a break, he simply sits beside you in silence, offering his presence like a shield. Not to fight for you, but to fight with you. Sharing the weight so it doesnât crush you.
7. When you ask why heâs so gentle, his answer is simple.
âBecause I know what it feels like to believe suffering is your purpose.â He looks at you with ancient golden eyes, quiet and unflinching. âAnd I know how it feels to wish someone had stopped you.â
kaeya
1. He catches on fast, but he doesnât let you know at first.
He observes the way you stumble into the Favonius library half-asleep. The way your jokes start sounding hollow. The way your hands shake slightly when you gather your belongings.
He notices everything, but instead of confronting you outright, he watches and waits. Because if he says something too soon, youâll deflect. He knows that look in your eyes. Heâs worn it before.
2. He starts teasing you, but thereâs a sharp edge to it.
âWorking hard, or hardly living?â he asks as you pass each other in the courtyard.
He smirks, but his eyes linger a little too long. Heâs not just being playfulâheâs prodding. Testing. Waiting to see how far youâll let this go.
When you respond with a tired laugh, he stops smiling the moment you turn away.
3. He starts interfering in subtle, Kaeya ways.
Suddenly, your paperwork gets rerouted. Your less urgent assignments are mysteriously taken care of by someone else. You suspect something, but no one owns up to it.
(Meanwhile, Kaeya just whistles to himself as he shuffles behind Jeanâs desk, filing forms under other names.)
4. When you snap at him from exhaustion, he drops the charm.
Youâre overwhelmed, frustrated, and barely holding it together. He makes one offhand commentâtoo well-timedâand you crack. You say something sharp, or maybe you just burst into tears.
He doesnât joke this time. He walks over, places a hand on your shoulder, and quietly says, âAlright. Thatâs enough. Come with me.â
5. He drags you outâliterally, if needed.
Whether itâs to a tavern booth, the fields overlooking the city, or his own cluttered office couch, he gets you somewhere quiet and safe.
He lets you vent. Or cry. Or sleep.
And when you finally go quiet, he murmurs, âYou donât need to break yourself just to prove something. Not to them, not to me, and definitely not to yourself.â
6. He opens up, not with drama, but honesty.
Kaeya doesnât talk about himself easily. But when he sees you struggling with the weight of expectations, he lets his own mask slip just enough.
âYou know, Iâve spent years pretending everythingâs fine. Holding the city together with a smile and a glass of wine. It catches up to you, eventually.â He chuckles, bitter and soft. âYouâre not weak for needing rest. Youâre smart if you take it before exhaustion eats you alive.â
7. He uses charm as a shield, but his actions speak for him.
Heâll still flirt, still joke, still act like heâs just checking in for fun. But youâll find a warm meal left on your desk. A blanket tossed over your shoulders. A carefully worded letter handed to your superior asking for a day offââOn urgent Cavalry Captain business,â of course.
8. When you finally give in and rest, he stays close.
Kaeya isnât the type to hover, but when youâre asleep on his couch or passed out over your books, he lingers nearby. He nurses a drink, watches the fire, and speaks into the air, âDonât become like me. Please.â
He never says it to your face. But he means it.
wanderer
1. He notices your burnout before you do, and it ticks him off.
Youâre waking up with three hours of sleep, skipping meals, muttering about deadlines with ink-stained hands. Wanderer watches you rub your eyes raw and shuffle through your fifth task of the day, and his first reaction isnât concern; itâs irritation.
âAre you seriously doing this to yourself again?â
Because you remind him too much of himself, throwing your whole existence at something because it makes you feel like you matter. And he hates it.
2. He gets angry not at you, but at what youâre doing to yourself.
At first it comes out as sarcasm. Sharp, cold words: âOh? Burning the candle at both ends again? Donât worryâif you collapse, Iâm sure someone will scrape you off the floor.â
You bristleâof course you doâand thatâs when he snaps.
âWhy do you think this is okay? Why are you letting yourself fall apart like this?â
Thereâs hurt buried deep in his voice. He doesnât even realize heâs yelling for himself, too.
3. He storms off, but he always comes back.
After blowing up, he disappears for a few hours. When he returns, heâs quieter. Still bitter, still defensive, but with a plate of food or a thermos of tea shoved toward you.
âDonât read into it. You looked pathetic. Someone had to do something.â
4. He doesnât understand why youâre doing this, and that terrifies him.
âYouâre not a machine. Not a tool. So why are you treating yourself like one?â
It slips out in a moment of vulnerability. You look at himâreally lookâand he hates the way your eyes mirror exhaustion he knows too well.
âYouâre not a puppet like me. You donât have to be.â
5. He starts interrupting your routine on purpose.
Heâll close your book mid-sentence. Physically turn off your lamp. Pull you away from your work, grumbling the whole time.
âNo oneâs asking you to kill yourself over this.â
And if you push back? Heâll say it again, sharper this time: âNo one is asking this of you. So why are you acting like itâs the only way youâll be worth something?â
6. Eventually, he admits why it bothers him so much.
One night, youâre too tired to argue, and he finally speaks without venom.
âI didnât eat, didnât sleep, didnât stop. Not because anyone told me to, but because I thought if I just kept moving, I wouldnât feel anything. If I was useful enough, maybeâŚit would matter that I existed.â He laughs, bitter and hollow. âIt didnât work.â
After a long moment, he adds, âDonât be like me.â
7. When you finally rest, heâs more protective than he wants to admit.
You fall asleep with your head on your desk. He doesnât wake you. He just sighs, pulls off his cloak, and drapes it over your shoulders. Then he sits beside you with his arms crossed, glaring at anyone who so much as glances your way.
âSleep. Iâll make sure no one bothers you.â
8. Slowly, you learn to rest. Not just because he makes you, but because you want to.
You nap beside him while he reads. You share meals without thinking about the time. You let him be your excuse when someone asks too much of you. (âSorry, Wanderer threatened to throw me in a lake if I skipped dinner.â)
And when you finally finish a project without burning yourself out, you find him leaning against the wall, arms folded, looking smug.
âSee? Turns out youâre not hopeless after all.â
But the way he ruffles your hair on the way out tells a different story.
neuvillette
1. He notices. Of course he does.
Youâve been skipping meals. Staying at your desk too long. Reading until your eyes burn. He doesnât ask what the work isâschool? career? research?âbecause that isnât the part that matters. What matters is the slump of your shoulders. The tremor in your hands. And the fact that youâre mortal.
âYou do not have centuries,â he murmurs once, watching you scribble past sunset.
You donât catch it. Or maybe you pretend not to.
2. He doesnât confront you, not at first.
Neuvillette believes in autonomy, in understanding silence, in not overstepping. So at first, he simply adjusts his rhythm to yours: he brings water when you forget, opens the window when the air gets stale, and pauses by your shoulder and gently suggests, âPerhaps you could rest your eyes.â
You smile faintly and say, âSoon.âÂ
But âsoonâ becomes never.Â
And when you fall asleep at your desk for the third night in a row, he says nothing. But the rain taps against the windowpane that nightâjust enough to mist the glass.Â
3. The turning point is distinctly him.
One evening, you stir awake from a nap you hadnât meant to take. Your blanket has been tucked around you neatly. A warm drink rests on your desk, still steaming. And beside it, in his careful, slanted handwriting, Please do not burn out for a future you havenât been given yet.
You touch the letter. And only then do you realize how closely heâs been watchingânot just your habits, but your mortality.
4. He begins setting an example for both of you.
Neuvillette has never been good at rest. But when he sees you trying to pull another all-nighter, he quietly closes his law books and says, âIâve taken the liberty of canceling my meetings tomorrow. We will both be resting.â
You blink. âBoth?"
â...Yes. I find myself in need of it as well.â
Thatâs when it hits you: heâs not just doing this for you. Heâs learning how to stop drowning himself in duty because he wants to be around for you.Â
You ask him why, once, and he tilts his head, rain-soft eyes meeting yours. âBecause you are burning the candle at both ends, and I am the only one here who does not run out of wax.âÂ
You donât know what to say to that, so you say nothing. But you put your work down, and you sit beside him.
5. The rain falls when he thinks of what he cannot protect.
You collapseânot dramatically, not with a cry, just a quiet folding into yourself one night after working too long. He catches you, barely. The moment your weight leans into him, the first drop hits the roof. By the time he lays you on the couch and presses a hand to your brow, the rain is a steady, gentle sorrow.
âThis is not a burden I asked you to bear,â he says softly.
But your fingers twitch for his; even unconscious, you reach for him. And the rain lightens.
6. Eventually, he says what he means.
Youâre recovering, sleeping more, and eating better. Youâve made small changes, but you still feel the pressure to use your time well. One night, you apologize for being a âburden,â and thatâs when he finally breaks his silence.
âNo,â he says, with a quiet finality that makes the air still. âYou are not a burden. You are a flame. You are days and decades and wonder compressed into something finite. And Iââ He pauses. âI am someone who will remain long after your light fades. So allow me, while you are here, to help you burn brighter. Not faster.â
You stare at him.Â
The rain does not fall.
And for once, you see the weight he carries: the guilt of longevity. The fear of outliving everything that matters.
7. He doesnât stop being the Iudex, but for you, he makes space.
He invites you to sit in his office sometimesânot to work, but to rest, to read, to share the same air. He walks you home when you stay late and waits for you at the Court steps when you forget the time.Â
And sometimes, he doesnât say anything at all; he merely takes your hand, brings it to his lips, and closes his eyes like heâs memorizing your pulse because you will not last forever, but you are here now. And that, to him, is sacred.
kazuha
1. He notices your imbalance like a change in the air.
Itâs not just how tired you look. Itâs how often you say âjust a bit more,â how your tea goes cold beside you, and how you havenât watched a single sunset with him in over a week. He doesnât say anything at first, but his concern is quiet and steady, lingering like mist.
2. He stays close, even when you say youâre fine.
You insist youâre just busy. He nods but keeps showing up anyway. Sometimes he brings dinner and eats with you on the floor while you work. Other times, he silently reorganizes your scattered papers just so you can find what you need more easily.
He doesnât pry. He just makes sure youâre not alone in it.
3. He doesnât romanticize your suffering.
Kazuha understands the weight of obligation, the desire to hold everything together by yourself. Heâs been there. But when he sees you start skipping meals, sleeping in short bursts, and barely reacting when he enters the room, he puts his foot down.
âYouâre running yourself into the ground. This isnât sustainable, and itâs not fair to you.â
4. He uses everyday moments to pull you back.
One afternoon, he brings you out into the garden without giving you time to argue. âTen minutes. Just breathe with me. You can go back to it after.â
The sun is warm. The breeze is soft. You donât make it back inside for another hour.Â
And somehow, everything hurts a little less.
5. When you finally break, heâs there.
Itâs late. Youâre shaking, frustrated, exhausted, ashamed. You whisper that youâre not doing enoughâif you stop, everything will fall apart.
Kazuha wraps you in his arms, gentle but firm. He doesnât hush you. He doesnât offer platitudes. He simply breathes with you.Â
âEven drifting leaves know where to land.âÂ
You donât know if he means you or him. But either way, you believe it.
6. He opens up about his own past, gently.
âBefore I left Inazuma, I thought I had to carry my grief alone. That if I let go, Iâd forget him. Or fail him somehow.â He doesnât name Tomo directly, but you know. âBut clinging to pain isnât loyalty. And pushing yourself until you break isnât strength.â
7. He leaves you notes and poems as reminders.
Remember to eat. Thereâs onigiri in the basket.
Iâm waiting for you by the docks at sunset. Just fifteen minutes, if you can spare them.
Youâre doing enough.
When you spend too long buried in papers, he sits near the open window and hums old Inazuman tunesâmelodies from a time before the storms. Sometimes he whistles songs you once told him you liked.
8. Over time, he helps you build slower rhythms.
He encourages small changes, like taking your work outside when the weatherâs good, stepping away when you hit a wall, and letting yourself exist without being productive. And he keeps showing up. Not to rescue you, but to walk beside you while you figure it out.
âYou donât need to prove your worth by wearing yourself out. Youâre enough, just as you are. Even when you rest.â
itto
1. At first, he thinks youâre just being âSuper dedicated.â Then he catches you passing out on a pile of papers.
He pokes your cheek. No response. He pokes harder. Still nothing.
ââŚUhhh. Okay. This is either really bad, or youâve just entered some kind of secret meditative ninja state.â
(Spoiler: itâs really bad.)
2. His response? Chaos. Immediate, well-meaning chaos.
He bursts into your office the next day with five onigiri, a straw mat, and a gang member holding a shamisen for âvibe support.â
âAlright! Operation Save the Boss from the Evil Paper Demons is underway!â
You protest. He shushes you with a finger to your lips and zero personal space.
âYouâve been promoted. To Taking-a-Nap Officer. Now câmon. Eyes closed. Thatâs an order.â
3. He treats resting like a team sport. And youâre on his team now.
Canât sleep? He tells stories (bad ones).
Wonât eat? He challenges you to a dumpling-eating contest.
Still anxious? He tries to âScare the stress awayâ by pretending to fight it in the corner.
âThis oneâs for that overdue report! HIIYAH!â
4. Eventually, he gets serious. As serious as Itto can get.
One night, after dragging you outside for fresh air and bug-catching, he glances sideways and says, âHey⌠You donât gotta be perfect all the time, yâknow?â
You laugh it off. He doesnât.
âNah, I mean it. You think the Arataki Gang would follow me if I acted like I didnât need breaks? Or fun? Or help?â
You stare. He shrugs.
âBeing strongâs not about going nonstop. Itâs about knowinâ when to stop, so you can keep goinâ. Thatâs what makes a real boss.â
5. From then on, you get regular âArataki Break Attacks.â
Theyâre loud, unexpected, and unavoidable. Youâre elbow-deep in paperwork? BOOM. He bursts through the window with mochi and a picnic blanket. Stressed from a deadline? He brings the gang to do your chores (badly).
âWe filed your papers alphabetically! âŚSort of!â
You should be annoyed, but the laughter helps more than you admit.
6. One day, you finally break down, and he catches you.
Youâre overwhelmed. Quietly crumbling. He finds you curled on your futon, staring at nothing. And for once, his presence isnât loud.
He kneels. Offers you his forehead, gently.Â
âI donât know how to fix whatâs hurtinâ you. But Iâm here. For however long it takes.â
You grip his sleeve. He holds you like youâre gold.
âYouâre not a job. Youâre you. And I like that person just the way they are.â
7. He makes recovery feel like living.
Not just resting, not just survivingâhe reminds you how to have fun again. Whether itâs beetle battles, fireworks, or dancing terribly at a festival, heâs there, arm slung around you, grin wide, heart full.
âWorkâll still be there tomorrow. But right now? You got an Arataki-brand life to live!â
And somehow, with him beside you, the world feels lighter.
aether
1. He notices your exhaustion before you ever speak it out loud.
Aether lives by reading peopleâheâs had to, traveling alone for so long. Others believe you when you say youâre fine, but Aether watches the small things: the tooâslow blinks, the silence you sit in like itâs a weight, the way you stare at your tasks as if theyâre cliffs that keep growing higher. You rub your temples and forget to eat the food Paimon hands you.
Paimon huffs, âSeriously? Thatâs the third untouched meal today!â
Aether doesnât comment. He just gravitates closer. Heâs used to carrying burdens alone, but he refuses to watch someone else fall into that habit.
