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“do you want to get furboeats?”

you make a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a protest, still half-buried in the aftermath of a decision you’re going to pretend you didn’t make. the room he got in this shoddy love hotel is exactly as disreputable as he promised. creaky bedframe, cheap sheets, and a mirror bolted to the ceiling.

you catch your reflection in it and immediately regret looking. the bastard had left a scatter of bite marks and darkening bruises that would get you written up in any other line of work.

you drag a hand over your face. “are you going to explain what that is?”

at the foot of the bed, ashveil glances up from his phone, faintly pleased with himself. “oh. it’s a food delivery app. places like this don’t do room service.”

“tragic.”

“i adapt.”

you stare at the ceiling instead of him, which is arguably worse, because the mirror insists on showing you both anyway—him intact and already bored, you looking like you lost an argument with a wild animal. which, to be fair, you did.

you don’t know why you keep coming back.

not a single soul has seen la mancha in years, and since your last encounter with the old wolf, you’d gotten good at moving on and letting certain names rot where you left them. you thought you’d finally kicked it, this particular vice filed neatly under mistakes you made when you were younger and significantly dumber.

but then the ipc decided to broadcast the supplicants of the phantasmoon games in planarcadia, and there he was—second place like a bad habit with a leaderboard.

you should’ve ignored it.

instead, you tracked him down.

again.

“so?” ashveil prompts. “you eating or sulking?”

you close your eyes. “i was aiming for a conversation.”

he laughs, patronizing, right before crawling back on the bed and settling between your legs.

“you always say that.”

half an hour later, the food arrives in a crumpled paper bag that looks like it lost a fight on the way up. ashveil nudges it open with one hand, already halfway disinterested, and passes you a burger like this is the most normal follow-up to what just happened.

you take it. because, evidently, this is your life now.

for a while, the room settles into something quiet—just the faint hum of whatever passes for infrastructure in planarcadia, the rustle of paper, the soft give of the mattress every time one of you shifts.

that’s when you notice it.

his arm.

you’ve seen it before, of course. hard not to, when he makes no effort to hide it. but you’ve never had the misfortune of staring at it this long, this closely. the prosthetic is sleek where it should be, functional where it needs to be, but the shadows... they move beneath his skin, curling and crawling like veins of some sinister power. like something lying in wait.

your gaze drifts lower, to the nails driven clean through his wrist. they were not decorative in the slightest. no, they had one purpose only.

containment.

you don’t realize you’ve stopped eating until he speaks.

“if you stare at it any longer,” ashveil comments lightly, “it might start thinking you’re interested.”

“…is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“no,” he says, taking another bite. “it’s supposed to be advice. monsters get attached to attention. best not to encourage them.”

you hesitate. because you can’t quite tell if he means the thing in his arm or himself.

he glances at you then, and smiles. it’s the same as always: easy, unreadable, the expression of a man who knows more than he’s willing to share. his slate-gray eyes, deep enough to pass for calm until you look too long, hold yours for just a second too much.

“you said you wanted to talk, rookie.”

you frown. “i haven’t been a rookie for an entire amber era.”

“oh?” he tilts his head, faintly amused. “time does get strange when you’ve spent half of it in cryo-sleep.” a shrug. “either way. ask. i’m feeling chatty tonight.”

you look down at your burger instead.

it’s absurd, really. the whole thing. the phantasmoon games, his participation as a supplicant, and the fact that you’re sitting here at all. nothing about planarcadia fits the logic you’ve spent your life relying on, and somehow, someone like la mancha fits into it perfectly.

you swallow, then decide to ask anyway.

“why here?”

ashveil hums, like he didn’t quite catch it. “what’s that?”

your grip tightens slightly around the wrapper. “why did you choose this place as your graveyard?”

that gets his attention. because you’ve spent long enough chasing his shadow to know the difference between evasion and interest, between something he’ll brush off and something he’ll circle. you don’t chase him, you bait him.

this, you’ve learned, is how you make a wolf stop running.

ashveil doesn’t answer immediately. he leans back on one hand, the other resting loosely over his knee. the arm that imprisons something more dangerous than he is stills, and for once, the shadows subdue like they’ve been told to behave.

“no one here asks questions that matter,” he tells you plainly. “not quite like you do, rookie.”

you glance up to meet his eyes, but they’ve drifted somewhere past you and the dingy walls of the love hotel. somewhere you can’t possibly reach.

“places like this,” ashveil continues, “they don’t care who you were. what you did. what followed you here.” a pause. “things get lost in the noise and the fanfare.”

you don’t like the way he says that.

“you don’t strike me as someone who wants to be lost.”

he huffs in amusement. “no?”

“no.”

“…everyone ends up somewhere they can afford,” he says finally. “this just happens to be mine.”

you stare at him. it’s not an answer. not really. but it’s closer than anything he’s given you so far.

your eyes flick back to the nails in his wrist. the way they hold something down that very clearly does not want to stay there. the faint, almost imperceptible shift of shadow beneath metal.

you look away first, because you’ve never learned how to hold the intensity of his gaze. no matter how many years or systems or selves you’ve shed along the way.

“whatever you say,” you mutter. “ just… keep in touch with boothill and rappa sometime. they worry about you more than you deserve.”

for a moment, he says nothing.

but you’ve spent enough time tracing the outline of this man to recognize when the version of him that slips through your fingers gives way to something more tangible. the faraway look dissolves, and what takes its place is warm in a way it has no business being.

the mattress dips as ashveil leans in, crowding you back without force. his prosthetic hand braces somewhere beside you, the other settling at your hip, and suddenly you’re aware of him in a way that has nothing to do with how you knew him in your memories, and everything to do with him now.

“oh?” he murmurs. “and you’re not worried about me? the ranger who gatecrashed ahatopia the moment they caught my scent again?”

the brush of his mouth is barely there, but his teeth sink into the lobe of your ear without a second thought. the smallest reminder of what he is, of what he’s always been.

it would be easier if he were simpler.

if he were cruel, or careless, or even just honest in a way that could be pinned down and understood. but ashveil has never been any of those things, and you do not pretend you’ll ever untangle him into something comprehensible.

he is what he is: a question without a clean answer, a man who carries too much and explains too little, and you’ve long stopped asking him to.

that is the only reason he lets you catch him.

the only reason he lets you stay.

“i didn’t say that,” you sigh, the words thinning at the edges as his mouth ghosts along your throat.

ashveil answers with a quiet hum before the distance you’d tried to carve out collapses entirely, and he pulls you back into something you know you will never quite learn to refuse.

because as long as he’s still here—as long as he’s still something you can find if you look hard enough—you can afford to ignore the rest. turn a blind eye to the parts of him that don’t make sense.

You hadn’t known an adeptus could be wed with nothing more than a flower. 

No book had written it and no tale had whispered it. So when you climbed the mountain, plucked a pale qingxin, and offered it to Xiao on the balcony of Wangshu Inn, you had expected nothing but silence. He appeared anyway. Perched on the railing like a hawk, gaze cutting. “Foolish mortal,” he said, voice rough as stone worn thin by rivers. “You don’t know what you bind yourself to.” Yet he took the flower and pressed it to his chest, where it disappeared like breath into cold air. A sharp pulse went through you then—otherworldly, heavy, as though your heartbeat had doubled and no longer belonged entirely to you. You told yourself it was only nerves, only the startling fact of his beauty. (Why must he be so devastating to look at?) So you smiled, voice soft with gratitude, and he slipped into the dark as though the night had been waiting for him.

You didn’t think much of it, not at first.

But in the days that followed, you felt a shadow over your shoulder, and it was as if luck was in your favor. Merchants no longer shortchanged you and strangers kept their distance, and the ordinary chatter of life faded into silence. For the first time, the world seemed to leave you alone, though you could not shake the feeling of golden eyes that never left you. 

…Perhaps you smelled strange.

Still, it was more than luck. The aches that usually woke you each morning faded, and even the most tiring moments of your day held a strange ease to them. A sense of peace lingered under your skin, and you had a feeling that it would be impossible for anything to take it away from you. 

One afternoon, you sit beneath your favorite tree in the mountains and close your eyes, promising yourself only a moment’s rest. However, when you wake, you find yourself in your room at the inn. Startled, you search for some sign of how you had returned. There is none. When you ask around, everyone stares, baffled—even the front desk receptionist. None had seen you come in. “It’s like the wind carried you,” one mutters. You feel an unsettling shiver go down your spine, as if those words held a deeper meaning that couldn’t belong to an offhand comment.  

So, you decide to do what any reasonable person in this situation would do. You walk through Bishui Plains, under the weightless stars, to take your mind off of things. The night air is cool, threaded with the chirp of crickets. You had once heard a rumor that the stars of Teyvat were false, but such talk felt cruel; you couldn’t believe these cold-burning, ethereal lights were anything less than real. You lay down in the grass. The blades bend beneath you, fragrant and damp. The moment is too peaceful, like a soft reverie in the blur of unease you’ve found yourself lost in for the past few days. You close your eyes, content to spend the night out here, when your peace is suddenly interrupted. 

“Always sleeping,” a voice rasps above you, “like a stray cat. Collapsing wherever you please.” Your eyes fly open, head spinning as you try to locate the origin of the voice. He stands against a tree, dark silhouette cut against the silver night. Xiao. He approaches slowly, as though speed itself might shatter something delicate between you. When you make no move to flee, he sits beside you. 

A god at your shoulder. A story made flesh. Born and raised in Liyue, you had grown up hearing tales of the Yakshas. The silent protectors who fought in the shadows so mortals might walk in peace. And here was the last of them, close enough for his sleeve to brush the grass by your hand. Your throat tightens. You look away, cheeks warm, “Don’t call me a cat. I’m only…sleep deprived. An author’s curse.”

A sharp exhale, half scoff, half laugh, “An author. Of what? Those tales you scribble… The Secret Life of the Tyrannical Emperor?” His tone curls with disdain. “Hardly noble work for a carpenter’s daughter.” 

Heat flames across your face. You defensively lurch into a sitting position. “W–When did you even—? In my room? Under my bed? You creep! Were you snooping? I–I knew I shouldn’t have given you those flowers–!” 

“It was on your desk,” he says flatly, eyes narrowed, searching. A pause, then softer, almost to himself. “So you regret the flowers, then. Foolish. Mortals are always this way. Frustratingly elusive, slipping just beyond my understanding.”

And before you can protest, he vanishes. The air rushes in where he had been, knocking you backward into the grass. You splutter, glaring upward, words spilling like starlight sliding off a darkened sky. “Foolish?! I’m not foolish! If anything, you are—leaving someone like me behind! You’re impossible! You walk around as if the world has—has—”

A sudden gust shoves you flat into the ground, no doubt his doing. You yelp, muffled against your own palms. 

Eventually, the wind dies, and you find yourself able to stand, knees wobbling from the force of his presence or whatever that breeze had been. You glare skyward one last time, lips pressed into a thin line, fists clenching, before turning on your heel and stomping back toward Wangshu Inn. Each defiant step is a promise that Xiao will not get away with this. 

Before the sight of the inn reaches you, the sound does. Laughter, cheers, and music so loud it cuts through the night air like a blade. The dining hall is alive tonight, packed with the city’s elite musicians who’ve come to perform. The scent of roasting meat, spiced wine, and sweet pastries drifts to you even before the door swings open, teasing your senses, taunting your focus. 

You head straight for the bar, weaving past clusters of patrons laughing and clinking glasses. Your fingers drum on the polished counter as your thoughts swirl in a hot, tangled, and stubbornly unyielding storm in your mind. 

What did he mean by “Mortals are always this way”? Did he—Has he experienced this before? No! Stop. Absolutely not. Xiao has no right to wander into your life, make stupid remarks, vanish without explanation, and leave your pulse racing like this. No way. He was unreasonable, arrogant, a Yaksha with the gall to mock you. He was nothing like those tales you had heard of when you were younger. 

Anger drives your hands to the nearest glass. You down the first, then the second, letting the burn of alcohol chase away (temporarily) the sting of your humiliation. The bartender watches you with polite caution, but before long, he’s shaking his head, muttering something about “too much to drink, miss,” and guides you gently but firmly to your room. You don’t argue; you’re too caught up in your frustration, too determined to plot your revenge.

No sooner is the door closed behind him than you slip from your room, careful to avoid the maze of inn staff and boisterous patrons. The night is warm, fragrant with the garden outside and the distant mountains looming black and silent. You step onto the balcony, hands gripping the railing as though it could anchor the storm inside you.

“Xiao! You big, ugly, stupid, mean—did I mention ugly..?—unbearably rude, Yaksha!” You roar into the wind. The night swallows your voice. The music and laughter from the hall below serve as a buffer, sparing your dignity from the ears of anyone else.

Your chest heaves. Your hair, loose and wild, clings to dampened skin from the heat of anger. “I hate you! I… hate…” Words falter, floundering somewhere between fury and exasperation.