2. His concern is gentle but incredibly persistent.
Aether never nags. He simply appears with the things you need: sliced fruit next to your work, a blanket around your shoulders, tea steeped exactly the way you like it. Paimon keeps mysteriously dropping snacks onto your desk like a tiny, floating delivery service.
If you insist youâre âjust tired,â he lifts his brows like heâs heard that excuse in every nation and never believed it once. He helps adjust your posture so your neck wonât hurt, refills your ink, hands you the thing you keep reaching for and missing because your visionâs going blurry.
3. When you snap, he doesnât pull away.
Youâre frustrated, overwhelmed, and maybe a little sharp with him.
He just steps closer, calm and steady. âAlright,â he murmurs. âLetâs take a break.â
Thereâs no judgment in his voiceâjust patience and a grounding gentleness firm enough that you can lean on it.
4. He worries when you push yourself too far.
You slump onto a bench after a long day, pale and trembling. He kneels instantly, hands hovering, not touching you until you give him a faint nod. He hadnât realized until that moment how tightly heâd been orbiting youâhow youâd become one of the anchors keeping him grounded in a world that still didnât feel like home.
âYou scared me,â he whispers. âPlease donât disappear.â
Youâre confused; you werenât going anywhere. But Aether has lost people; he knows what âhere one moment, gone the nextâ feels like. And heâs terrified of feeling it again.
5. He opens up only when he thinks you canât hear.
Paimon grumbles about how worried she was, but Aether silently moves your hair from your face with careful fingers and tucks his cloak around you. He stares at the glimmering stars above with a distant, melancholy expressionâone youâve seen when he thinks about Lumine.
That loneliness flickers across him like a shadow.
He whispers, thinking youâre asleep, âI donât want you to burn yourself out chasing something alone like I did.â
5. He disrupts your routine in deceptively gentle ways.
Aether never shuts your work away. He instead rearranges reality around you. He opens windows before the air gets stuffy. Adjusts the lighting so your eyes donât strain. Reorganizes your cluttered desk into something workable. Silently takes half your errands onto his own list.
When you ask why heâs treating you like youâre made of glass, he gives a small smile. âItâs not that youâre fragile. Itâs that you donât realize how much youâre carrying.â
6. When you wake, he finally lets his guard down.
âYou donât have to be strong all the time,â he says softly. âOr push through everything by yourself.â
His golden eyes hold yours, warm as sunrise breaking through fog.
âI know what it feels like when it seems the world wonât slow down for you. When resting feels dangerous. When you think stopping means falling behind.â He reaches for your hand. âBut youâre not alone anymore. Let me shoulder some of it, okay?â
With Aether, itâs never just words. For once, he resolves not to walk forward by himself.
tighnari
1. He diagnoses your burnout instantly.
He takes one look at your slumped posture, the way you squint at the daylight, and sighs like heâs witnessing a natural disaster.
âCome here,â he says, already closing the distance. He tilts your chin up with a gloved hand, eyes scanning your face. âSluggish pupil response. Pale complexion, dark circles⌠Your circadian rhythm is committing unspeakable crimes.â
You try to laugh it off. He doesnât.
âHonestly,â he mutters, âyou look worse than a withering zone.â
His tone is dry enough to parch a forest, but his touch stays delicate as he checks your pulse.
2. His worry comes out as exasperation.
The more worried Tighnari gets, the more his snark ramps up.Â
âOh, wonderful. Youâre dehydrated, sleep-deprived, and havenât eaten a proper meal in⌠let me guessâsince yesterday morning? Congratulations. Youâve achieved the disaster trifecta.â
When you snap that youâre perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, he gives you a look so flat it could level a hillside.
âIf that were true, we wouldnât be having this discussion.â
Thereâs no anger, just the protective frustration of someone whoâs patched up far too many selfâneglecting rangers and refuses to let you join their ranks.
3. The moment he realizes talking wonât work, he shifts into caretaker mode.
A glass of water is pushed into your hands. Then a plate of food. Then a blanket. He fusses without admitting heâs fussing.
You ask if heâs babying you. He raises a brow.
âIf I were babying you, Iâd have hauled you to the nearest bed and put you into a mandatory nap.â He pauses. ââŚDonât tempt me.â
4. Every comforting gesture comes disguised as âpractical necessity.â
Heâll brew a herbal infusion âto reduce inflammation,â then sit beside you until you finish the entire cup. Heâll braid your hair out of your face âto prevent sensory interference.â If you lean back too quickly, his hand is already behind your chair. âTo avoid concussion,â he claims.
Each act appears outwardly efficient and logical until you look closely enough to see the warmth threaded through every motion. Point it out, and he clears his throat, ears flicking in embarrassment.Â
âItâs called preventative care. Donât make it weird.âÂ
5. He keeps an eye on you even though he pretends heâs not.
Every time you stand up too fast? Heâs there. Every time you yawn? A pointed stare. When you stumble over your words because youâre exhausted? His pen pauses midâstroke.
âYouâre at 40% functionality,â he informs you one afternoon.
You groan. âCan you not quantify my suffering?â
âIt helps me track how close you are to collapsing.â
ââŚOkay, maybe quantify a little.â
6. When you push yourself too hard, he stops being sarcastic and starts being firm.
The day you reach for more materials while visibly wobbling, Tighnari steps directly into your path, eyes narrowing. âSit. Down.â
It isnât a suggestion; itâs a command forged from years of keeping rangers alive in conditions they had no business surviving. And you obey, because itâs the first time he sounds genuinely upset.
âPlease take care of yourself,â he murmurs, his expression full of hurt. âExhaustion proves nothing except how far a person can push themselves before they break.â
7. Once youâre resting, his protectiveness becomes instinctive.
The second you fall asleep, Tighnari is in full guardian mode. He adjusts your pillow. He checks your temperature. He angles a lamp so it wonât shine in your eyes. Outside, he warns the rangers, âIf anyone disturbs this room, I will assign you to fungal spore sampling duty for a month.â
Collei salutes. The other rangers flee.
He sits beside your bed with a botanical manual open, though he doesnât turn a single page. His hand lightly brushes your blanket as if reassuring himself youâre still there. When your eyes finally flutter open, he looks relieved in a way he tries very hard to hide.
âYou slept for six hours,â he says with a halfhearted scold. ââŚGood. You needed it.â
thoma
1. He notices the small changes first.
Youâre not meeting his eyes as often. Your sentences get shorter. You keep saying âalmost doneâ with a tired smile that doesnât reach your eyes. And the first time you cancel dinner plansâsomething you usually look forward toâhe knows for certain.
Youâre drowning. Quietly.
So he knocks on your door that night, holding a thermos and a neat box of onigiri. âI wasnât sure if you ate today,â he says gently. âMind if I sit with you a while?â
2. He doesnât tell you to stop. He reminds you itâs okay to slow down.
âI get itâsometimes you want to prove you can handle it all. Iâve been there,â he says as he sets things out, watching the tension in your shoulders with concern. âBut just because you can carry something doesnât mean you should do it alone.â
And for some reason, that hits harder than any admonishment could have.
3. He starts checking in more often but never pushes.
A warm drink appears on your desk during long afternoons. Laundry you forgot about ends up folded neatly on your chair. He even brings Taroumaru once, claiming âa surprise wellness check from the best boy in Inazuma.â
He never makes you feel guilty for being overwhelmed. He just keeps showing up, gentle and dependable.
4. When you finally crash, heâs by your side.
You fall asleep at your desk, shoulders tense, fingers still curled around your pen. When you stir awake, the lights are lower, a blanket is tucked around you, and Thomaâs coat is folded beneath your arm like a pillow. Heâs sitting beside you, reading so he wonât disturb you. He looks up with relief.
âHey,â he greets. âYou scared me a little there.âÂ
Heâs silent for a moment.Â
âNext timeâŚlet me help before it gets to this point, yeah?â
5. When you say you didnât want to burden him, that he already does so much, something in his expression shifts.
He lets out a breathâhalf fond, half achingâand shakes his head. âThatâs what people like us do, isnât it? We take care of everyone else and forget we deserve care too.â
He takes your hand, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.
âIâm here because I want to be. Not because you need rescuing. Because you matter. Even when youâre not accomplishing anythingâespecially then.â
6. From then on, he makes âdoing nothingâ feel like something special.
A slow meal on the engawa as the breeze rustles the wind chimes. Shared silence under the stars. An understanding glance when you sigh and confess, âI still feel behind.â
He leans back on his hands, looking up at the sky, and replies, âBehind what? The world isnât going anywhere. But if you burn yourself out⌠itâll lose something no one can replace.â
7. And when you finally begin to let go of the pressureâjust a littleâheâs there to catch you.
Not with grand gestures. But with rice balls, soft words, warm hands, and a steady heart. Because Thoma doesnât need you to be perfect. He just wants you to stay.
diluc
1. He notices what you stop doing.Â
Diluc pays attention to patterns. You used to greet him in passing, pause to appreciate small things, hum while you workedâlittle marks of ease that brightened your days. When those habits fade, he notices instantly.
Years of managing peopleâand years of losing themâhave made him acutely aware of what strain looks like. He doesnât question you about it; he knows too well how inquiries can feel like pressure rather than concern.
2. Instead of confronting you, he begins adjusting the world around you.
Not the type to lecture or hover, Diluc is a man of action, efficiency, and solutions. Tedious errands youâd been meaning to get to are mysteriously handled by someone else. Deadlines shift. A warm drink appears near your workspace when youâre too focused to notice your own needs.Â
It all feels effortless, almost coincidental. Thatâs intentional. Diluc would rather lighten your burden without making you selfâconscious about it.
3. He addresses your exhaustion indirectly.Â
One evening, he finds you staring at a page without seeing it. The dim light flickers across your face and catches something in your eyes that stirs an old ache in him. He approaches, delicately closes the book beneath your hand, and says, âWalk with me.â
He leads you outside and through the vineyard, where the lanterns glow warm against the early night and the air carries the scent of earth and ripening fruit. Diluc never fills the silence. He lets it steady you, each unhurried step loosening your thoughts.
4. He grounds you through consistency.
He joins you for meals whenever schedules align. Some afternoons he stops by simply to share a few minutes of stillness. Other times, he works beside you turning, the silence into something companionable instead of isolating.
He never frames these moments as interventions. They are companionship: something he knows can keep a person from unraveling. You find yourself looking forward to the routine with him that seems to slow the world around you until it becomes manageable again.
5. He corrects your selfâcriticism with a conviction thatâs difficult to refute.Â
Whenever you insist youâre behind or not doing enough, Diluc listens without interrupting. When he finally responds, his voice is certain and sincere in a way that leaves little room for doubt.
âYou carry more than you realizeâand far more than anyone should expect of one person.â His gaze meets yours in earnest. âYouâre capable, dependable, and far kinder than the world gives you reason to be. You donât need to exhaust yourself to prove any of that.â
6. When you push too far, he meets you.
The night you nearly miss dinner, he appears at your doorway, hair loosened from the day, ungloved hands resting calmly at his sides.
âYouâre late,â he says. âThe food wonât stay warm.âÂ
You begin to apologize, but he shakes his head.
âEat first. The rest can wait.â
He sits across from you, arms crossed, pretending heâs not watching to ensure you eat.
7. When you finally admit how overwhelmed you are, he listens in a way that feels disarming.
You tell him it feels like everything will fall apart if you slow down, and his gaze softens in a way few ever see.
âWork can always be resumed,â he tells you. âYou, howeverâŚcannot be replaced.â
Beneath his words lies the conviction of one who has already lost too much to relentless duty.
âI just donât want to disappoint anyone,â you finally admit.Â
âYou wonât,â he assures you firmly. âYou do not owe this world exhaustion to prove your worth. You give it your presence, and that is more than enough.âÂ
8. He becomes your safeguard against your own pressure.Â
Diluc does not smother or coddle. He simply remains a steady presence at your side as someone who cares deeply, and has learnedâthrough mistakes he cannot undoâhow important it is to catch a person long before they fall. Rather than save you from burning out, he prevents the flame from consuming you in the first place.Â
Diluc will never say the words outright, but itâs clear in the way he looks at you when he thinks youâre focused elsewhere: your wellâbeing is something he has quietly folded into his responsibilities, right alongside the winery and the city he once vowed to protect. And though he would never claim it aloud, supporting you matters to him every bit as much as any duty heâs ever carried.
childe
1. Heâs deceptively perceptive when it comes to people he cares about.
Growing up with siblings means heâs witnessed every flavor of stubborn exhaustion, from his older brother pulling all-nighters to Teucer trying to avoid bedtime. So he picks up your signs quickly: the way you rub your eyes, the slight tremor in your hands, and the fact that youâre running purely on determination.
Everyone else buys the excuse that youâre âonly a little tired.â Childe, on the other hand, narrows his eyes. âMy little siblings lie better than that, and one of them is seven.â
2. He calls you out directly, but thereâs softness under the bite.
Childe isnât one for subtle warnings: âYou canât keep this up,â he says, crossing his arms. âYou look like you fought a dragon bare-handed, and not in a way Iâd brag about.â
You glare at him, and he only steps closer, voice dropping.Â
âYouâre wearing yourself thin, comrade. I donât like watching that happen.â Itâs the most roundabout way he can say heâs worried.
3. If reminding you to rest doesnât work, he resorts to mischief.
He steals the pen out of your hand mid-sentence. He lifts your notes above your reach (heâs annoyingly tall). He sits on your stack of textbooks like a smug cat.Â
If you protest, he grins. âDuel me for them.âÂ
Heâs not joking. He drops into a fighting stance in the middle of your room. You point out youâre exhausted.
âThatâs why itâll be fun.â He is insufferable. He is also trying to make you rest.
4. When your energy gives out, his instinct takes over.
You wobble, and he reacts instantly, catching you with one arm behind your back, the other guiding your head to his chest. His whole body shifts as if to angle himself between you and the world.
âHeyâstay with me.â His voice is low, tight. Not his usual playful tone.
You try to say youâre alright.
âDonât. Donât even finish that sentence.â His jaw is clenched, heartbeat wild against your cheek.
He scoops you up without hesitation, expression lethal. Anyone who so much as glances your way wrong on the walk back gets the kind of glare that promises consequences.
5. He cleans up your workspace like heâs securing a battlefield.
Once youâre resting, he surveys the room with a soldierâs eye and quietly puts everything in orderâpapers stacked, candles extinguished, hazards removed.
âYou donât have to take on the whole world by yourself,â he mutters under his breath.
Then, he sits beside your bed and brushes your forehead with the back of his hand, checking for fever. âI can take hits,â he says softly. âDoesnât mean I enjoy watching someone else take them.â
6. Starting the next morning, he becomes more deliberate.
He brings breakfast and sits beside you until you eat. He walks you home whenever he can. He insists on taking some of your workload: âIâm good at carrying things. Work, bags, stubborn people who donât know how to rest.â
When you apologize for worrying him, he only smirks and taps your forehead.Â
âJust donât do it again. But if you start slipping, Iâll be there before you fall.â
7. His ârest planâ is⌠uniquely Childe.
He makes you a schedule. A battle-style schedule, color-coded into:
Mandatory Rest Periods
Nutrition Breaks (with treatsânonnegotiable)
Light Exercise
Hydration Checks (âDonât test me. I have water and I have aim.â)
Supervised Work Sessions
He hands it to you with pride. âThis is strategic efficiency. Trust meâGeneral Childe knows what heâs doing.â
You point out heâs not actually a general.
âDonât ruin this for me.â
8. And eventually, the truth slips out.
You find him watching you work, unusually quiet.