The edge of the balcony suddenly feels treacherous. You sway, caught in a moment between defiance and dizziness. Then you feel a sudden, firm grip around your waist, chest pressed against your back, arms sliding under your thighs and across your shoulders. Your breath hitches, eyes widening as the world tilts slightly, saved from disaster by sheer, unyielding force.

“Do you always scream like that?” a voice, his voice, murmurs into your ear—deep, controlled, with an edge that could slice through stone. Xiao. Of course it’s him. And of course, he somehow appeared the moment you were most reckless.

You twist to glare, but there’s no room to move; his hold is firm. “Let me go!” you snap, voice sharper than you intend. “I’m not—”

“You are unsteady,” he interrupts, tone clipped, eyes narrowed even in the dark. “You fall too easily.”

You huff indignantly, “I was not falling! I was—well, okay, maybe I was a little…” Your words trail off as your cheeks heat, not entirely from embarrassment, but from the awareness of him so close. Every inch of him radiates controlled energy, a quiet intensity that somehow presses against your nerves like thunder waiting to break.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his hold just enough to make you breathe easier, though it’s no concession. “Careless,” he mutters, voice low, almost reluctant, “always rushing… always reckless. Foolish mortal.”

You snort, twisting your hands to grip the railing instead of punching him. “Careless? Reckless? Me? Oh no, Xiao, you clearly don’t know me at all.” Your tone is defiant, daring him to contradict you, daring him to leave. But inside, your chest flutters. You refuse to acknowledge it.

“I do not need to know you,” he replies, voice flat, eyes flicking toward the horizon as if everything in the night belongs to him alone. Then, just as quickly, his attention snaps back, sharp and piercing. Xiao’s grip tightens ever so slightly. “You are foolish,” he says, almost a whisper. And then, impossibly, he sets you down on the balcony floor, step by careful step, though his eyes linger on you longer than necessary. “Do not do this again. Do not tempt fate.”

You fold your arms, pouting like a child caught in a scolding, cheeks flushed. “Tempt fate? I was yelling at you! You dimwitted Yaksha!”

The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s barely a smirk, but it is there. “I am not your target for insults, mortal.”

“Not my target?!” you huff, unable to suppress the flare of indignation. “I’ll insult you all I want! You showed up out of nowhere, made fun of me, and disappeared like a—like a ghost! You—”

He tilts his head slightly, patience thinning. “Your words are as reckless as your actions,” he says, low and even, yet not unkind. And for a moment, you feel the undeniable pull of his presence. It’s dizzying, it seeps into your very essence and threatens to take control of your emotions, baiting you to do something stupid once more. You clear your throat. 

You grumble, flaring one last time, then lean against the railing, crossing your arms stubbornly. “Fine,” you mutter, “maybe I’ll just… plot revenge instead. Yeah. That’s it. Revenge.”

Xiao doesn’t reply. He only watches the night for a heartbeat longer before he steps back and vanishes, leaving the balcony cold and empty save for the echo of your own voice and the faint, lingering brush of a breeze that smells faintly of the mountain.

And in the quiet aftermath, you realize, begrudgingly, that your grudge might be the only thing keeping your heart from utterly melting under the weight of his impossible presence. You refuse to think about it too much and collapse onto your bed, wishing that sleep will come sooner rather than later. 

Unfortunately, sleep does not come easily that night.

It would be impossible for you to fall asleep after the wine, after the shouting, after the way his arms had closed around you. He was warm, firm, unyielding, as if the idea of you falling had never been an option to begin with. You turn over in your bed, pressing your reddened face into the pillow as if that might smother the memory. It doesn’t. Eventually, once you’ve tired yourself out from flopping about, you give in to the soft lullabies of sleep and allow yourself to drift in and out of a state of consciousness.

The inn is quieter now. The musicians have long since packed their instruments, the laughter has thinned into scattered murmurs drifting up from below. A faint breeze slips through the window, cool against your skin

You freeze. It lingers just for a second too long.

“…Don’t you dare,” you mutter into your pillow.

The breeze stills.

Good.

You huff, satisfied, and force your eyes shut.

The next morning arrives. Golden sunlight spills across the plains like honey poured too generously. You decide—firmly—that you are done thinking about Xiao. No more strange comments. No more appearances out of nowhere. No more… whatever last night was. You grab your satchel, your notebook, and leave the inn before your thoughts can betray you again.

The mountains welcome you like they always do. They are quiet, vast, and indifferent. Mighty, stunning, beautiful beasts that never entirely crumble, despite the long, arduous years. As you walk, the grass bends under your steps, the scent of wildflowers drifts in the air. It’s peaceful, grounding. It is exactly what you need. 

You settle beneath a tree, the same one as before, and open your notebook. Ink scratches softly against paper as you write, words coming easier than they have in days. Characters move, argue, confess things far more coherent than anything in your own life.

You almost forget him. Until a shadow flickers across the page. You pause and frown, glaring at your notebook. 

“…If you’re going to hover, at least have the decency to say something,” you mutter, not looking up.

Silence.

Then, he says, “You are alone.”

Your pen stops.

Xiao stands a few steps away, arms folded, gaze scanning the treeline instead of you.

You retort, “Yes. That tends to happen when one goes out alone.”

He ignores the tone entirely. “This area is not safe.”

You snort, “Oh? And since when do you care where I go?”

A pause that lasts a moment too long. 

“I do not,” he says finally, though his voice lacks its usual sharpness. “It is simply… inefficient to allow you to come to harm.”

You stare at him. “…Inefficient.”

“Yes.”

You let out a breath through your nose. “Right. Of course. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience the great Yaksha.”

He doesn’t rise to your snark. He just watches the horizon like it’s more interesting than you.

You hate that a little. Defensive and a bit miffed, your emotions take over you once more. 

“Go,” you hiss, waving him off. “I’ll be perfectly fine. I’ve survived this long without you hovering over my shoulder.”

Another pause. You don’t look at him, but you feel the way the air shifts, the weight of his attention dispersing.

“…Very well.”

The wind stirs, and then he’s gone.

You make it perhaps an hour before things go wrong. At first, it’s a subtle rustle in the brush. A break in the quiet that doesn’t belong. Then a faint, wretched smell hits you, like garbage mixed with vinegar. 

You stand slowly.  “…Okay,” you murmur, “that’s new.” You slowly back away, back onto the trail that takes you to Wangshu Inn, all while keeping your eyes on the brush. 

The first hilichurl emerges from the treeline, weapon raised, then another. And another.

Your grip tightens around the small knife at your side. “Oh. Oh, that’s—no, that’s a lot.”

They start to circle around you. You take a step back.

“Alright,” you say, voice thin but determined. “We can talk about this. I have—uh—very little money, but I do have snacks?”

They roar. You bolt.

Branches claw at your sleeves as you run, heart slamming against your ribs. The ground dips unexpectedly beneath your feet, uneven, treacherous. You stumble, catch yourself, keep going.

Behind you, the pounding of footsteps grows louder.

“Okay—okay—this is fine—this is fine—”

It is not fine.

A rock catches your foot. You go down hard, the breath punched from your lungs. Your vision swims.

The world narrows to shouting, the rush of blood in your ears and then silence falls so suddenly it feels wrong. You push yourself up on trembling arms. The hilichurls lie scattered, unmoving.

And at the center of it is Xiao with his spear in hand and his expression unreadable. He’s breathing steadily, as if this had cost him nothing at all. You can’t help but think bitterly, “Of course it hadn’t.” 

You exhale shakily, relief flooding you, hot and overwhelming. Just as quickly, an irrational wave of anger follows towards Xiao. So what if you almost died?? This embarrassment is making you wish you had. Xiao just saw you fumble around and eat shit when you told him you’d be fine on your own, and now your prideful heart cannot act normal. It’s embarrassing, your immaturity.  

“Seriously?!” you snap, scrambling to your feet. “Do you just follow me around waiting for me to trip over something?!”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flicks past you, sharp. “More are coming.”

You blanch. “Oh.”

A moment passes and you hear the load roars. 

“…Oh.”

He moves before you can process it—grabbing your wrist, pulling you forward. The world blurs around you, wind tearing at your clothes as he moves faster than anything human should. You squeeze your eyes shut, clinging onto him. 

Then, it’s quiet, dark, and cool. You hear a soft trickle of water. You slowly open your eyes and look at Xiao, who stands at the edge of the cave you are in, scanning for hilichurls. You’re safe…for now. 

After relief, the silence presses in from all sides, suffocating you. Your chest heaves, adrenaline still burning through you. You pace once, twice, then turn on him.

“Why?” you demand.

He tilts his head slightly, looking back at you. He chooses—with a final glance outside—to walk closer to you. 

“Why do you keep doing that?” you press, frustration spilling over. “Showing up out of nowhere, saving me like I’m some helpless—some—thing you’re obligated to protect?! I didn’t ask for it!”

His expression doesn’t change. If anything, he looks… confused. “You would prefer I did not?”

“That’s not what I—!” You cut yourself off, dragging a hand through your hair. “I just—I don’t understand you!” 

A pause.

“I am fulfilling my duty,” he says.

You sneer, “Your duty? To what? Babysitting reckless mortals?”

His brows knit faintly. “…To you.”

The words are like a bucket of cold water splashed onto your head. All you can do is blink and dumbly blurt, “To me?”

“Yes.”

The silence stretches until you can’t take it anymore. 

“…Why?”

He hesitates. Xiao actually hesitates. You’ve never seen that before.

“…Is that not obvious?” he asks slowly.

“No.”

Another pause.

Then, he speaks quieter than before, a hint of uncertainty in his usually firm voice. “It is the duty of a husband.”

Your brain stops functioning for a second. You let out an unintelligible noise, regain yourself, a light dusting of pink on your cheeks, and then ask, “…What?”

He stills. Color creeps, faint but unmistakable, along his neck.

“…To protect. To remain close. To ensure your safety,” he continues, voice stiff now, like he’s reciting something he doesn’t fully understand himself. “To care for… one’s other half.”

You stare at him.

“Husband,” you repeat blankly.

“Yes.”

“…Other half.”

“Yes.”

You open your mouth, close it, open it again. You repeat this a few times like a fish. 

“…Xiao.”

“Yes.”

“What are you talking about?”

He looks away, face red now. He clears his throat and mutters something under his breath. Then, slowly, he speaks, “The offering on the inn’s roof. The Qingxin flower.” 

Your stomach drops. “The… flower?”

“The qingxin,” he nods. “An offering of that nature—given willingly—carries meaning.”

“Wait,” you whisper, “you mean—”

“It is not something given lightly,” he says, gaze fixed somewhere just past your shoulder now. “Nor is it something I would refuse.”

Your heart stutters. “You thought I was—marrying you?” you manage to say.

“I did not think,” he replies, quieter now, “I accepted because…I have never been offered such a thing before.” His confession is soft like the gentle breeze that seems to follow him. His gaze flicks to yours for a moment, then away. 

“And I—” He pauses, then speaks again, “I found that I did not… dislike it.”

Silence floods the cave. You stare at him, the pieces slotting together in your mind with terrifying clarity. The shadow over your shoulder. The sudden safety. The way he always appeared—

“Oh my Archons,” you breathe.

You married him. By accident. To a Yaksha. You clap a hand over your face.

“Oh my Archons—”

“I have fulfilled my duties poorly,” Xiao says, voice low, almost tense. “If you regret—”

“I don’t regret it!” you blurt, dropping your hand. “I just—would’ve liked to know?!”

He blinks. “…Ah.” As if the thought of informing you never crossed his mind. 

You pace again, then stop, looking at him, really looking, squinting, as if trying to read his soul. He won’t quite meet your eyes now. As you scan his entire body, you notice the faint red still lingering on his skin, the tension in his shoulders. They’re broad. His arms are well-sculpted. He’s not much taller than you, but you like that. Makes it easier to kiss—

You flush at the thought, mentally swatting it away like a pesky fly. You manage to regain your voice. “…You really thought this whole time…” you murmur.

“Yes.” 

You’re getting slightly annoyed at his one-word answers. You stand with your hands on your hips, glaring at him.  “…And you didn’t say anything?”

“It did not seem necessary.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. It bubbles out of you, incredulous, overwhelmed.

“Of course it didn’t,” you mutter, “of course you wouldn’t think that’s important.”

And before you can stop them, the words burst from your lips like the fireworks at the inn last night, intense, brief, and uncontrollable.  “…You like me?”

He stiffens. “…You are… acceptable.” He practically whispers the admission, redder now. Not so much like a flower, but more like a tomato. 

You grin. “That’s high praise coming from you.”

“…You are also reckless,” he adds abruptly.

“There it is. That’s the Xiao I know. You had me scared for a moment. I thought you had been drugged or something, being all cheesy and red like that.” You giggle. 

He glares at you, but he can’t hide the small, fond smile on his face. 

By the time you leave the cave, the monsters are gone and the world feels different. Not because anything has changed. The people still chat in the streets, the birds still chirp, the wind still flows softly. But because now you know, and knowledge feels like the sweetest fruit. 

Back at Wangshu Inn, the night settles quietly around you both. You sit on the edge of your bed. He stands near the window, as if unsure where he belongs. You pat the space beside you.