âYou push yourself so hard it hurts to watch,â he says finally. âYou work like youâre trying to earn your right to exist. But youâre not something that needs to prove its worth. YouâreâŚâ His voice falters. ââŚsomeone I care about. A lot.â
He clears his throat violently, as if honesty betrayed him.
âIf you collapse again, Iâm staying with you until youâre better. And thatâs not a threat. Thatâs a promise.â
zhongliÂ
1. He recognizes the signs long before you do.
The slight tremble in your fingers. The missed step on uneven cobblestone. The way your gaze sometimes flickers past him, unfocused, as if your thoughts are pulling you in too many directions at once.
He doesnât intrude, but he sees. And in quieter moments, he remembers countless mortals who pushed themselves too far. So few ever stopped before the cost came due.
2. He doesnât confront; he provides.
âYou seem fatigued,â he remarks one afternoon over tea.
You smile. âItâs nothing I canât handle.â
He stirs his cup, thoughtfully. âEven the strongest stone yields under constant strain.â
You brush it off with a laugh, and he doesnât push. But the next time he invites you out, he phrases it differently: âJoin me. Not for discussion, not for business. Simply to rest.â With him, invitations are never obligations.
3. He begins to anchor you in subtle ways.
He sends herbal blends meant for clarity and calm. Bowls of warm food appear with the simple explanation: âI worried you might skip a meal.â He asks you to accompany him on walks through Liyue Harborâs quiet streets touched by sunset.
And when you protest, saying, âI should be working,â he meets your gaze with unwavering calm.
âAnd I should be elsewhere,â he says softly. âYet I am here. And I would prefer your company over solitude.â
4. When exhaustion finally overtakes you, it wounds him more than it surprises him.
He finds you slumped over your desk, ink smudged across your hand. For a long moment, he only stands there, a quiet sorrow flickering across features that have seen ages pass. Then, he gathers you carefully, almost reverently, and carries you to the couch. He drapes his coat over you, its warmth and faint incense scent settling around you like a shield, and he remains by your side, eyes tracing the moonlight on your face.
âMorax would have named this stubbornness,â he murmurs. âBut I believe⌠you simply fear stopping.â
5. When you finally ask why your wellbeing matters so deeply to him, he doesnât hesitate.
âI have lived through the rise and fall of gods,â he says. âI have watched whole histories fade into legend, and legends fade into silence.â He turns toward you. âYou are not a fleeting dynasty, meant only to be remembered or forgotten. You are someone I hope remains, not for legacy, but simply for yourself.â
6. He teaches you how to rest respectfully, without making you feel weak.
He walks you through gardens at dusk, where lanterns sway and cicadas sing. He reads aloud when your head is too heavy for thought. He speaks of rest not as luxury but as a form of wisdom in itself.
âClarity is born from stillness, not exhaustion,â he reminds you, offering warm tea. âEven the sun must set to rise again. You, too, must allow yourself that cycle.â
And somehow, from him, it makes sense. With him, rest feels safe. It feels like something you are allowed to have.
7. And afterwardâwhen you do pause, when you finally let yourself breatheâhe stays.
Simply to exist beside you with quiet devotion. Because to him, you are not a task, nor a responsibility, nor a fleeting mortal life to be pitied.
He once governed wealth itself, but even with centuries behind him, there is nothing in his long life he has ever regarded as priceless in quite the way he regards you.
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Hi! I just stumbled upon your blog and have been enjoying reading the stories! The story about characters hearing reader talking to themselves holds a special place on my heart lolol. I'm curious if there's any chance that you'll write Aether in the future? Hehe
Hello Anon! Apologies for the delayed reply ßšđĽŚßš Thank you so much for reading and supporting, and Iâm so glad you enjoyed the overhearing ficâI had a ton of fun with the premise. Iâm actually planning to include Aether in a new headcanon post that will probably be out in a couple weeks, but if you have any Aether-specific requests, I would love to hear your thoughts!
premise. at a diplomatic party, kaeya downs an âexperimentalâ vintage that turns out to be a truth serum in disguise. now youâre babysitting a very uninhibited, very honest cavalry captain, and youâre not sure which is more dangerous: the chaos he causes, or the things he says to you.
word count. 990
It all started with a toast.
You werenât even sure who made itâsome high-ranking Sumeru scholar with too many syllables in their title and not enough sense in their drinkâbut they raised a glass of sparkling violet wine, called it âan experimental blend of clarity and insight,â and passed it to the man standing next to you.
Kaeya sniffed it once. âSmells expensive,â he said. Then, with his usual flair for bad decisions, he knocked it back in one go.
You frowned. âWait, didnât they say that was alchemically enhanced?â
He licked his lips, blinking slowly. âHm. Tastes like crushed berries, ruined secrets, and maybeâoh no.â
âWhat?â
He gripped your sleeve like a man standing at the edge of a cliff. âI think I just drank a truth serum.â
You blinked. âSeriously?â
âYeah. I think I feelâŚsincere.â He touched his chest, aghast. âThis is awful. My thoughts are coming out of my mouth without permission.â
ââŚAre you sure itâs not just the wine?â
Kaeya looked you dead in the eye and whispered, âIâve been wearing the same underwear for three days straight.â
âAlright,â you muttered, grabbing his arm. âWe are leaving right now.â
You had exactly ten minutes of grace before the wine kicked in fully. Ten minutes where Kaeya grew increasingly chatty, then concerningly self-aware, then completely unfiltered.
âDid you know I once fell in love with someone because they pronounced âAnemoâ with the wrong emphasis?â
You blinked. âWaitââ
âThat was Rosaria,â he added, too quickly. âIt lasted twenty minutes. I got over it when she corrected herself.â
âOh.â
âI did fall in love with someone else, though,â he said casually.
You nearly tripped. âWait, whoâ?â
âHold on, Iâm busy monologuing.â
He climbed onto a table.Â
You had to physically wrestle a wine list out of Kaeyaâs hands after he began dramatically dictating his will to a startled Fontaine ambassador while using a cocktail umbrella as a pen.
âI hereby leave my collection of eyepatches to anyone who has ever flirted with me out of genuine interest and not political curiosity,â he declared.
The ambassador blinked. âDoes anyone qualify for that?â
Kaeya sighed, hand over his heart. âTragically, no.â
âGet down,â you hissed, yanking at his coat.
âIn a minute! Iâm trying to make peace with my legacy.â
âYouâre going to make peace with the floor if you donât get down.â
Somewhere between your third apology to the event organizers and Kaeya attempting to challenge a Fontanian diplomat to a fencing match with breadsticks, the compliments started.
âYouâre kind, you know.â
You froze. ââŚIâm sorry?â
âYou act like youâre not,â Kaeya continued earnestly, âbut you remember everyoneâs birthdays. You carry extra gloves in winter. You gave your dinner to that stray cat last week and lied about it so I wouldnât feel bad.â
You flushed. âYou remember that?â
âI remember everything.â His voice dropped, softer now. âI remember how you looked the day we met. I remember the first time you laughed at one of my jokes. I remember the way you hold your breath when youâre trying not to cry.â
You swallowed.
âI remember wishing youâd look at me the way you look at him,â Kaeya added, and then promptly hiccuped and ruined the moment.
âOkay,â you said weakly, steering him toward a chair. âTime for water.â
You got him back to his roomâeventually. It took two guards, one very concerned maid, and a bribe involving three coupons for free tavern drinks.
He was quieter now. He wasnât passed out, but he lay still in a way that felt unusual for him. You sat beside the bed as he curled under the blanket, looking strangely small in all that silk and charm.
âI think,â he said softly, âthat I keep talking because Iâm scared of silence.â
You didnât respond.
âI think if I stop talking,â Kaeya whispered, âIâll say something real.â
He turned his head to face you, his eye a little glassy.
âI think I already did.â
Eventually, his breathing evened out, and you thought he had fallen asleep. By the time you were sure, the sky outside had shifted to the pale gray of very early morning. You slipped out quietly, the air damp and cool against your face in the half-asleep city, and made your way to the apothecary.
You returned with water, headache tonics, and a plan to pretend none of it had ever happened. Kaeya, however, was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands pressed to his face.
âI remember everything,â he said through his fingers.
You stopped. âOh.â
âI challenged an ambassador to a fencing match. With breadsticks.â
You nodded gently. âYou did.â
âI made a very convincing legal will using a cocktail umbrella.â
âTwo drafts, actually.â
âIââhe swallowedââI told you things I wasnât supposed to.â
You met his eyes. âYou did.â
âI meant them,â he said quietly.
You were quiet.
âDid youâŚhate it?â
You looked at him. âNo,â you said. âI didnât.â
Kaeya let out a long breath, covering his face with one hand. âI made a fool of myself.â
âHonestly? You made a very sincere fool of yourself.â
He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. âAnd you stayed? After that?â
âYou said I was kind.â
âI was under the influence of weaponized emotional honesty,â he muttered. âIt doesnât count.â
You handed him the water. âIt counts to me.â
There was a long pause.Â
âI wasnât joking,â he said finally.
âI didnât think you were.â
Silence settled over the room again. Then, Kaeya exhaled, his shoulders dropping as if some invisible weight had lifted. ââŚSo what now?â
You smiled faintly. âNow, you drink your water. And later, we figure out if you're still brave without the wine.â
He gazed at you for a moment. Thenâsoft, tired, and realâKaeya smiled.
premise. A misplaced book in the Akademiya library draws you into Alhaithamâs private annotations, in which you find dry critiques, philosophical musingsâŚand mentions of you. Instead of returning it in silence, you write in the empty spaces. The conversation that unfolds changes more than just the margins.
word count. 2.3k
Footnotes in the Margins šđ ²đ Âł
The library was unusually quiet today. Not that it was ever particularly rowdy, but even the usual rustling of pages and soft footsteps seemed to have melted into stillness. You appreciated it. The silence gave you space to breathe, to thinkâŚand to procrastinate on your own research by aimlessly browsing the back shelves.Â
That was when you found it. Tucked between two thick volumes on pre-Celestial syntax theory, halfway down a shelf no one touched unless they were actively trying to disprove ancient grammar, there it sat. It looked unremarkable at first glance: well-bound, neatly shelved, and oppressively academic, like any other book from the House of Daena. You mightâve passed it by if you had still been a starry-eyed newcomer who still believed research came from passion, not from studying. But you, who had combed through thousands of library books during your time at the Akademiya, noticed two things immediately. There was no classification number on the spine, and it bore the telltale kind of wear that came from being read and reread, not skimmed for citations but thoroughly studied.
You pulled it out. The title was something dry: Epistemic Constructs in Rational Thought. It hadnât even been shelved correctly, you noted before you opened the cover and caught the unmistakable offense. Annotations, dozens of them cleanly written in the margins and between lines, sometimes replacing whole arguments with alternative ones. Entire paragraphs scrawled in the margins in meticulous, slanted handwriting. You frowned. No scholar would dare mark up a library book like this. Then again, this didnât appear to be a library book.
The realization arrived quickly. The handwriting was familiarânot by sheer coincidence, but because youâd seen it before. Briefly, on shared reports, with sharp, efficient strokes. On the occasional joint paper. In the corner of a board scrawled with citations and deadlines. It was unmistakable.
Alhaitham.
The Acting Grand Sage had a distinct way of annotating, bordering on clinical precision. His notes werenât chaotic; they were surgical, detached, but oddly revealing. They questioned premises and tore apart analogies.Â
False equivalence.
Lazy metaphor.
Surprisingly insightful. See page 116.
Youâd seen him with personal copies of texts like this beforeâmaking quiet observations in the corners, dissecting arguments, crossing out entire sections with a single dismissive lineâbut the commentary within this book was different. It wasnât just theory or academic musings or counterarguments. No, you realized as you kept reading, it was personal.
Irrational attachment as a flaw. Even the most rigorous minds are susceptible.
The experiment fails: removing emotional variables does not simplify the human condition. It reduces it to fiction.
You paused, fingers hovering over a line heavily underlined in graphite.
She lingers. Not as an anomaly, but as a constant. A variable I did not account for.
You blinked. Your heart skipped as you turned the page.
Why does her laughter replay in idle moments? A useless loop. It interrupts my reading.
Distraction. Intrusion. Yet I do not mind.
It wasnât a confession, not explicitly; he hadnât written your name. But everything pointed to you: your habits, your voice, that one argument youâd had with him last week in the lecture hallâthe one he claimed was âlogically inconsistentâ and you insisted was âemotionally necessary.â In frustration, youâd invoked an analogy about symbolic walks beneath moonlit trees, a reference you were still mortified to have made. Yet here it was, inked in his hand. He had written about it.
She argued from feeling. I wanted to dismiss it, but part of me listened. Why?
You shouldâve closed the book, placed it back, and pretended you never saw it. But your fingers kept turning the pages, kept uncovering pieces of him he would never show so easily: quiet sarcasm tucked between philosophical theories, flashes of wit that softened the sharpness of his logic.
Affection as a liability. Possible sign of weakness?
The book felt heavy in your hands. Youâd always assumed Alhaitham thought of you as a minor annoyance, an occasionally tolerable colleague, perhaps. But thisâŚthis was something else. A mind unraveling in silence. A heart he wasnât even sure he had, quietly finding its shape in your shadow. You turned one last page, and tucked near the end, almost as an afterthought:
If she ever finds this, then perhaps she was meant to.
The pen stroke faltered at the end of the sentence, as if he hadnât been sure whether to finish it. You glanced up instinctively, half-expecting to see him watching nearby, but the library was quiet. Earlier, you had seen him, just briefly, as you passed the main aisle. Heâd been skimming titles near the central atrium, his expression unreadable as always. You hadnât said anything, and neither had he. It hadnât seemed strange at the time.
But now you wondered if heâd been looking for something.
You closed the book slowly, fingertips lingering on the margin where his thoughts had trailed off. The next move, you realized, might no longer be his to make.
You didnât return the book; you took it home instead. It wasnât out of carelessness, nor was it simple curiosity. It was something quieterâa kind of reverence. You handled it the way one would a fragile secret: gently, almost afraid it might change if you looked at it for too long. His notes replayed in your mind without resolution.Â
You shouldâve said something right away, shouldâve brought the book back to him and asked, Why did you write about me like that? But you couldnât; not yet. Not when the words were still sinking in, threading themselves into your understanding of him like ink into parchment. Instead, you reached for a pen.
Your handwriting was different than his: softer, rounder, and less sure. But you found a space at the bottom of one of his entriesâa sliver of margin heâd left untouchedâand you wrote.
You call it irrational. I call it human.
Another page:
You listened. That mattered more than you know.
You left your thoughts like that, scattered in quiet response to his own. It was a conversation held in ink rather than air, a thread running parallel to his own, neither correcting nor contradicting but merely coexisting.Â
Finally, on the back page, just beneath his last uncertain line, you responded,
Then perhaps I was.
The next day, you returned the book to its shelf, placing it exactly where you had found it: same position, same angle. You waited.
It didnât take long; he came looking for it that same afternoon. You werenât surprised. You watched from the upper floor of the library, heart in your throat, as Alhaitham pulled the book from its place and turned it over in his hands. His expression didnât change muchâhe was always hard to readâbut there was a slight pause, a subtle stillness in his fingers as he opened to one of the pages youâd touched. He read your words slowly. He lingered. Then, deliberately, he closed the book and looked up past the balcony right at you.