“Come here.”

“I can remain—”

“Xiao,” you say sternly. 

Then, slowly, he moves like a grumpy cat. He sits besides you cautiously like you might disappear if he does it wrong. You lean against him anyway. He goes rigid, eyes wide and face reddening. Then, after a moment, he relaxes. Just slightly.

“…This is unnecessary,” he murmurs.

“Mhm.”

“…I am already here.”

“Mhm.”

He pauses and squints before looking away to hide his expression. 

“…You are warm.”

You smile, eyes drifting shut.

“Told you.”

The breeze outside stirs, soft and steady. It doesn’t feel like something watching over you overprotectively. It feels like something that thinks you’re worth staying for. 

Your brain briefly stops working.

“You look like you’re having fun,” you hear yourself say.

Smooth, you think.

His eyebrow rises, mouth quirking with amusement. “Always do at these things.” His gaze travels over you. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

“Just got back. Been away for a while.”

“Away where?”

“Natlan. Visiting family.”

“Natlan.” His interest sharpens visibly. “Long trip.”

“Worth it though.”

“Yeah?” He shifts slightly closer. You catch his scent. Leather and wind and something warm underneath. “What’s Natlan like?”

“Hot. Beautiful. Dangerous.” You meet his eyes. “Lots of warriors.”

“You fight?”

“Used to.”

“Used to?” His eyebrow rises. “Something tells me ‘used to’ is generous.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way you’re standing.” His eyes track down your body and back up. “Balanced. Ready. Like you could move in any direction at a moment’s notice.”

Your breath catches. “You noticed that?”

“I notice a lot of things.” His voice drops slightly. “Especially when they’re interesting.”

The air between you feels charged.

His smile widens. “I’m Varka.”

“I know.” You do. Everyone knows the Grand Master. But up close he’s just a man. A very attractive man who’s looking at you like—

You shake yourself. “Nice to meet you.”

“You didn’t tell me your name.”

You tell him. Varka repeats it slowly, like he’s testing how it sounds. “Pretty name.”

“Are you always this forward?”

“Are you?” Varka gestures at the space you’re standing in. Close, definitely inside normal conversation distance. “You walked right up to me like you owned the place. Quite bold.”

Your face heats. “I—”

“I like it.” His voice drops slightly. “Keep going.”

In that moment, someone jostles you from behind, and you stumble slightly forward.

Varka’s hand catches your elbow. Steadies you.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Fine.”

But he doesn’t let go immediately. And you don’t pull away.

His thumb brushes the inside of your elbow, and you feel it everywhere.

“Crowded,” you manage.

“Very.” But he’s not looking at any of it. He’s looking at you.

You should step back. Create distance. Stop whatever this is before it starts.

Instead you lean in slightly. “So. The Grand Master personally welcoming returning travelers? Very civic-minded of you.”

His grin widens. “I’m a civic-minded person.”

“Are you?”

“When the situation calls for it.”

“And this situation calls for it?”

“Absolutely.” His hand slides from your elbow to the small of your back, guiding you away from the press of the crowd. “C’mon. Let’s get you somewhere less chaotic.”

“Presumptuous.”

“Observant.” His eyes are bright with humor. “You don’t actually want to be in this crowd. And I don’t want to lose you in it.”

“Lose me?”

“Just found you.” His voice is quiet. “Not ready to let you disappear yet.”

Your heart does that complicated thing again.

“One drink,” you say.

“One drink.”

It’s not one drink.

It’s three drinks and two hours of conversation and realizing you’ve been laughing more tonight than you have in months.

It’s the way Varka looks at you when you’re talking. Like every word matters. Like you’re the only person in the entire festival.

It’s the moment you catch yourself thinking: Oh. Oh no. I’m in trouble.

You talk about Natlan’s landscapes, traditions and your friends. He tells you about the knights and expedition preparations you didn’t know were happening.

When he laughs at something you say, his whole face changes.

You want to make him laugh again.

So you do.

Later, you’re walking through the festival stalls together, his hand at your back again, when Varka stops at a vendor selling small charms.

“Hold on,” he says.

You watch him examine the offerings: little carved wooden pieces on leather cords. Animals mostly.

Varka picks up a small falcon in flight, wings spread.

“This one,” he tells the vendor.

“Varka, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” He’s already paying. Then he turns to you, holding it up. “May I?”

You nod, not quite trusting your voice.

He steps close. Fastens the leather cord around your neck with surprising gentleness for someone with hands that large.

His fingers brush your skin as he adjusts it. You shiver.

“There.” He steps back to look. “Perfect.”

“Why a falcon?”

“Freedom.” His smile is soft. “Mondstadt’s all about freedom. And you—” He pauses. “You seem like someone who values it.”

“I do.”

“Good.” His thumb brushes the charm where it rests against your collarbone. “Then remember that. Even when things get complicated.”

You don’t understand what he means.

Not then.

(But you will.)

By the time the festival winds down, you’re both lingering. Neither wanting to leave. Neither saying it.

“This was nice,” Varka says finally.

“It was.”

“Do it again sometime?”

You should say no. Should keep distance. Should not get involved with the Grand Master right before he leaves for an expedition you just learned about.

“Maybe,” you say instead. “If you’re lucky.”

“I feel pretty lucky right now.”

He walks you partway home.

At the corner where you part ways, he catches your hand. He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m really glad you walked up to me tonight,” he says.

“So am I.”

“Even though I’m leaving soon?”

“Especially because you’re leaving soon.”

Something flickers in his expression. “That’s a dangerous way to think.”

“Maybe.” You squeeze his hand. “But I’ve never played it safe.”

His thumb brushes across your knuckles. “No. I don’t think you have.”

You smile at him. “Good night.”

He chuckles softly. “Good night.”

You watch him walk away. Stand there like an idiot until he disappears around the corner.

Then you go inside and lean against your door and think:

I’m so screwed.

— ✦ —

Three days later, you’re passing the training grounds when you see him.

Running drills with younger knights. Sword work. Footwork. The basics.

You stop to watch.

He moves well. Really well. All controlled power and economy of motion. No wasted energy, every strike deliberate.

It reminds you of home. Of training yards and the clash of practice weapons and—

“You going to just watch or actually join?”

Varka’s standing at the edge of the grounds now, slightly breathless from the drill, looking at you with clear challenge in his eyes.

“I’m not a knight.”

“Didn’t ask if you were. Asked if you could fight.”

Several of the younger knights are watching now.

You should say no. Should walk away.

Instead you step closer. “What did you have in mind?”

He grins. “Show me what Natlan taught you.”

Someone tosses you a practice sword.

The weight is familiar. You fall into a ready stance and watch his eyes widen slightly.

“Oh,” he says. “You actually know what you’re doing.”

“Warned you.”

“So you did.”

Then he moves. You parry. Deflect. Counter.

The younger knights have stopped their own drills to watch.

Varka’s not holding back anymore, really pressing you.

You’re grinning. You haven’t done this in years. Haven’t felt the burn in your muscles, the sharp focus of reading an opponent, the pure joy of movement.

You catch his blade, twist and nearly disarm him.

Varka laughs and comes at you harder.

The spar blurs. Thrust. Parry. Dodge. Strike.

You’re both sweating now. Both breathing hard.

He gets past your guard. Blade stopping a hair’s breadth from your ribs.

You freeze. So does he.

You’re very close. Close enough to see the sweat on his temple. The way his chest rises and falls. The heat in his eyes that has nothing to do with the spar.

“Yield?” Varka asks, voice rough.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.”

You lower your sword. “Then I yield.”

He doesn’t step back immediately. Just looks at you like he’s memorizing the image.

“You’re good,” he says finally.

“So are you.”

“Where’d you learn to move like that?”

“Told you. Natlan.”

“Natlan produces warriors like you and just lets them leave?”

“I wasn’t a warrior. Not really. Just trained.”

“That wasn’t ‘just trained.’” His voice is intent. “That was years of real work.”

Something in your chest tightens. “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t look like it.” He finally steps back, giving you space. “You should come back. Train with us.”

“I’m not a knight.”

“Don’t have to be. We spar with plenty of people.” His eyes are warm. “Besides. I want to see more of that.”

I want to see more of you.

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to.

“Maybe,” you manage.

“I’ll take it.”

After that, you stay for a while.

Varka notices you watching. He grins. “Enjoying the show?”

“Just observing.”

“Uh-huh.” He crosses to where you’re standing. “And what’s your assessment?”

“You’re not bad.”

“High praise.”

“For a knight.” You reach up without thinking and ruffle his hair. “You did good today. Very knightly.”

He goes absolutely still.

You realize what you just did—the casual affection, the presumption of familiarity—and almost pull back.

But Varka catches your wrist gently. “You can’t just do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” He stops. “I’m leaving soon. Could be gone for years.”

“So?”

“So getting close to people right before leaving for years is generally considered a bad idea.”

You study him. This large, confident man suddenly looking uncertain.

“When do you leave?”

“Four weeks.”

“Then we have four weeks.”

“That’s not—”

“I’d rather have the memory than nothing at all.” You say it simply. “Wouldn’t you?”

Varka’s quiet for a long moment. Then, he says: “Yeah. I would.”

That night, lying in bed, you can still feel the ghost of the spar.

The burn in your muscles. The sharp focus. The way he looked at you after. Like you were something remarkable.

You haven’t felt this alive in years.

It terrifies you. It excites you.

— ✦ —

After that day, something shifts.

Varka stops trying to keep distance. Stops making excuses about why spending time together is complicated.

You meet for meals. Walk through the city. Talk about everything and nothing. You notice he never presses you about your past.

The evening you show him your scars, you’re both wine-warm and comfortable.

Angel’s Share. Corner booth. Shared bottle between you.

“So you trained in Natlan,” Varka says, refilling your wine. “Which tribe?”

“Flower-Feather.”

His eyebrows rise. “Seriously?”

“You know them?”

“Know of them.” He leans back. “Used to be the defenders of all Natlan, right? Proud warriors. Tough entrance requirements.”

“You’ve done your research.”

“I’m the Grand Master. I know military traditions.” His eyes are warm with interest. “So you passed their entrance exam?”

“When I was sixteen.”

“Sixteen.” He shakes his head. “What do they even test at that age?”

“Combat proficiency. Endurance. Courage under pressure.” You trace the rim of your glass. “Discipline. They value discipline above almost everything.”

“Do you?”

“Did. I don’t know anymore.” You meet his eyes. “I left for a reason.”

“Which was?”

“Got tired of being disciplined.” You smile slightly. “Wanted to see what being undisciplined felt like.”

He grins. “Ha. How’s that working out?”

“Ask me in three weeks.”

After, the conversation wanders everywhere. Childhood stories, embarrassing moments, the kinds of things you tell someone when you’re trying to learn them.

Then somehow it lands on scars.

“You said you trained as a warrior,” Varka says, setting down his glass. “That leave marks?”

“Some.” You roll up your sleeve without thinking, showing the raised line along your forearm. “Sparring accident. Opponent’s blade slipped.”

His fingers trace it gently. “Looks like it hurt.”

“Did at the time.”

You pull your collar aside to show the network of thin scars across your collarbone.

Varka’s fingers follow the lines, and you feel him inhale sharply.

You shift another time, showing another along your shoulder. “This one’s from a slime. Embarrassing, really.”

Varka laughs. “We all have embarrassing scars.”

“Oh?”

He shows you one along his ribs. Long and faded. “Hydro slime. I was sixteen and cocky.”

You trace it the way he traced yours.

“Here.” You turn, lifting your shirt slightly to show your back.

The scars there are worse. Longer. Some raised, some just discolored skin. Crisscrossing from shoulder to hip.

“These aren’t training marks,” Varka says quietly, fingers tracing the scars on your back.

“No.”

“What happened?”

You’re quiet for a long moment, staring at your wine. “There was an attack. Near my village. I was fifteen.”

Your voice is flat. “Abyss Order. They came fast. We weren’t ready.”

His hand stills on your back.

“It was chaos. People screaming. Fire everywhere. I didn’t—I didn’t know what to do.” You take a breath. “I ran. Found a cave. Hid.”

You can still see it. The darkness. The sounds of fighting outside. The smell of smoke.

“I watched from the cave entrance. Watched them—” Your voice cracks. “Watched them cut down people I knew. My teacher. My neighbors. Just slaughtered them right there.”

Varka’s arms come around you from behind.

“I don’t remember deciding to move. Just remember rage. Pure, burning rage.” Your hands are shaking. “I grabbed a blade from someone who’d fallen. Rushed in. Didn’t know what I was doing. Just fought. Pure adrenaline and anger and—”

You stop and breathe. “I survived. Somehow. Others did too. But…” You gesture at your back. “These are from that. From fighting like an animal. No technique. No training. Just violence.”

“You were fifteen.”

“I was stupid.” Your voice hardens. “Reckless. Could’ve gotten myself killed. But I got lucky.”

“You were brave.”

“No. I was terrified and angry and out of control.” You meet his eyes. “That’s what made me want to actually learn. To train properly. Because I saw what I was capable of when I lost control and it—” You stop. “It scared me.”