The silence stretched between you. Neither of you moved. The distance between the floors, the books, and the postulates youâd both tried so hard to keep private all narrowed in that one moment. And then he did something youâd never seen him do before: he smiled. Barely, but it was real.
You didnât expect him to follow you, but when the day wound down and the House of Daena began to empty, you caught a glimpse of muted green and silver trailing your footsteps. You stepped into the records alcove. The walls were lined with silent tomes, and the low golden lamps cast shadows too soft for confrontation. Still, you knew he was there and waited without turning around. He didnât speak for a while, but when he did, it was quieter than usual, almost careful.Â
âI was aware my copy of Epistemic Constructs in Rational Thought was missing,â he said. âI wasnât aware it had been read.â
You turned, arms folded; it wasnât a defensive gesture, just a way to anchor yourself. âYou left it in the Akademiya library. That doesnât exactly scream classified information.â
âThat would be a fair argument,â he nodded once, eyes flicking down, âbut thereâs a discrepancy in the situation. I never brought it to the House of Daena. An assistant must have mistaken it for my reference texts and returned it with the others. It wasnât meant for anyone elseâs eyes. Not intentionally.â
You tilted your head. âNot even mine?â
His gaze held yours. âEspecially not yours.â
Silence again.
âI wasnât sure what to say,â you murmured finally. âSo I wrote back.â
He exhaled faintly, as if suppressing a laugh. âYes. I read your notes. You were more gracious than I deserved.â
You raised an eyebrow. âGracious? I called you out.â
âYou did,â he agreed. âBut you did it withâŚunderstanding. Thatâs rarer than you think.â
There was something new in his tone. Vulnerability wasnât quite the word for it, but perhaps sincerity was, and his was unfiltered, for once, not sifted through theory or logic.
âI thought I could out-reason the feeling,â he admitted, âdissect it until it disappeared. But it didnât. It just evolved.â
You stepped a little closer. âDo you really think it makes you weaker?â
He didnât answer immediately. Then, with a strange, almost wry curve of his lips, he admitted, âI think it makes me uncomfortable. But perhaps thatâs not the same thing.â
You smiled. âIt isnât.â
The moment stretched between you, still delicate and undefined, but something had shifted. A line had been crossed. It wasnât a confession, not quite, but it was an acknowledgment. Alhaitham looked at you then, more fully than before. Not as if you were a variable to analyzeâjust as you.
âI donât want this to stay in the margins,â he said, voice steady.
You blinked.
He looked faintly amused by your expression, if only barely. âIf youâre willing,â he added, âIâd prefer we discuss it elsewhere. More directly.â
You managed a half-smile. âSomeplace quiet, not performative.â
His eyes softened. âAgreed. No symbolic walks beneath moonlit trees.â
âNo symbolic walks beneath moonlit trees,â you echoed solemnly.
A pause. Thenâto your surpriseâhe laughed. It was just a breath of it, low and short, but undeniably real. It caught you off guard and warmed something in your chest.
âTea,â he suggested after a moment. âIn my study. Less metaphor, more clarity.â
____________
â â â â â â â â â âÂł Between the Lines
His study was exactly how you imagined it: tidy, quiet, with lamplight filtering through half-shut windows. Books lined the walls, orderly, color-coded, each spine carefully bent and memorized. A single chair faced his desk. Another, which had been previously tucked to the side, had been pulled forward for you.
He gestured for you to sit, then poured teaâone of those delicate, floral kinds from Port Ormos that no one expected him to keep stocked. You didnât ask why because the scent alone softened the expectant silence. Finally, he sat opposite you, elbows resting lightly on the desk. For once, there were no books between you. No inked margins to hide behind.
âI reread what I wrote,â he said after a moment. âWith your annotations in mind.â
You watched steam curl from your cup. âAnd?â
âIt was a flawed method of processing,â he said simply. âToo detached. I tried to contain something that didnât want to be dissected.â
You glanced at him. âAffection?â
He met your eyes. âYou.â
The air hung still between you.
âI told myself it was temporary,â he continued, his voice low and even, âthat proximity would pass. I believed youâd fade into the background like most things do eventually, but the opposite happened. The more I noticed you, the more I wanted to.â
âAnd now?â you asked, your voice quiet.
He hesitated. âI donât have a hypothesis for this,â he said finally. âBut I donât think I want one.â
You smiled, just a little. âThatâs surprisingly unscientific of you.â
âTerrifying, really,â he deadpanned. His voice softened. âBut not unwelcome.â
He looked at you then and it wasnât an answer so much as an invitation. You reached for your cup, fingers brushing the porcelain. The tea had cooled slightly, but the warmth lingered.
âI liked reading your thoughts,â you said softly. âEven the over-analyzed ones.â
He tilted his head. âEven the one where I compared you to a disruptive variable?â
You chuckle. âEspecially that one.â
Another silence followed, but this time, it felt earned. When you finally stood to leave, he walked you to the door. You paused thereâhalf in shadow, half in lamp-glowânot looking back.
âIâm not expecting anything,â you said. âJustâŚdonât pretend it didnât happen.â
Behind you, Alhaitham stood still for a moment. Then, calmly, he replied, âI wouldnât have invited you here if I planned to ignore it.â
You turned to face him. He wasnât smilingâhe rarely didâbut something in his posture had softened. He wasnât guarding the space between you anymore. He wasnât calculating how much of himself he could afford to show.
âI donât know what this becomes,â he admitted. âBut I donât think it needs a name yet.â
You nodded. âNo. JustâŚdonât overthink it.â
âThat may be difficult.â
You huffed a laugh. âI know.â
You reached for the door and pushed it open, then hesitated.Â
âIâm not just a margin note,â you added softly.
âI know.â His voice was steady. Quiet. Certain.
You smiled and stepped into the hallway. Next time, there wouldnât be footnotes. The book, the annotations, the unsaid thoughtsâthey were behind you both now. Ahead lay something unmarked, unwritten, and entirely yours.
Hi Anon! To be honest, Iâm quite behind in the Archon Quests so I donât know the Natlan characters nearly as well...but if given the opportunity Iâd love to write for them, which includes our sweet gardener boi :)
ă genshin boys overhear you talking to yourself ă
premise. sometimes, talking to yourself feels safer than facing the guy you canât stop thinking aboutâŚuntil he walks in on you mid-spiral. from awkward blushes to unexpected confessions, hereâs what happens when your most embarrassing moments become the genshin boys' favorite memories.
ă genshin boys reach for the same item as you ă
premise. fate doesnât always strike like lightning; sometimes, it brushes your fingers against someone elseâs. when you and a certain someone meet by reaching for the same thing at the same time, you both realize you mightâve found something you didnât know you were looking for.
premise. youâre good at pretending youâre fine. heâs even better at seeing through you. when pressure and burnout start catching up to you, the way each genshin boy steps in makes it clear you matter more than you realize.
ă consulting kaeya ă if you consult kaeya before stealing the holy lyre der himmel
ă darknight disclosure ă you accidentally reveal that diluc is (obviously) the darknight hero, but no one believes you
ă do cry over spilled wine ă a truth serum leaves you wrangling a dangerously honest kaeya
⌠â DILUC RAGNVINDR đĽđŚ
ă darknight disclosure ă you accidentally reveal that diluc is (obviously) the darknight hero, but no one believes you
⌠â TARTAGLIA đ§Łđ
ă operation: steal her heart ă childe knows you're a spy sent to tail him and decides to play along
⌠â XIAO đđŽ
ă guardian of the rooftops ă you always see a mysterious figure on the rooftops of liyue harbor. one night, you leave an offering...and get a visitor at your window
⌠â ALHAITHAM đżđÂ
ă footnotes in the margins ă you find mentions of yourself in alhaitham's annotations and write back to him
⌠â CYNO âĄď¸âď¸Â
becoming close with him through jokes you get the joke and get him
â.ŕłŕż*:シ Honkai Star Rail
⌠â AVENTURINE đŚđ˛
ă dated ă your best friend Aventurine mistakenly thinks you're dating. the start of your falling out.
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Hi anon, thank you for reaching out and being my first ask, woohoo!
Great timing for your questionâmy requests are currently open, and Iâm actually about to update this blog with a pinned âaboutâ post, which features an info section on requests :) Excited to see what you have in mind!
genshin boys reach for the same item as you (part 2)
premise. fate doesnât always strike like lightning; sometimes, it brushes your fingers against someone elseâs. when you and a certain someone meet by reaching for the same thing at the same time, you both realize you mightâve found something you didnât know you were looking for.
part 1. read here [cyno, kaeya, albedo, kazuha, heizou, wanderer, xiao]
itto
The prize is ridiculousânearly the size of a small child and shaped like a giant, sparkly Onikabuto with a smug little face. You spot it at a summer festival in Inazuma City, sitting on the highest shelf of a street vendorâs prize rack. Itâs the sort of thing no reasonable person actually needsâŚwhich means you want it instantly.
You step up to the counter and reach for it just as a much larger handâwarm, calloused, and tanned from the sunâknocks against yours.
âWhoa-ho-ho. Hey there, festival rookie,â a voice says, full of cocky amusement. âThat thereâs my Onikabro. Been keepinâ my eye on him all evening, bonding from afar. You canât just swoop in and steal a manâs destiny like that.â
You turn your head and find yourself looking upâway upâinto the grinning face of a horned man with wild white hair and an energy that practically vibrates in the air.
âYour destiny is a plush beetle?â you ask dryly.
He gasps like youâve insulted his entire bloodline. âNot just a plush beetle! Thatâs the Shiny Supreme Super Onikabro. And heâs been calling to meââItto, my dude, win me, take me home, weâll eat sweet sakura mochi together.â You know, stuff like that.â
You raise a brow in challenge. âFunny, heâs been whispering the same thing to me. How about we see who actually wins him?â
His grin widens. âOoh, I like you. Youâve got guts. Alright, lilâ challenger, weâll make it a ring toss showdown. First to five rings takes Onikabro home. LoserâŚâ He leans closer, his voice dropping to a playful drawl. ââŚhas to buy the winner dango milk.â
The match draws a small crowd, mostly thanks to his running commentary about how youâre âsurprisingly scrappyâ and ânot bad for a newbie,â which makes you throw even harder just to make him eat his words.
When you land your fifth ring before he can get his fourth, he goes completely still. âNo way... No. Way.â
You take the beetle from the vendor and hug it to your chest. âLooks like youâre buying the dango milk.â
He recovers quickly, flashing a grin. âAlright, alright, you win this time, lilâ beetle champ. But next festival? Iâm winning youâuh, I mean, winning against you. Yeah.â
You smirk and walk away with your prize, feeling his eyes on your back. Something tells you this wonât be the last time you cross pathsâŚor the last time he tries to rope you into another âtotally fairâ competition.
diluc
You had never been to Angelâs Share before. The tavernâs glow was always something you passed by from the streetâtoo loud, too crowded, too full of people who seem to belong. But today had been unbearable, and against your better judgment, you push open the door and step inside.
The noise of conversation presses in, the air thick with alcohol and laughter. You slump onto a stool at the bar, keeping your head low, and order the first drink that comes to mind. The glass sits mostly untouched in front of you as you stare down into it, hoping the warmth of the tavern will dull the day. It doesnât. Instead, your vision blurs, and you realize with horror that tears threaten to spill over. You try to blink them away, pressing your lips tight. You are a stranger here. No one will care, but no one should see.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a plain wooden box of tissues sitting at the far edge of the counter, the kind kept there for careless wine spills. You reach for it quickly, desperate to hide the crack in your composure. At the same moment, a gloved hand slides it toward you.
You freeze, your fingers brushing the edge of the box just as his do, warm fabric against your skin for the briefest instant.
The bartender clears his throat quietly and lets go first. âHere,â he says, low-voiced, as if speaking too loudly might draw more attention than you want.
You mutter a thank you, pressing a tissue to your eyes. The silence that follows isnât the oppressive kind anymore but something gentler. Still, it unsettles you how steady his gaze feels even when you refuse to meet it.
âRough day?â he asks finally.
You give a watery laugh. âSomething like that.â
He nods once, as if that answer is enough. Then, in his hesitant way, he reaches behind the counter. A moment later, a small plate of pastries appears in front of you. âOn the house. ItâŚhelps sometimes.â
You look up, startled. There is no trace of teasing in his expression, only a quiet sincerity that somehow makes your throat ache more than before. And for the first time all day, you feel a little less alone.
tighnari
Itâs the last packet of flowering true indigo seeds in the Grand Bazaarâs apothecary stall, destined to unfurl into delicate, spindly stems crowned with clusters of dusky pink blossoms that thrive in dappled forest shade and enrich the soil. Youâve been hunting for them for weeks. Your fingers brush the paper just as another hand reaches in.
âAh, pardon me,â a man says, voice even but polite. âIâve been looking for these for a specific restoration plot in Avidya Forest.â
You look up and immediately recognize his uniform, the Forest Watcher insignia at his shoulder, the green scent of rain-damp foliage that clings to him. âYouâre a Forest Watcher.â
His ears twitch, and he inclines his head. âTighnari. And yes.â
You hesitate only a second before sliding your hand back. âThen you should have them. Youâre out there taking care of the forest every day, making sure it even has plants like these. I can wait.â
His hazel eyes soften in clear surprise. âThatâsâŚrare. Most people would argue their case. Especially if theyâve been looking as long as you have, judging from the way you lit up when you saw them.â
You laugh faintly. âI just figure youâll make better use of them. I care about nature, but youâre actually protecting it.â
He takes the packet, then sets it back on the stall counter. âThen Iâll propose something better. Thereâs a small grove near Gandharva Ville where these seeds will do the most good, but I can spare a section for cultivation training. If you want to help plant them, youâll get more than you would from a garden plot here in the city.â
Your eyebrows rise. âYouâd let me help?â
âOnly if you listen to instructions,â he says, but the edge of his mouth tilts upward. âAnd if you can handle the trek. Itâs humid, there are fungi everywhere, and I might quiz you on leaf identification along the way.â
You smile. âSounds fair.â
He pays for the seeds, tucking them into a pouch at his waist. âMeet me at the eastern bridge to Gandharva Ville tomorrow morning. Weâll see if you still think so then.â
You walk away feeling oddly light, already wondering what other rare plants might grow in that grove and what it might be like to see the forest through his eyes.
childe
Youâre killing time in a small tea house on the quieter side of Liyue Harbor, savoring a cup of jasmine tea and watching the harbor cranes swing against the setting sun. At the next table, a man in civilian clothes lounges with an easy posture, idly tapping his fingers against his porcelain cup. His reddish hair catches the light, and though he is dressed simply, there is a strange sharpness to the way his gaze tracks people coming and going.
You donât have long to wonder about him before the front doors bang open. Four Treasure Hoarders storm in, weapons drawn.Â
âEmpty your tills and hand over the lockbox,â one snarls at the shop owner. âNow.â
The room tenses. You scan the room for somethingâanythingâyou can use to defend yourself and maybe help the poor owner. Your eyes fall on a sturdy wooden serving tray leaning against the counter.
You lunge for it at the exact same moment the redhead does. Your fingers collide, the wood trapped between you. He looks at you with a flash of surprise that quickly melts into a crooked grin.
âOh? Didnât think anyone else here was about to join the fun.â Before you can answer, he pushes the tray into your hands. âYou take this. Iâm better up close.â
The Hoarders are already moving. You swing the tray at the nearest one, smacking his weapon clean from his grip. The redheadâwho clearly hadnât been bluffingâis suddenly a blur of motion, driving an elbow into anotherâs stomach and sweeping his legs out from under him. One lunges at you from the side, but the redhead intercepts, twisting the attackerâs arm until he drops his blade. The last one tries to make a break for it, but a well-aimed kick from your newfound battle companion sends him sprawling.