“What scared you?”

“How easy it was. How natural.” Your throat tightens. “They tell these stories in Natlan. Glorious battles. Honorable warriors. But that’s not what it was. It was ugly. Brutal. I killed that day and I didn’t even know what I was doing.”

His arms tighten around you. “You survived. That’s what matters.”

“Is it?” You shake your head. “Sometimes I think I learned the wrong lesson. That fighting and being self-destructive is the answer. That when things get bad, you just—” You gesture vaguely. “Throw yourself into something else before you have time to fall apart.”

“That’s not who you are.”

“You’ve known me for a few days.”

“Long enough.”

You want to believe him. Want to believe you’re more than what happened in that cave. More than the rage and fear and the part of yourself that you’re afraid of.

But you’re not sure you do.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His thumbs brush your cheekbones. “Because you’re here. You’re alive. You’re—” He stops. “You’re the most vibrant person I’ve met in years. Whatever happened to you didn’t break you. Made you fiercer.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He says it with absolute certainty. His hand cups your face. “You’re fire and I’m—”

“Drawn to it?”

“Completely.”

He kisses you then, right there in Angel’s Share, in front of anyone who cares to look, and you feel it all the way to your bones.

— ✦ —

The days that follow blur together in a haze of stolen moments.

You meet for breakfast. Walk outside the city. Train together at the grounds where Varka teaches you techniques and you show him Natlan’s fighting style and everyone pretends not to notice the way you move around each other.

Evenings at Angel’s Share become routine. His hand always finds yours under the table. Your knee presses against his. Small touches that feel enormous.

You kiss in shadowed doorways. Against walls in empty alleys. Once near the cathedral where he presses you against ancient stone and kisses you breathless while moonlight filters through the trees.

“We should stop,” Varka murmurs against your mouth.

“Probably.”

Neither of you stops.

But something shifts.

You notice it one evening when you’re both at his place, sitting on his couch, your legs across his lap, his hand absently tracing patterns on your ankle.

He’s quiet. Has been for a while.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Mm.” But he doesn’t look at you.

“Varka.”

“I’m fine.” His voice is curt, sharper than usual.

You pull back slightly. “Did I—”

“No.” He catches your hand and pulls you back. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then what—”

He kisses you instead of answering. Hard. Almost desperate.

You kiss him back, confused but willing, and when he finally pulls away his forehead rests against yours.

“Life’s not always a straight path,” he says quietly.

Your chest tightens. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.” He kisses you again, softer this time. “Forget I said anything.”

But you can’t forget. Can’t stop thinking about what he’s not saying.

That he’s leaving. That this has an expiration date. That maybe he’s feeling something he shouldn’t be feeling for someone he’s about to leave behind.

You should ask. Should make him talk about it.

Instead you kiss him harder, climb into his lap, let him kiss you senseless and lose yourself in the feel of his hands, his mouth, the way he says your name.

If you can’t have forever, you’ll take this.

Even if it’s destroying you both.

— ✦ —

Three days later, you find him at the training grounds.

You hadn’t planned to. But he’d said he was training tonight—mentioned it casually when you’d asked about dinner—and something in his tone made you want to check on him.

The grounds are empty except for him.

He’s going at a training dummy with focused intensity. Hitting it hard and repetitive.

You watch for a moment before approaching. “Didn’t know the dummy offended you personally.”

Varka stops mid-swing and turns.

There’s sweat on his temple. His jaw is tight. And his eyes—

Something’s wrong.

“Needed to clear my head,” he says shortly.

“Want company?”

“Not really.”

You blink. “Okay. I’ll just—”

“Wait.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Sorry. Uh...that was—” He stops and exhales hard.

You study him. The tension in his shoulders. The way he’s not quite meeting your eyes.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Varka—”

“Seems I’ve got too much pent-up energy.”

You stay quiet, giving him space.

He sets the practice sword down and turns to face you properly. “You act so casual about all this,” Varka says. “And that’s admirable. Really. But maybe I’m not built that way.”

Your chest tightens. “That’s not fair. You‘re the one who’s—”

He stops and closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, something in his expression has softened.

“Yeah. You’re right.” He sighs deeply. “I’m usually better in control of myself than this.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You should.” But there’s less edge in his voice now. Just exhaustion. “I’m supposed to be the Grand Master. Supposed to have my shit together.”

“You’re also human.”

“Yeah.”

Despite everything, you smile slightly. “Want to spar?”

His eyebrow rises. “Now?”

“Why not? You’ve clearly got energy to burn. And I could use the practice.”

Varka looks at you for a long moment. Then his mouth quirks. “How could I refuse?”

The spar is different from the first one. Sharper. More intense. Both of you working something out that has nothing to do with technique.

He doesn’t hold back. Neither do you.

Blade clashes against blade. Footwork quick. Breathing hard.

You catch his strike. Twist. Nearly disarm him. He counters and presses you back.

The tension between you is electric. Not just physical. Something deeper. Something neither of you is saying.

Varka gets past your guard. Blade at your ribs again. You’re both breathing hard.

“Yield?” he asks, voice rough.

“Never.”

His mouth curves. “Stubborn.”

“You like it.”

“Of course I do.”

He lowers the blade but doesn’t step back. Neither do you.

“I’m sorry,” Varka says quietly. “For snapping earlier.”

“You’re allowed to have feelings.”

“Doesn’t mean I should take them out on you.”

“You didn’t. You were just honest.” You meet his eyes. “I can handle honest.”

Something in his expression softens. Then he’s kissing you. Hard and desperate and full of everything he can’t say.

You kiss him back, pulling him closer, feeling the tension finally break into something else.

When you pull apart, you’re both shaking.

“I’m not casual about this,” you admit quietly. “About you. I just don’t know how else to be without falling apart.”

“I know.” His forehead rests against yours. “I know.”

— ✦ —

A few days later, you’re shopping together. Varka’s helping you carry supplies back to your apartment, arguing playfully about whether you actually need three different types of cheese.

“It’s called variety,” you insist.

“It’s called excessive.”

“You’re excessive.”

“Hold on. That doesn’t even make sense.”

You’re laughing. Varka’s grinning at you with that look that makes your stomach flip, and suddenly he does something ridiculous. He makes a face and mimics your cheese-selecting process with exaggerated seriousness.

“Let’s see. This one has notes of grass,” he intones solemnly, holding up imaginary cheese. “With undertones of more grass.”

You burst out laughing.

And something in your chest just cracks. Because you’re looking at this strong, important, impossibly kind man who makes you laugh and makes you feel safe and makes you feel seen, and you realize:

Oh no. Oh no, I’m falling so hard for him. I’m in love with him.