When the dust settles, the four groan on the floor. The tea house owner peeks out from behind the counter, wide-eyed. The redhead saunters up to you, brushing a fleck of dust off his sleeve.Â
âYou fight well. Not bad for a first-time tag team.â His tone is light, but thereâs appraisal in his eyes.
You smile faintly. âThanks for the assist. Though Iâm starting to think you didnât actually need me.â
He chuckles. âMaybe. But it was more fun this way.â
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small calling card, sliding it across the table to you. The name reads simply: Tartaglia.
âNext time you see trouble,â he says with a wink, âsave me a seat at your table.â
ayato
The garden lanterns glow warm against the evening, casting shifting shadows over the polished stones of the Inazuman nobleâs estate. Guests stand in neat clusters, voices low and careful. Every laugh is measured, every smile calculated. You arenât here for the wine or the polite conversation; you are here to listen. Rumors say negotiations between several noble houses have soured, and something is about to give.
The sharp chime of porcelain breaking cuts through the air. Several guests turn in time to see the hostâs wife gasp, one hand rising to her elaborate coiffure. A delicate hairpinâa slim, antique piece inlaid with mother-of-pearl cranesâhas tumbled loose, glinting as it spins across the stone. You step forward instinctively, only to realize someone else has moved at the exact same moment. Your hands reach the hairpin together. His touch is cool and precise, withdrawing just enough to let you grasp it first.
But the instant your fingers close around it, you feel something wrong: a sliver of metal beneath the decorative head, sharper than it should be. It is a narrow blade, spring-loaded into place, with the faintest trace of an oily sheen along its edge. Not a hairpinâa weapon.
Your eyes flick to the man beside you. His expression is unreadable, but the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth suggests amusement, or perhaps warning. Without a word, he extends his hand. You hesitate before placing the hairpin into his palm. His fingers close over it smoothly, concealing the dangerous edge from view.
âIâll see it returned to the lady,â he says in a voice pitched but carrying the weight of one accustomed to obedience. Then, with a polite bow, he slips back toward the hostâs wife.
You expect him to hand it over immediately. Instead, you notice, just barely, that he palms the hairpin into the wide sleeve of his kimono before producing a different, harmless ornament from somewhere else and presenting that to her instead. Her relieved smile suggests she has no idea.
The rest of the evening passes in a haze of cautious conversation, but when you glance toward him again, he is gone. It isnât until you are leaving that you find him waiting at the outer gate, hands folded loosely behind his back.
âI suspect,â he says lightly, âthat someone as observant as you wonât be able to resist wondering why the hostâs wife was wearing an assassinâs blade in her hair.â
You open your mouth, but he steps closer, lowering his voice until only you can hear.Â
âIf youâd like an answer,â he says, âcome to the Kamisato estate tomorrow at noon. If notâŚâ He steps back, the faintest ghost of a smile crossing his face. âThen Iâll assume our paths will simply cross againâŚin less favorable circumstances.â
And with that, he turns and vanishes into the night, leaving you with a choice and the unsettling certainty that youâve already made it.
alhaitham
You slip quietly through the towering shelves of the House of Daena, hand trailing a row of paper spines with a purpose not entirely scholarly; today, you werenât hunting knowledge but a book thick enough to press a handful of blossoms youâd collected earlier on your morning walk. Nothing fancyâjust a practical volume you could carry back to your desk without attracting attention. At last, you spot it. A slender, unassuming book, tucked neatly among tomes of far heavier consequence. Your fingers graze the spine just as another hand closes over it from the other side. You glance sideways.Â
Tall. Sharp eyes. Slate-green hair catching the light from the libraryâs stained-glass windows. His Akademiya uniform is immaculate, and something about his composed presence makes him stand out even here.Â
For one fleeting moment, your brain rehearses the polite, academic response: Oh, you can have it. You hadnât needed this book specifically, after all. But then the stranger tilts his head, assessing you with the faintly dismissive air of a scribe cataloguing a particularly unremarkable footnote, and states, âIâll be needing that.â
Any civilized instinct you had vanishes. You tighten your grip on the spine. âI got here first.â
A flicker of surprise crosses his face, almost imperceptible. The silence stretches, charged, his eyes locking with yours in a quiet battle of wills until, at last, you relent with a huff.Â
âFine, take it. See if I care.â
He slips the book free with disarming ease. âWise choice,â he murmurs, not smug so much as matter-of-fact.
Youâd just managed to convince yourself to brush it off and search for another suitable book when his gaze snags on the flowers peeking from your satchel. One blossom slips loose, tumbling soundlessly to the floor. His brow creases.Â
âBotanical specimens. You intended to compare them against the taxonomy in this volume?â
You stoop quickly, plucking the flower back into your palm. âNot exactly.â Then, because honesty had always been your downfall: âI was going to press them with it.â
The effect of your admission is immediate. His composure cracks for a single, glorious second, eyes widening, mouth parting as though you had announced an intent to burn the Akademiyaâs archives for kindling. Shock, disbelief, and something that might even be personal offense wage battle across his face.
âYouâŚwere going to use an Akademiya manuscript as a botanical press?â His voice, usually so steady, pitches upward. âDo you even realizeââ He cuts himself off, drawing in a slow breath as though the act of restraint costs him dearly.
The corner of your mouth twitches. âWhat? Itâs heavy. Flat. Reliable.â
He blinks at you like heâs visibly recalibrating his entire worldview. For someone so famously composed, the disbelief written across his features is nothing short of priceless, and for reasons he probably doesnât care to examine, heâs just a little intrigued.
neuvillette
It rains the way only Fontaine can: fine mist one moment, sudden downpour the next, the whole city glistening as if it has been dipped in glass. You are not sure why the weather turns so suddenly; the sky was clear just an hour ago.
You duck into a small, book-lined shop, shaking water from your coat. The place smells faintly of ink and salt air, and at the very back, tucked high on a shelf, is exactly what you are looking for: a rare, illustrated compilation of Fontaineâs aquatic folklore. You reach up just as another handâgraceful, long-fingered, and glovedâextends from beside you. Your eyes follow the sleeve of his dark coat up to a tall man with silver hair that catches the lamplight like rainwater. His gaze lowers to you, unreadable but courteous.
âAh,â he says softly, as if the word is an exhale. âIt seems we have similar tastes.â
âLooks like it,â you reply, fingers still touching the bookâs spine. âFirst come, first served?â
His lips curve in the faintest ghost of a smile. âOrdinarily, perhaps. But this particular volume is not for casual reading.â
You tilt your head. âYou think Iâm a casual reader?â
âOnly that most people,â he says with deliberate slowness, âdonât seek out myths of the sea unless theyâreâŚinvested.â His eyes flick toward the rain-smeared window. âOr, unless they understand the weight of whatâs in them.â
Without thinking, you remark, âSometimes the rain feels like itâs crying for you.â It isnât something you mean to speak aloudâjust a passing thought youâve had on days like this, when the downpour seemed almost sentient.
His gaze widens, the faintest ripple of surprise breaking through his composure.
You let go of the book, curiosity outweighing your claim. âDid I get it wrong?â
â...No,â he says at last, his voice quieter now. âItâs not often I hear someone phrase it that way.â
When you step back, he takes the volume, but after a momentâs thought, opens it to a page adorned with a watercolor of a great dragon weeping over an endless ocean.
âThis one,â he says quietly, as if speaking of something personal, âtells of a guardian who watched over the waters for centuries, unseen and unthanked. The people forgot his name. They say when he mourned, the skies mourned with him, and the rain fell until his sorrow eased.â
A soft, almost imperceptible note of sadness lingers in his voice. Outside, the rain continues, steady and unrelenting.
He glances at you. âIf youâre willing to walk with me to the Court when the weather calms, we can read the rest together. I believe the discussion will be enlightening.â
Something tells you this wonât be a quick exchange of trivia over tea. It will be the kind of conversation that stays with you, the kind that might explain, one day, why the rain sometimes feels like it is falling for someone.
heizou (bonus version)
The busy chatter of Ritouâs morning market fades beneath the thud of something hitting the cobblestones. A cream paper envelope sealed in red wax skids to a halt between your boots. You bend at the same time as a stranger on your right, nearly knocking foreheads. He catches himself with a grin, quick as a fox.
âAfter you,â he says, though his gaze is already dissecting the envelope.
You pick it up, turning it in your hands. Thick paper, expensive; no address, no name, just an embossed Windwheel emblem in one corner.
âNot Inazuman,â you murmur.
âForeign import,â he agrees instantly. âProbably Mondstadt. But see the faint smudge of salt on the wax? Itâs been carried by sea recently.â
You nod. âAnd the faint citrus scent means it spent some time in a crate with fruit, probably to mask whatever else was in the shipment. Which suggestsâŚâ
âThe sender wanted it to pass customs without inspection,â he finishes, his brows rising slightly.
The merchant who had dropped it is now halfway down the pier, walking with a subtle limp.
âRight shoe sole is worn more than the left,â you note aloud, âand the knees of his trousers are dusty. Either he kneels a lot, orââ
ââheâs been prying open crates,â your new associate supplies. âThe ink on his fingers wasnât from bookkeeping, then.â
You hand him the envelope, but instead of pocketing it, he tilts his head at you. âYouâre good at this.â
âAnd youâre wasting time,â you return, already stepping toward the pier.
His grin widens as he follows. âWhatâs your name, partner?â
You don't answerâpartly because you arenât sure why you're getting involved, and partly because you enjoy the spark of curiosity that flickers in his eyes when you keep him guessing.
genshin boys reach for the same item as you (part 1)
premise. fate doesnât always strike like lightning; sometimes, it brushes your fingers against someone elseâs. when you and a certain someone meet by reaching for the same thing at the same time, you both realize you mightâve found something you didnât know you were looking for.
part 2. out now
[itto, diluc, tighnari, childe, ayato, alhaitham, neuvillette, bonus heizou]
cyno
You browse the merchant booths in the small village just outside Sumeru City, the air fragrant with spices and ink. Vendors display everything from hand-copied manuscripts to experimental powders in glass jars. One table in particular catches your eye, presenting a sealed container of dark blue liquid labeled as a ârare stimulant derived from desert flora, guaranteed to increase mental acuity.â Itâs expensive, yes, but youâve never seen anything like it. You reach for the jar, fingers skimming the cool glass, but another hand lands on the lid at the same time.
You startle, looking up to meet the piercing gaze of a man in a black cloak and golden headpiece. The sheer severity of his stare makes your pulse trip; it feels less like a coincidence and more like heâs caught you in the middle of a crime.
âYouâre under arreââ he begins, voice low and final.
Then he pauses. Blinks once. His gaze flicks to the vendor, then back to you, registering in a fraction of a second that you are merelyâŚshopping.
ââŚNever mind,â he says. âYouâre not the suspect.â
The silence that follows is thick and awkward, your hand still hovering over the jar, his still inches away.
âThatâs goodâŚ?â you venture, unsure if youâve just narrowly avoided incarceration or a lecture.
He doesnât reply right away. Instead, his fingers close around the jar with clinical precision. âThis is evidence. The seller is distributing diluted tinctures stolen from a restricted research project.â
The vendor sputters. âEvidence? You have no rightââ
Thatâs when the man produces an official seal from inside his cloak and delivers the words with cool finality, âGeneral Mahamatra. You are under disciplinary review for unlawful possession of Akademiya property.â
The color drains from the vendorâs face. He bolts.
Cyno doesnât even flinch; he just presses the jar into your hands, surprising you. âHold this.â Then, heâs gone in a blur of white and gold, chasing the man into the street.
You stand there, dumbfounded, jar cradled awkwardly, trying to reconcile the fact that two minutes ago you were shopping and now youâre holding contraband evidence for the Akademiyaâs most intimidating law enforcer. When he returns, dragging the subdued vendor by the collar, he reclaims the jar without hesitation.
âThanks for keeping it safe,â he says. He studies you for a beat, expression unreadable. âYou stayed calm; Iâm impressed. Most people would find the whole situation ratherâŚjar-ring.âÂ
It takes a moment for your brain to process his words. Did the General Mahamatra just make a pun? You blink, caught between disbelief and amusement. âOh, umâŚquite pun-derful of you to notice,â you reply, your voice carefully polite.
Cynoâs lip twitches, just the faintest hint of a smile. Without another word, he turns sharply and disappears down the street.
You can hardly believe it when the next time you run into him, heâs across the table at a TCG gathering, fanning a hand of Genius Invocation cards. âYour move,â he says, eyes unreadable, but thereâs a spark of mischief there that hints this second meeting may not have been a coincidence.
kaeya
The ballroom is too warm, too loud, and too full of people smiling at each other with their teeth and not their eyes. Youâve lasted an hour longer than you meant to, and the glass in your hand has been empty for twenty minutes. That is your excuse, anyway, as you slip toward the long table glittering with bottles of Mondstadtâs finest vintages.
You keep your gaze low and shoulders angled away from the crowd, moving with the sort of careful ease that makes you nearly invisible. If you time it right, you can snag a bottle, slip out a side door, and no one will be the wiser. Your fingers curl around the cool glass neck of a Dawn Winery vintage, only to be met by someone elseâs hand. You blink, startled, and look up.
The man across from you wears a half-lidded smile that seems too amused for the situation. âWell,â he drawls, thumb still resting on the bottle, covering your own, âI canât decide if this is luck or tragedy. I come here to steal a drink, and find someone attempting the same crime.â
You arch a brow, not pulling your hand back. âSteal? Itâs not stealing if itâs freely provided.â
âMm. True. ButâŚâ His smile sharpens. âItâs not exactly encouraged to smuggle the whole bottle, is it?â
The implication makes you flush, mostly because heâs right. âMaybe I was planning to share,â you counter quickly.
âOh?â His head tilts, and for a heartbeat, the noise of the ballroom dims around you, his attention drawing you in like a tide. âIn that case, Iâd be terribly rude to deny such a generous offer. Shall we call it a conspiracy, then?â
You hesitate, weighing whether to release the bottle or wait for him to. But then, almost without thinking, you both lift it at the same timeâtwo culprits caught in the same scheme. His gloved hand lingers a moment longer on yours, then slides away, leaving a chill in its absence.
âYou donât enjoy parties either, then?â you ask, because somehow it seems better than silence.
He lets out a smooth chuckle. âLetâs just say I prefer my evenings quieter. Fewer masks, fewer lies. Unless Iâm the one telling them, of course.â
You narrow your eyes slightly, half amused, half wary. âAnd who exactly are you?â
He dips his head in a mock bow, eye glittering like starlight off wine. âKaeya Alberich, at your service. And you areâŚ?â
You give your name, and for reasons you canât quite place, he repeats it softly, as though tasting it alongside the wine you now both hold custody of.
âThen it seems,â Kaeya says, taking a step back toward the nearest balcony, âthat we have a drink to share. Unless youâd rather go back to mingling with the delightful guests inside?â
The distant murmur of forced laughter and tedious speeches echoes behind you. You donât need long to decide.
albedo
The Windblume Festival turns Mondstadt into a swirl of music, petals, and too many people for the streets to comfortably hold. Vendors call out over one another, ribbons stream from poles, and the air smells of cider and roasting chestnuts. You are admiring a stall of delicate windwheel asters when a flash of red darts into your peripheral visionâa small girl, all energy and excitement, tugging at the sleeve of a blond man.
âAlbedo! Dodoco says this oneâs perfect for making a big kaboom!â the girl chirps.
Your head turns automatically at the words big kaboom. You catch sight of a handmade plush in her hands: a round, cutesy thing with painted ears and a stitched smile. And sparks. Your stomach drops. Is that a bomb?Â
Youâre still trying to discreetly look without looking when the toy slips from her fingers, bounces once on the cobblestones, and rolls toward a crowd of festival-goers.
âBombâ!â The warning tears out of you as you lunge forward, instincts overruling everything. From the corner of your eye, you see the blond man react at the exact same moment, his gloved hand shooting out toward the object.
Your fingers brush it first, curling protectively around the strange, sparking toy as you draw your body around it to shield the crowd behind you. The world narrows to the weight in your hands and the quick, sharp sound of someoneâs boots hitting stone beside you.
A gloved hand presses against your back. An urgent, low voice. âGive it to me.â
You twist slightly, meeting pale teal eyes that are far calmer than the situation warrants. His focus isnât on you, but on the dangerous sphere you are shielding. You relinquish it.
The manâAlbedo, apparentlyâplaces his palm over the surface, muttering something under his breath. Golden alchemical light swirls, and in a blink, the sphere melts into the soft white bloom of a Cecilia.
â...There,â he says simply, straightening.
You sit up, breathing hard. âWas thatââ
âYes,â Albedo interrupts gently. âAnd next time, please donât throw yourself on an active explosive. That was reckless.â His brows draw together, a mixture of puzzled scolding and something almost like respect. âEffective, but reckless.â
You blink at him. âYouâre welcome?â
Albedo turns to the child. âKlee,â he says mildly, though the undertone makes her shoulders hunch. âWhat did I tell you about bringingâŚthose out in public?â
Klee shuffles. âNot toâŚunless youâre watchingâŚbut you were watching!â
You canât help but let out a faint laugh, even as adrenaline still thrums through you.
Albedo fixes her with another measured look. âEven so, you must be more careful. Jumpy Dumpty is not a toy to bring to a crowded festival. You could have put this kind stranger in real danger.â
Kleeâs head droops as she turns to you. âIâm sorryâŚI didnât mean to scare anyone. I just wanted Jumpy Dumpty to see the Windblumes.â Her eyes suddenly brighten, and she tugs at your sleeve. âCan I make it up to you? We can all go together! Iâll be super careful!â
Albedo opens his mouth to protest, but you see the faintest hint of resignationâand maybe willingnessâin his expression.
Which is how you end up walking through the Windblume Festival flanked by a sheepish Spark Knight and a quietly watchful Chief Alchemist, the three of you sharing candied apples under a shower of petals.
kazuha
Itâs drizzling lightly in Ritou, the kind of soft rain that turns every lanternâs glow into a watercolor blur. You pause beneath the eaves of a small vendorâs stall, hand hovering over the last paper-bound anthology of old Inazuman travel poems. Just as your fingers graze the cover, another hand arrives beside yours.
Instinct pulls your gaze sideways. The stranger beside you smells faintly of salt and pine, a trace of open sea clinging to him even here in the crowded harbor. He tilts his head, gaze flicking from the book to your face, then upward, as though listening to the rhythm of rain sliding from the eaves.
âMy apologies,â he says with the faintest bow, voice quiet enough that it feels private despite the bustle of the street. âIt seems our paths converge.â
You retract your hand, unsure if heâs claiming the book or inviting you to take it. âItâs the last copy,â you explain. âIâve been looking for this one.â
âAh,â he murmurs, thumb brushing the cover with reverence. âIâve been looking for this one, tooâon behalf of a friend who misses these words.â
For a moment, youâre both silent, the rain filling the space between your choices.
Then, he smilesâfleetingly, like a gust carrying petals pastâand offers, âPerhaps we could read it together. My ship departs for Liyue in two days. Until then, we may both be travelers in these verses.â
The proposal feels improbable yet unshakably right. He makes the purchase, then presses the anthology into your hands with a smile soft as the mist around you. You cradle it carefully as you step aside with him to let others pass.
Thatâs how you find yourself, later that evening, sitting with Kazuha under the overhang of a tea house, the rain still falling in silver threads while he reads the first poem aloud. By the time you reach the final page, you realize that though the poems are short, and your acquaintance briefer still, both have carried you farther than you expected.
heizou
The busy chatter of Ritouâs morning market fades beneath the thud of something hitting the cobblestones. A cream paper envelope sealed in red wax skids to a halt between your boots. You bend at the same time as a stranger on your right, nearly knocking foreheads. He catches himself with a grin, quick as a fox.
âAfter you,â he bows.
You pick up the envelope, turning it over. âAddressed toâŚno one?â
âMm. Interesting, isnât it?â His eyesâgreen, bright, and uncomfortably observantâflick over it once, and you can almost hear gears turning. âNo return name, either. Only a Sumeru merchantâs mark in the corner.â
The merchant in question had already vanished into the crowd.
You pass the envelope toward him, but his fingers donât take it right away. âThe wax is still soft,â he murmurs, âmeaning it was sealed minutes ago. Which means they didnât plan to send it through the official post. More of aâŚhand-delivered sort of message.â
You tilt your head. âA love letter?â
âA threat,â he corrects cheerfully. âThe merchantâs boots are polishedâexpensive habit. But his sleeves are ink-stained, which means he wrote this himself on the go, instead of paying a scribe, and didnât have time to clean himself off. And when he passed the dock guards, he didnât meet their eyes.â
âYou got all that from a quick glance?â
He finally accepts the envelope, slipping it into his coat. âWell, no. The boot polish and the sleeves told me. His refusal to meet the guardsâ eyes was just confirmation.â
âAnd youâreâŚ?â
âKazuha told me to say Iâm Shikanoin Heizou, but personally, I think âgenius detectiveâ has a nicer ring to it. Want to help me deliver this letter to the intended recipient? I promise itâll be more interesting than your errands.â
You glance at the market. The morning is still young; the crowd swirls with the promise of unknown stories to be revealed.
You find yourself smiling. âAll right, Detective. Lead the way.â
wanderer
The bazaar had been nearly picked clean under the weight of the noon sun. You squint at a certain vendorâs stall, spotting the very last parasol tucked to the sideâlight, elegant, and exactly what you need to avoid melting on the walk home. You reach for it, only to have your fingers collide with someone elseâs.
The stranger next to you is small but sharp-edged, dressed in blue with a wide, absurdly oversized hat that casts such a deep shadow you canât even see his whole expression. But you feel the glare when his hand tightens around the handle.
âTch. Figures someone else would try to snatch it.â
You blink, then slowly release your grip. âOh, sorry. You can have it.â
His eyes narrow as though youâve just insulted him. âThatâs it? You give up that easily?â
âI mean, it seems like you got here first.â
He makes a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. âPathetic. If you wanted it, you shouldâve fought harder for it.â
That pricks your pride. You cross your arms, raising a brow at him. âBig words coming from someone already wearing a hat thatâs basically an umbrella.â
His shoulders stiffen. Slowly, he turns his head toward you, and though the brim casts most of his face in shadow, you see the twitch in his jaw. âExcuse me?â
You gesture at the massive thing shading him like a portable pavilion. âSeriously, with a hat like that, why do you even need a parasol?â
For a second, he looks like he might actually bite you. Then he yanks the parasol closer with a sharp tug. âI donât. But if you think that means youâre getting it, youâre even dumber than you look.â
You snort, more amused than offended. âSo you donât need it, but you donât want me to have it either? Thatâs childish.â
His eyes flash, but he doesnât respond, turning on his heel and stalking off, parasol in hand like itâs a prize heâs won.
Still, a couple hours later, when you step out of another shop, you nearly trip over something propped against the wall by your feetâthe parasol. There isnât any explanation; itâs just been left there, waiting. But when you glance down the street, you swear you see the brim of that ridiculous hat vanish around the corner, like heâs been watching to make sure you find it.
xiao
You hadnât expected the lanterns to sell out so early. The vendor at the harbor stall is already packing up when you spot itâa single, small Mingxiao Lantern tucked beneath the counter. The vendor hesitates when you ask for it. âI was going to save that one forâŚâ His gaze flits to the side.
You follow it, and thatâs when another hand reaches for the lantern at the same time as yours. Gloved fingers brush against yours, cool despite the humid evening air. The man in front of you isnât dressed like anyone youâve seen in the harbor before: sleeveless white shirt, jade armpiece, and a mask at his waist. His golden eyes fix on you, unblinking.
âI need that,â he says simply, voice low and certain.
You donât let go. âSo do I.â
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then, faintly, he adds, âItâsâŚfor someone.â His gaze slides away, as if the words have been pulled out against his will.
Something about his toneâthe tightness in it, the way âsomeoneâ sounds like they arenât here anymoreâmakes your grip soften, though you donât release it yet. âIs it for a promise, or a memory?â you ask quietly.
His eyes snap back to yours, startled. âYou ask too much of a stranger.â
âYouâre the one trying to take my lantern,â you point out, feeling a little too childish in your defense.
A faint, almost imperceptible curve touches the corner of his mouth, then vanishes. âFine. Keep it. IâllâŚfind another way.â
You frown. âOr,â you offer before you can think better of it, âwe could light it together.â
That earns you a long, assessing silence. Then he steps aside, not in agreement exactly, but in something close to it.
In the end, you both kneel by the pier, the warm glow of the lantern lighting his profile. He doesnât speak until it lifts into the night, drifting toward the mountains.
âFor a soul who can no longer see it,â he murmurs, not quite to you, but not to himself, either.
By the time you turn, he is gone, leaving only the rippling water and the faint trace of sandalwood on the breeze. He hasnât told you his name, and you donât know where youâll find him again. Still, you have the feeling this wonât be the last time you see him.
premise. You are a spy from Mondstadt sent to tail Childe undercover in LiyueâŚexcept he immediately figures it out and decides to mess with you. Cue: fake diary entries, suspiciously loud âtop secretâ conversations, and every ridiculous tactic he can think of to throw you offâand maybe win you over.
word count. 1.6k
You were blending in perfectly. Your posture was casual, garments slightly frayed from continual wear as you appraised the produce at the market stall. You selected an apple and held it up to inspect it. You were, in your entire essence, completely discreet amidst the other shoppers in Liyue Harbor.Â
Then Tartaglia looked up from across the street, caught your eyes, and winked. You dropped the apple. It rolled into a storm drain. Your career might have gone with it.
There are three overarching rules in covert surveillance, as drilled into you by Mondstadtâs Intelligence Division: stay quiet, stay unnoticed, and neverâneverâlet your target know you exist. Unfortunately, no one warned you that your assignment, Tartaglia, eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers, would not only catch you in the act within three hours but also decide to turn the entire mission into a personal game. You should have aborted the operation the moment he winked at you. Instead, you doubled down, which was exactly what he wanted.
The next day, you were seated at a quiet teahouse in Liyue Harbor, inconspicuously sipping chrysanthemum tea and pretending to read a merchant bulletin. The door slammed open, and in walked Childe with all the subtlety of a treasure hoarder raid.
âCan I get your most incriminating-looking tea?â he announced to the baffled waitress. âSomething dark, ominous. Preferably with secrets.â
You nearly spat out your drink.
He took the seat directly across from you and offered you no words but a slow, obnoxious sip and a smile that said, I know. Then, he got up and left, leaving a single sugar cube behind like some kind of post-espionage calling card.Â
By day three, he began carrying around a leather-bound journal with TOP SECRET scribbled across the front in red ink. Every hour or so, heâd stop in full view of you, pull it out with theatrical flair, scribble something furiously, and then glance around to make sure no one was watching him. Except you. Always you.
Once, you caught a glimpse of a page:
April 3: Spy is cute. Must stay vigilant. May try to poison me with feelings.
You considered reporting that part to headquarters but figured it would only get you reassigned out of embarrassment.
And then, just when you thought he might grow bored, he escalated.
First came the fake intel. You found the torn-up note behind the blacksmith, where he knew you always checked for drops:
THE TRUTH LIES BENEATH Table 3 at Wanmin Restaurant. Noon. Come alone.
You came and were met with Xiangling and a tofu sampler.
âChilde said youâd be hungry,â she said, smiling brightly, âfor...answers?â
The following day, you tailed him toward a secluded alley until he stopped dead, looked around dramatically, and whispered something into the ear of a bewildered street vendor. You watched from the roof as Childe handed the man a slip of paper and saidâloudlyââTell her the flower blooms at midnight. And not a second later!â
The vendor just blinked. âWho?â
Childe placed a dramatic hand on his shoulder. âYouâll know when you see her. Sheâs always pretending not to watch.â
You had to physically restrain yourself from hurling a rock.
The final blow came via an anonymous tip sent directly to Mondstadt Intelligence suggesting that you might be a double agentâcompromised, the tip claimed, by prolonged exposure to âHarbinger-class charm.â
You were summoned to the Liyue liaisonâs office for a lie detector interview. Lisa from the Knights happened to be in town to conduct it. She greeted you with a sunny smile and a teacup that smelled faintly of smug satisfaction.
âEmotionally compromised by a Harbinger,â she said, flipping through your file. âDramatic. I like it.â
âIâm not emotionally compromised.â
Lisa raised a brow. âMm-hm. Tell me, have you ever described your target using...subjective adjectives?â
âWhat does that mean?â
She sipped her tea. âWould you, for example, say heâsâoh, I donât knowââannoyingly handsomeâ?â
You froze. âNo.â
The magical flower on her desk withered instantly.
Lisa glanced at it then back at you with a slow grin. âThe flower thinks otherwise.â
You groaned. âItâs lying.â
âItâs an enchanted lie detector. It canât lie.â
âIâm being framed.â
She chuckled, setting her cup down. âRelax. Youâre not the first field agent to get rattled. But if it helps, Iâve read your surveillance notes. Granted, theyâre a little lovestruck and doodle-adjacent, but Iâll give you thisâyouâre meticulous. Dutiful, even.â
âTheyâre maps.â
âOne had a tiny sketch of his dumb shoulder pauldron.â
âIt was part of his silhouette!â
Lisa leaned back, looking far too amused. âSure it was.â
You exhaled, rubbing your face. âSo what now? You report me?â
Lisa leaned back in her chair, thoughtful. âTechnically, I should file a formal warning.â
You tensed.
âBut between us? Iâve read his file. If youâve kept up with him for this long without quitting or stabbing him in a back alley, you deserve a medal.â
She slid your folder back across the table, winked, and said, âConsider this a friendly caution. And maybe keep your maps less...artistic.â
That night, you found a note in your coat pocket:
I forgive you for the surveillance, so come to dinner. Iâll cook. Try not to die.
You werenât supposed to accept, of course. It was part of the rules of covert surveillance: no fraternizing with the target, no direct contact, and absolutely no candlelit meals. But exhaustion won, and maybe curiosity. And maybeâyou hated to admitâa very foolish kind of hope.
His apartment was warm, clean, and filled with little things that didnât match the Harbinger reputation, like a chipped tea set and a tiny cactus named Boris, who was wearing a red scarf.
âI figured you deserved a hot meal,â Tartaglia said. âSince youâre constantly hiding behind barrels.â
You nearly dropped your fork.
âI mean, really,â he continued, âthereâs one by the blacksmith thatâs not even big enough to crouch behind. You think I donât see you?â
You remained silent for another moment.
âWant me to leave?â you finally asked, unsure if this was a trap.
He smiled, setting the soup down. âWant you to stay.â
He promptly tried to do a twirl-and-serve maneuver with the ladle, flung it directly into the wall, and deadpanned, âTactical ladle misfire. We recover.â
And for one night, it felt simple, honest, and easy. Which made everything all the more difficult.
By the following week, he was back to nonsense.
âNow entering a suspicious-looking alleyway,â he narrated as you tailed him. âPossibly to meet a contact. Or to buy discounted street bao. Hard to say.â
You trailed him into a small bookstore only to find a single volume sitting face-up on the counter: How to Woo Your Spy: A Tactical Romance Guide. It was underlined in red. With tabs.
You stared.
The clerk gave you a thumbs-up.
From behind a display, Childe called, âChapter 7 has tips on âshared danger as a bonding activity.â Thoughts?â
At that point, you realized you werenât just compromised. You were being courted. In his own absurd, roundabout, passive-aggressive way, Tartaglia had flipped your mission on its head. He wasnât evading your watch. He was dancing directly into your line of sight and daring you to look away. You werenât a spy anymore. You were a joke whose target was now in complete control of your mission. Worse, you liked him.Â
You started packingânot for a strategic withdrawal but for resignation. You burned your notes, checked the ferry schedules to Mondstadt, and even drafted a letter to your old alchemy tutor asking if he was still hiring. You drafted a final report and nearly handed it to the Liyue branch courier.
But you hesitated. Because Childe hadnât shown up to his usual, overdramatic note-taking spot that morning. Or his afternoon reconnaissance session, or any of his other activities. And he didnât appear the next day, either. There was no âtop secretâ journal. No âcoincidentallyâ shared table, no notes, no loud fake intel or bad metaphors, and youâŚmissed him. That was the worst part.
So you did something foolishâyou looked for him.
You found him behind the Northland Bank, not hiding or fleeing, just leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smiling lazily like heâd been waiting.
âSo,â he said casually, âhow long do we keep pretending we donât like each other?â
You blinked. âExcuse me?â
He tilted his head. âCome on. Youâve watched me long enough to know I donât make moves without a plan. And Iâve watched you long enough to know you only break protocol when youâre interested.â
You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it again. He took one step forward, then paused to slip something into your coat before walking off with that maddeningly smug stride. It wasnât a note; it was a surveillance photo of him, annotated in your own handwriting. You thought youâd misplaced it and hadnât seen it in days.
You stared at it for a long moment. Then, finally, you smiled.
Maybe, just maybe, the best way to complete this mission...was to surrender.
Epilogue [Classified]
Inside Childeâs apartment, in a drawer beneath a mess of red string and overkill sticky notes, sits a cork board. Every pinned photo is a poorly taken candid of you: mid-eye roll, hiding behind a lamppost, smiling when you thought no one was watching. At the center, in bold letters:
OPERATION: STEAL HER HEART
Status: In Progress
Risk Level: Worth It
premise. While at the tavern with Kaeya and the Knights, you casually name-drop Diluc as the Darknight Hero, only to discover that none of the Knights actually know. Amid Kaeyaâs amused smirk and Dilucâs exasperated denial, the mystery of the masked vigilante stays very much alive.
word count. 1.1k
The Angelâs Share was warm with the late-night hum of conversation, mugs clinking and laughter spilling into the air like bubbles from a fresh pour. Behind the counter, Diluc worked with his usual precision, filling glasses, sliding them across the bar, and exchanging the occasional polite word with a customer before turning away again.Â
You sat with Kaeya and a handful of off-duty Knights at a table near the bar. The lot of them were already a drink or two past restraint, leaning toward one another as stories flowed faster than the ale.
âIâm telling you, I saw the Darknight Hero last week,â declared Swan, his voice carrying the awe of a man describing a folk legend. âHe leapt from the rooftop right in front of me, flaming sword and all.â
âOh, youâre lucky,â Huffman laughed. âLast time I caught sight of him, he was just a shadow slipping between alleys. But you hear the storiesâPyro vision, master swordsman, striking red hairâŚâ
âThat man can swing a claymore like itâs nothing,â chimed in another knight, thudding his mug down with emphasis.
You nodded along. âWell, of course. Dilucâs always been good with a claymore.â
The table stilled. Kaeyaâs wineglass paused halfway to his lips. Behind you, a faint, startled cough echoed from the bar.
ââŚWhat?â Huffman asked.
You shrugged, unbothered. âYou know, the youngest Cavalry Captain the Knights ever had? Itâs hardly surprising heâs that good.â
Swan blinked. âWeâre talking about the Darknight Hero.â
âYes,â you replied easily. âIâm talking about Diluc.â
The knights traded baffled looks.
âWait,â you said slowly, scanning their faces. âYou mean you all donât know?â
Kaeyaâs expression remained steady, but the lazy half-smile he wore gained a little more calculation.
âKnow what?â Huffman asked, now sounding uncertain.
âThat theyâre the same person?â You gestured vaguely toward the bar. âSame height, hair, build, Pyro visionâsame everything. And the mask he wears covers, what, this much of his face?â You circled both hands around your eyes. âThatâs barely even a disguise. I mean, itâs literally him in an owl mask and a cape.â
A couple of knights looked uneasy, glancing toward the bar. Huffman even squinted, like the picture might just be forming in his head.
Kaeya set his glass down with deliberate care. âPerhaps,â he drawled, âit is better not to pry into the affairs of our cityâs mysterious protector.â His smile was easy, but his eyes flicked sharply toward you in warning. âI am sure our dear friend is only indulging in some harmless speculation.âÂ
The others mumbled agreement, most too far into their drinks to piece together your logic anyway. Kaeya guided the conversation to a safer subject, but you caught the way his gaze slid toward the bar, like he was watching for someoneâs next move. You did not have to wait long.
âExcuse me,â came Dilucâs voice at your shoulder, perfectly polite but perfectly firm. âA moment of your time, please.â It was not a request.
Kaeya raised an eyebrow, his mouth curling as you stood. âDo enjoy yourself,â he murmured, the soft edge of amusement in his tone.
Diluc steered you toward the storeroom under the pretense of needing help with something, though the moment the door shut behind you, he fixed you with his steady, crimson-eyed stare.Â
âSo,â you began before he could speak, âthis is about the whole âyou being the Darknight Heroâ thing, right?â
âI am notââ He stopped, and his voice shifted to something cooler. âYou should be more careful with your words.â
âWhy?â you asked, incredulous. âBecause no one else knows? Do you mean to tell me they seriously donât recognize you?â
âYou are mistaken.â
You folded your arms. âIâve seen you in both outfits. Youâre not even trying to change your stance. The owl mask is a nice touch, but it doesnât fool anyoneââ
âIt is not an owl mask,â he interrupted, a little too quickly.
âIt has feathers and a beak, Diluc.â
âThat does not make it an owl.â
You tilted your head, grinning. âSo youâre not denying that youâre himâyou're just denying the owl part?â
âI am not admitting anything.â
âRight. Which is exactly what someone would say if they were trying to hide the fact that they run around at night in a cape and owl mask, setting things on fire.â
For a moment, something faintly exasperated and faintly embarrassed flickered across his face. ââŚYou have quite the imagination.â He lifted a gloved fist to his lips and cleared his throat. âHowever, I am not the Darknight Hero.â
You arched a brow. âYou vanish whenever he shows up. And seriously, youâre probably the only person in the entire nation with hair that red. Do you even realize how much you fight like yourself? Iâm just saying, youâre awful at this whole secret identity thing.â
He exhaled slowly, muttering something under his breath that you were pretty sure was a regret about ever speaking to you.
âSee?â you pointed out triumphantly. âThatâs the face of a man whoâs been caught.â
âThat,â he said with great restraint, âis the face of a man who wishes to avoid having rumors spread about him in his own tavern.â
You smiled sweetly. âRelax. Your secretâs safe with meâŚMister Owl.â
His eyes closed briefly, like he was weighing the possibility of throwing you out the back door. âGo back to your table.â
When you returned, Kaeyaâs smirk was already waiting. He didnât say anything at firstâjust leaned back, watching you sit. Then, right when you thought you were safe, he let out a thoughtful hum.
âMister Owl?â he said, voice carrying far too well over the table.
Somewhere behind you, a glass was set down on the bar a little harder than necessary.
You didnât bother asking how he knew. Youâd known Kaeya long enough to understand that he had a way of hearing things he had no business hearing, no matter how far away you said them.
âI have to say,â Kaeya continued, swirling his wine, âthatâsâŚinspired. Though Iâm not sure heâll appreciate the nickname.â
âIâm sure he wonât,â you agreed, sipping your drink.
Kaeyaâs grin sharpened. âOh, donât worry. Iâll make sure it catches on.â
From the bar came the annoyed snap of a cloth being shaken out for a wipe-down. You didnât even need to turn around to know whose it was.
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premise. sometimes, talking to yourself feels safer than facing the guy you canât stop thinking aboutâŚuntil he walks in on you mid-spiral. from awkward blushes to unexpected confessions, hereâs what happens when your most embarrassing moments become the genshin boys' favorite memories
You're crouched beside a broken cart wheel, half-hidden in tall grass, muttering furiously to yourself as you examine the splintered wood.
âOf course it had to break here, in the middle of nowhere. No signal flare left, and I let the boat crew leave without me. Brilliant. Great job, really stellar planningââ
âYouâre being rather harsh on yourself.â
You startle so hard you nearly fall backward. Kazuha stands a few paces behind, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves, his eyes full of quiet amusement and concern.
âYou were gone longer than expected,â he explains, seeing your confusion. âBeidou sent me to check if youâd lost your wayâor started arguing with local wildlife.â
You flush. âNo, Iâm justâŚtalking to myself. Thinking through how to fix it.â
He steps closer and knelt beside you, examining the wheel. âHm. The axleâs intact. A proper wedge might hold long enough to get you back to the road.â
You blink. âOh. Youâre not going to tease me about earlier?â
âI speak to the wind as if it listens,â he says lightly. âWhy would I judge you for speaking to yourself?â
You glance at him. âAnd does the wind ever answer?â
He smiles faintly. âOnly when Iâm quiet enough to hear it.â
And then, just like that, he gets to work, gathering branches, finding rope in your satchel, never once asking why you chose to be alone in the first place but just staying until the cart moves again. Maybe the wind hadnât answered, but he had.
diluc
He walks into the tavern early in the morning, expecting silence. Instead, he hears your voice in a low, frantic whisper as you await his arrival: âOkay, youâve got this. Heâs just a man. A tall, brooding, red-haired, intimidatingly handsome manâArchons above, why am I like this?â
He freezes mid-step, but the tap of his boot on the tile is loud enough to betray him. You whirl around, mortified, and lock eyes with him like a deer caught in emotionally compromising headlights.
He blinks once. Slowly.
ââŚI assume that was about me,â he says, voice neutral, but his ears are visibly pink.
âIâNoâI meanâkind of?â you squeak, visibly crumbling under the weight of your own existence.
He clears his throat and looks away, reaching for a mug that absolutely does not need his attention.
âUnderstood,â he mutters.
For the rest of the day, heâs overly polite, painfully formal, and avoids eye contact like itâs flammable. Later that evening, you find a cup of your favorite tea left out for youâsteaming, perfectly steeped, and completely unsupervised. The mug has a folded note under it, consisting of just three words: âYouâve got this.â
childe
Heâs passing by your room when he hears your voice, quiet but distinct, and increasingly unhinged: âOkay. Plan A: cry. Plan B: threaten to cry. Plan C: run away and never return.â
He pauses mid-step, then leans against the doorway with a lopsided grin. âWow, those are some elite-level crisis strategies. You sure youâre not Fatui?â
You shriek in embarrassment. âHow long have you been standing there?!â
âLong enough to know youâve got potential,â he laughs, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside.
You groan and hide your face. âI was joking. mostly.â
âNah, I kinda like it,â he teases. âPlan Aâs got emotional flair. Plan B? Classic drama. However, Plan C?â his voice softens just a bit. âIf you ran, Iâd just find you. You know that, right?â
You look up and find his smile stripped of mischief. Itâs quiet and gentle in a way that makes your heart trip over itself.
âButâŚif you do need tissues, Iâve got plenty.â
Somehow, this ends with him dragging you to sit on the couch, arms slung around you, both of you buried under a blanket neither of you remembers pulling over your laps.
âNew plan,â he says, voice muffled against your shoulder. âPlan D: stay right here.â
wanderer
He wasnât trying to eavesdrop. He'd simply been on his way when he found you pacing the courtyard, completely unaware of his presence.
âHe probably doesnât even notice when I smile at him. Or maybe he does. Maybe heâs just ignoring me. Ugh. I should just throw a rock at him.â
He replies instantly. âTry it. Iâll throw one back.â
You flinch so hard you nearly drop your bag. Heâs already leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. His gaze flicks to you, sharp but dissolving into something strangely unguarded. You open your mouth, but he speaks first.
âI notice,â he tells you, quieter now. almost like it costs him something to admit. âMore than you think.â
Then heâs gone, vanishing down the corridor before you can speak, like he never meant to say anything at all. But later, you find a small, perfectly smooth stone placed outside your windowsill. No note. No explanation. Just one rock, light enough to throw.
alhaitham
Heâs walking past the study when he hears you, your voice sounding low, frantic, and clearly not meant for anyone else.
âOkay, if I just put the books back exactly the way he had them, maybe he wonât know I was here. UnlessâŚhe cataloged them by page wear. Oh archonsâwhat if he did? Why does he have to be attractive and terrifying?â
His deadpan voice sounds right behind you. âFor the record, I do catalog them by page wear.â
You jump, dropping the book youâre holding, but instead of hitting the floor, it lands effortlessly in his palm.
âAlso, youâve been muttering to yourself for three full minutes. Youâre not exactly subtle.â
You open your mouth to explain, apologize, evaporate, anything, but he just walks past and plucks a book from your stack.
âYou misaligned this one by 0.6 centimeters,â he remarks, tone neutral. âBut Iâll let it slide.â
Youâre still frozen, blinking at him.
Without looking at you, he adds almost offhandedly, âNext time you wish to come by, just ask. Iâd rather see you here than not.â
And then he starts reorganizing beside you. Heâs silent, efficient, and just close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.
xiao
Youâre sitting alone on the quiet terrace just outside Wangshu Inn, knees pulled up to your chest as you mutter into the dusk. âWhy did I say âsweet dreamsâ? Who says that to Xiao? Heâs the vigilant yaksha, not some character from a bedtime story. He probably thinks Iâm a sentimental weirdoââ
âI donât.â
You whip around. Heâs suddenly there, silent as ever, standing just behind you in the fading light.
âI donât think youâre weird,â he repeats, voice soft and steady, though thereâs the faintest crease in his brow like heâs wondering if heâs said too much.
You scramble to stand, completely flustered. âWait, how long were youâ?â
âI heard my name,â he says plainly, as if that explains everything.
The air feels charged with embarrassment. Yours. Maybe his, too. After a pause, he glances away toward the treetops. His voice is quieter now.
âNo oneâs said that to me before.â
You blink. âSaid what?â
He doesnât meet your eyes. âSweet dreams.â
Thereâs something almost reverent in the way he says it, like the words feel too fragile in his mouth.
âI didnât think those were something I could have.â
The breeze carries the scent of silk flowers, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything.
Then, without looking at you, he adds, âBut I liked hearing it. From you.â
Your heart flips once, hard.
And before you can spiral all over again, he turns to go, but stops just long enough to murmur, âGoodnight. I hopeâŚyours are sweet, too.â
ayato
Heâs strolling through the estate gardens when he catches the faint tones of your voice, muffled but unmistakably dramatic. Curious, he peeks around a hedge and discovers you monologuing to a cluster of blue hydrangeas with passionate gestures.
âLord Ayato, my dearest nemesis. Why must you smile like that? Why must your tea taste like heartbreak and fine politics?â
His brows lift in faint surprise.Â
âAnd why did I tell him it was âtranscendentâ? Thatâs not normal person behavior. Thatâs the kind of thing a swooning diplomat says before fainting into their fan.â
Ayato brings a hand to his mouth, stifling the laugh that bubbles up. He knows he should announce himselfâknows it's indecent to lingerâbut curiosity roots him in place. Itâs rare to see you so unguarded, and rarer still to be the subject of such poetic vitriol.
You pace a few steps, oblivious. âHe probably thinks I was flirting. Which I wasnât. I think. Ugh.â
He waits just a second longer, watching as you sigh and press your fingertips to your forehead like a tragic heroine from a stage play, before stepping forward, his fan snapping closed with a soft click.
âI didnât realize Iâd been cast as the villain in your private soliloquy.â
You freeze. There is no mistaking his voice, nor the silk-smooth amusement threading through it. Slowly, you turn.
âI must say, your critique wasâŚvivid,â he continues. His expression is polite, but his eyes betray him, bright with barely contained laughter. âAnd rather unfair to the tea, which I assure you is not culpable for your emotional distress.â
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. He tilts his head, as if considering something seriously.
âThough I do wonder what heartbreak tastes like to you.â
You groan and bury your face in your hands.
He inclines his head slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. âNext time, speak your grievances aloud to me instead. I assure you, I respond far better than flowers.â
cyno
He walks in on you muttering and pacing in circles.
âOkay, okay. Donât laugh if he tells another joke. But also donât not laugh, because then heâll think you hate him. Ugh, why is this so complicated?â
He appears behind you with a perfectly straight face and says, âWhat do you call a fake noodle? an impasta.â
You shriek and nearly trip over a chair. He waits. You groan.
âThat wasâŚbetter than usual,â you admit.
He pauses as he appraises you. His lips twitch. âSo. Youâve been rehearsing responses to my jokes?â
You blink, caught. âNo. Definitely not.â
He steps closer, arms folded, head tilting in mock-serious thought. âInteresting. That implies you anticipated more. Which meansâŚyouâre expecting me.â
ââŚto keep telling them?â
He nods solemnly. âCorrect. And now that I know youâre preparing, Iâll have to escalate.â
You groan again, this time into your hands, and he finally cracks a smile. Later, heâll tell you a compliment disguised as a riddle. Youâll pretend not to swoon. Heâll pretend not to notice. Neither of you is very convincing.
itto
Youâre standing in front of a mirror, hyping yourself up. âYouâre brave. Youâre bold. You can flirt with Itto today. Probably. Maybe. Okay, no, donât flirt, just survive eye contact.â
A voice behind you booms, âWell hey, I think youâre already killinâ it!â
You scream and spin around so fast you almost knock over a stool. Ittoâs standing in the doorway, grinning like a kid who just found candy and a beetle.
âAlso, flirtingâs totally encouraged. Ten outta ten, would recommend.â
You clutch your chest. âHow long have you been standing there?!â
âSince the part where you said you were bold and brave or whatever. Sounded super cool, so I figured Iâd stay for the ending.â
You groan. Heâs still grinning.
âBut hey,â he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, âyou donât gotta overthink it. Just talk to me like normal! Or, yâknow, you could flirt if thatâs easier.â
You entertain the idea of feigning amnesia, knowing heâd probably fall for it. Instead, you mutter, â...I liked your hair today.â
He lights up like the sun. âSee? Youâre killinâ it!â
Somehow, this ends with him offering to coach you through flirting with him. The audacity.
kaeya
You were only meant to drop off a report. Nothing more. Just a quick visit to the Knightsâ headquarters, a few signatures, and out. And yet here you are, lingering in an empty hallway, your forehead pressed lightly against a stone pillar as you mutter to yourself.
âGenius. Absolutely genius. âNice weather, Kaeya.â Thatâs what I went with. Might as well have added, âHi, Iâve been harboring a wildly inconvenient crush on you since Stormterror was still a problem. Want to date and/or be the reason I start writing terrible poetry again?ââ
A breath of laughterânot your ownâcuts through the silence.
âIâd be open to both,â a familiar voice replies.
You freeze.
Heâs there, lounging against the window alcove like heâs been there all along, elbow propped casually on the sill, head tilted with interest. His smile says he heard every word. His eyes say he enjoyed it.
Kaeya pushes off the ledge and strolls toward you, every step perfectly unhurried. âNext time you plan to deliver a monologue about me, perhaps wait until Iâve left the building. Unless,â he adds, voice dropping with playful weight, âyou were hoping Iâd hear it.â
You can feel the heat rise to your face like a sunrise.
âI was just thinking out loud,â you manage.
âSo I gathered. And for the recordââhe passes close enough that his cloak brushes your sleeveââI find it flattering.â
You briefly consider flinging yourself out the nearest window.
At the end of the corridor, he glances back over his shoulder, smile curling just shy of sincere.
âIf the weather stays this nice, do let me know if that wildly inconvenient crush turns into something more actionable.â
And then heâs gone.
A junior knight passing by gives you a puzzled look. âYou, uhâŚlook like you saw a ghost.â
You exhale, voice thin. âWorse.â
baizhu
Youâre by yourself in the back room of Bubu Pharmacy, sorting herbs and muttering under your breath. Itâs been a long day, and unfortunately, your brain has chosen to perseverate.
âIf I faint in front of him again, Iâm just going to say it was low blood sugar. Not the fact that he tucked my hair behind my ear like it was nothing.â
âHmm. Iâll make a note to check your glucose levels...and perhaps develop a tincture for sudden-onset romantic distress?â
You whip around so fast that a handful of Qingxin spills onto the table. Baizhu stands in the doorway, serene as ever, holding a tray of tea like he didnât just obliterate your self-esteem.
âItâs a surprisingly common condition,â he adds, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. âOften triggered by gentle gestures and poor coping mechanisms.â
Changsheng pokes her head out from behind his collar and lets out a tiny, delighted laugh. âLovesick. Very contagious,â she stage-whispers.
You bury your face in your hands.
Baizhu sets the tea down beside you with quiet care. âI could prepare a cure, but I fear the malady is mutualâand, strangely, quite welcome.â
dainsleif
You think youâre alone, sitting quietly in a dim corner of the library and murmuring your frustrations to yourself. Dainsleif, combing the shelves for a particular volume, pauses when he hears the soft thread of your voice carry through the candlelight: âI bet he doesnât even remember my name. Iâm probably just a temporary footnote to him anyway. Someone who fades like shadows at dusk.â
His low voice answers from just beyond the glow of your lantern. âYou are not a footnote.â
You nearly jump out of your skin as Dainsleif steps into view. The candlelight flickers across the lines of his face, which remains composed and unreadable but not unfeeling. He doesnât speak gently, not exactly, but thereâs a steadiness to his tone that seems to lessen the musty air.
âNames are more than words,â he says. âThey are memory. History. Presence.â
He kneels slightly and locks eyes with you, his gaze piercing.
âI remember your name,â he continues. âNot only the shape of it. I remember the weight it carries when you speak it. I remember the careful way you said goodnight two nights ago, as if you werenât sure Iâd hear it, or hold it.â
You canât breathe. You canât look away.
âDonât assume I forget the things that matter,â he says, rising to his full height again. His expression doesnât shift, but something in his posture softens. And then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears into the stacks. For a long moment, all you can hear is the echo of his footsteps and the pulse of your own heartâlouder now, and somehow less alone.
tighnari
Youâre elbow-deep in soil, half-focused on coaxing the withered pardisah into a new pot, when your frustration finally boils over.
âOkay, next time, just say thank you and walk away. Easy. Normal. Not, âWow, your ears are so expressive today,â like some feral maniac.â You groan and press your forehead to your palm. âHe probably thinks Iâm studying him like a botanical specimen. What is wrong with me?â
âTo be fair,â a dry voice answers behind you, âmost people donât notice ear movement unless theyâre watching very closely.â
You nearly send the pot flying as you whip around. Tighnari is leaning beside your bag of soil, arms folded, one brow arched in faint incredulity.
âYou were thereâŚthe whole time,â you croak.
âRoughly since the âferal maniacâ part,â he amends, tail flicking with suspicious amusement. âYou were a bit harsh on yourself, but entertaining.â
You cover your face. âI swear I didnât mean to make it weird.â
âYou didnât,â he says gently, and thenâsurprisinglyâsmiles. âI didnât mind the compliment. It wasâŚoddly specific, but sincere. And clearly the result of long observation.â
He steps past you, crouching to inspect the flower you nearly murdered in your panic.
âNext time,â he adds, not looking up, âless spiraling, more speaking.â
His tone is neutral, but his ears betray him with the smallest, involuntary flick.
And then he mutters to himself, âTheyâre only expressive when youâre around, anyway.â
You pretend not to hear. For now.
thoma
Youâre alone in the kitchenâor so you believeâflipping gyozas with intense concentration and muttering under your breath. âOkay, Thoma likes them crispy. Not burnt. Crispy, like his smile. No, wait, what? Focus!â
âCrispy like my smile, huh?â
You flinch. The spatula slips from your fingers and clatters to the stovetop. Thoma is casually leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and grinning like he definitely heard more than he should have.
âIâm flattered,â he says, stepping closer. âBut now Iâve got questions. What, exactly, does a crispy smile look like?â
âIâI meant the gyoza, not yourâ Wait, no, I meant bothâI meanââ
The oil hisses sharply, like even the pan canât take it anymore. Smoke streams upward.
âNo, the gyozas!â
Thoma is already by your side, grabbing the pan with practiced ease and sliding it off the stove.
âYou know,â he says, grinning as he surveys the damage, âyou didnât have to set them on fire just to impress me.â
âI didnâtâ!â
âHey, Iâm not complaining. Means I get to help.â He tosses you a wink. âTeamwork, right?â
Somehow, you end up shoulder to shoulder, sleeves rolled up, hands floured, trying again as he gives teasing tips on âoptimal gyoza symmetry.â
Later, as the final batch sizzles golden and perfect, he leans just close enough to murmur, âStill not sure what a crispy smile is, but if weâre talking about yoursâŚI think I get it now.â
heizou
You march down the corridor, shoulders tense, voice pitched low but laced with despair.
âNo, Heizou, I donât need your help picking up the papers I dropped. I just need a convenient hole to bury the cadaver of my dignity in, thank you very muchââ
A hand suddenly lands on your shoulder.
âAAHHââ you scream mid-sentence, spinning on instinct and swinging your bag in self-defense.
Heizou barely ducks in time, a laugh tumbling out as he stumbles back, half-shielding himself. âWhoa, violent thoughts and airborne satchels? I shouldâve brought a warrant first.â
You freeze, mortified. Heâs already dusting off his sleeves like itâs just another day at the precinct.
âReally now, thatâs the welcome I get?â he continues, far too amused for someone who was nearly concussed.
âYou snuck up on me mid-spiral,â you retort, torn between embarrassment and residual adrenaline. âThatâs reckless behavior, even for you.â
He raises a brow, utterly unbothered. âI prefer to think of it as instinct. I happen to have an uncanny sense for when people are saying my name behind my back. Or in this case, aloud. To themselves.â
Your eyes widen just enough to give you away. Heizou smiles like heâs just cracked another case.
âYou know,â he adds, stepping just close enough for his voice to drop a tone, âtalking to oneself is a perfectly natural response to emotional distress. Especially when that distress has, sayâŚa face and a name?â
You groan and press a hand to your forehead. âYouâre insufferable.â
He tilts his head. âAnd yet, Iâm the one you keep muttering about.â
You try to come up with a retort. You fail.
âDonât worry,â he continues smoothly, already turning on his heel, âyour secrets are safe with me.â
âYou are the secret,â you call after him.
âAnd still,â he says without looking back, âyou canât seem to stop confessing to it.â
bennett
âOkay, just be normal. If I trip, Iâll just play dead. He wonât even notice. Heâs used to disasters,â you tell yourself as you pace in tight little circles outside the Adventurersâ Guild.
âWait, was that about me?â
You nearly leap into the decorative flower box beside the stairs.
Bennett stands behind you, blinking wide-eyed, equal parts confused and concerned.
âNoâI meanâkind of?â you stammer.
He scratches the back of his neck, flustered. âI mean, yeah, stuff does kinda explode around me sometimes, butâŚhey, youâre not gonna trip.â
He pauses, then adds quickly, âBut if you do, Iâll totally catch you! Probably! I mean, Iâve got decent reflexes! Usually!â
Heâs turning red now, voice rising an octave as he tries to dig himself out.
âNot that youâll fall, or need catching! Itâs justâIf you did fall, hypothetically, Iâd be there. Probably. Hopefully. Unless something explodes first.â
You both stare at each other in silence for a beat and then burst out laughing.
âSo,â you say, grinning, âwanna grab lunch before something does explode?â
âYes! Wait, are you asking me out?â
You hesitate. ââŚWould it make you trip if I said yes?â
âMost likely.â
âThen, Iâll give you âprobablyâ as my answer.â
âPerfect.â
kaveh
He hears your muffled voice through the wall.
âIf I see his ridiculously pretty face one more time, Iâm going to cry. Or combust. Or both. There is no middle ground anymore.â
A suspicious creak of the floorboard makes your soul exit your body. The door swings open slowly. Kaveh stands there with a tea tray and the most theatrical expression known to man.
âWell,â he says, in full dramatic cadence, âhad I known my face was wreaking such havoc on your emotional equilibrium, I wouldâve brewed peppermint for the nerves.â
You groan and throw a pillow at him.
âAh! betrayed by the very person moved to tears by my beauty. So youâve chosen emotional combustion. Noted.â
You peek between your fingers. âKaveh, please go.â
He places the tea tray down very deliberately. âIâll leave,â he says, moving toward the door, âbut only after I point out that Iâm flattered, deeply and profoundly.â
He stops in the doorway, looks back with a grin just slightly too genuine.
âBy the way,â he adds, not quite looking at you, âitâs mutual. The wholeâŚemotional-overload-in-each-otherâs-presence thing.â
And with that, he leaves. The tea cools quickly. You do not.
zhongli
Youâre standing outside WĂĄnmĂn Restaurant, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and muttered self-advice as you wait for a certain funeral consultant to join you for lunch.
âYou canât just stare at him every time he talks. Heâs not poetry. Heâs a man. A terrifyingly wise, elegant man made of tea and regret.â
You pause, frowning at the phrase.
âTea and regret?â
You jolt and whirl around. Zhongli is standing just behind you, his expression unreadable, as if weighing your words with the patience of centuries.
After a momentâs pause, a faint smile graces his lips. âI believe thatâs a new metaphor.â
Then, with a quiet elegance, he gestures in the space between you.
âYou may continue your soliloquy. I find itâŚendearing.â
You feel your composure unravel, cheeks flushing crimson as you try to meet his calm, knowing gaze. For a moment, the world narrows to the soft sound of your breathing and the quiet dignity of a man who understands more than he lets on, and you silently wonder if maybe, just maybe, he is poetry after all.