Your eyes start burning.

“Hey.” Varka’s smile fades immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Your voice cracks.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not—” But you are. Tears slide down your cheeks while you stand there holding cheese in the middle of the market like an idiot.

“C’mere.” He guides you away from the crowd. Down a side street. Into a quiet corner where no one can see.

His hands cup your face. “Talk to me. What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You’re crying.”

“I know.” You laugh wetly. “I don’t—I don’t usually do this.”

“Do what?”

“Cry. Feel—” You stop. Can’t say it.

His thumbs brush away your tears. You lean into his touch and close your eyes. Breathe.

“You’re just a really good guy,” you manage finally. “That’s all.”

“Huh. That made you cry?”

“Apparently.” You open your eyes and try to smile. “Told you I don’t do this much. Not used to people like you.”

“C’mon.” He pulls you against his chest and wraps his arms around you.

You cry into his chest.

His hand strokes your back. “I won’t like you less for this,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”

You nod against his chest.

“Good.”

After a while, your breathing evens out. The tears stop, but neither of you moves.

“You’re the first person who gets to see me cry,” you admit.

His arms tighten. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Varka’s quiet for a long moment. Then, he says: “If we had more time, I’d want more firsts than that.”

Your breath catches.

If we had more time.

But you don’t.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are bright too. “Me too,” you whisper.

You kiss him. When you break apart, you’re both shaking.

“One week,” he says. “I got one week left.”

“Then let’s not waste it.”

— ✦ —

The three days before he leaves, Varka makes arrangements.

“No interruptions,” he tells you, leading you to his place. “Unless the city’s actively burning down, nobody bothers us.”

“Confident.”

“Prepared.” He closes the door behind you and locks it. “I want every second of this.”

The first time is tender. Overwhelming in its gentleness, his hands mapping your scars like they’re precious, his mouth following the same paths, learning every place that makes you gasp.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Every part of you.”

When he finally pushes inside you, slow and careful and impossibly deep, you both go still.

“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.

“More than okay.”

“Good.” He starts to move. “Because I’m not stopping.”

He doesn’t.

After, he holds you against his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back.

“You’re different like this,” he observes.

“Like what?”

“Softer. Less guarded.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “I like it.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Much later, you’re both starving. “I should cook something,” Varka says, staring at his kitchen like it’s a foreign land.

“Should?”

“I can cook. Technically.” He looks at you. “Can you cook?”

“Also technically.”

“This is gonna be a disaster, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

You end up making a mess. Flour everywhere. Varka trying to chop vegetables while you distract him with kisses. Both of you laughing when something starts smoking and you have to throw open windows.

The food is edible. Barely. But eating it together—sitting cross-legged on his bed because you can’t be bothered with the table—feels perfect anyway.

“This is terrible,” you say, examining a particularly burned piece of potato.

“The worst.”

“We should order from Good Hunter next time.”

“Definitely.” He steals a piece from your plate. “But I’m having fun anyway.”

“Me too.”

Varka feeds you a bite. You feed him one back. It’s ridiculous and domestic and so far from how you expected these three days to go. You wouldn’t change a single thing.

After dinner, Varka pulls you into another kiss. You deepen it immediately. You end up lost in each other, without clothes soon after.

You wake wrapped in his shirt, not sure when you put it on. Some point during the night when you got cold, probably, and grabbed the first thing within reach.

It smells like him.

You should take it off. Instead you burrow deeper into it.

Varka stirs beside you, arm tightening around your waist. “That’s mine.”

“Is it?”

“Definitely mine.” His voice is sleep-rough and amused. “Looks better on you though.”

“You can have it back.”

“Don’t want it back.” He pulls you closer. “Keep it.”

“Varka—”

“I mean it.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Something to remember me by.”

Your chest tightens. “I’m not going to forget you.”

“Good.” Another kiss. “But keep it anyway.”

“What are we going to do today?”

His grin is wicked. “I got some ideas.”

You laugh and swat his chest. “Besides that.”

“We could talk.”

“Definitely.”

“Or sleep.”

“Revolutionary.”

“Or—” Varka shifts, rolling you beneath him, settling between your legs with clear intent. “We could pick up where we left off last night.”

Your breath catches. “That could work too.”

“Ha. Thought you might say that.”

You fall asleep again after, entangled in each other.

You wake up to light streaming through windows as he wakes you with kisses down your spine.

“Again?” you mumble into the pillow.

“Can’t help it.” His hands slide up your thighs. “You’re right here. Looking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Mine.”

You flip over to face him, grinning. “Possessive.”

“Maybe.” He settles between your legs, elbows bracketing your head. “You bring it out in me.”

“Do I?”

“Completely.” He kisses you slow and deep. “Now stop talking and let me enjoy this.”

You do.

Let him take his time, let him tease until you’re begging, let him watch your face as he finally, finally gives you what you need.

“Love seeing you like this,” Varka says, voice rough as he moves inside you. “All that fire turned to heat. Just for me.”

“Varka—”

“That’s it.” He adjusts the angle and you gasp. “Say my name. Want to remember how it sounds.”

You do. Over and over until you’re both wrecked and satisfied and tangled together in sheets that smell like sex and him.

Later, he makes you laugh telling stories about knight mishaps.

Later still, you make him groan doing something with your mouth that leaves him speechless and trembling.

“You’re going to kill me,” he manages.

“What a way to go.”

He laughs and pulls you up to kiss you thoroughly.

In the evening, you’re curled against his chest. Both pleasantly exhausted. His fingers trailing idle patterns up and down your spine.

“Tell me something,” he says quietly.

“Like what?”

“Anything. Something I don’t know.”

You think about it. “I’m afraid of storms.”

His hand stills. “Yeah?”

“Have been since I was a kid. Thunder and lightning. Makes me feel like I’m back in—” You stop. “Makes me anxious.”

His arms tighten around you. “We get a lot of storms here.”

“I know.”

“What do you do? When they happen?”

“Hide under blankets. Feel stupid about it.” You shrug against him. “It’s irrational.”

“It’s not.” His lips brush your hair. “Next time there’s a storm, you come here. I’ll hide under blankets with you.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He tilts your chin up. “I want to be there. For the storms. For all of it.”

“You’re leaving, though.”

He sighs. “Yeah. I know.”

You kiss him before the mood can turn heavy. He kisses you back. When you pull away, his eyes are bright.

“Your turn,” you say. “Tell me something.”

“I don’t like being the Grand Master sometimes.”

You blink. “Really?”

“Really.” He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him. “It’s important. I know it’s important. But sometimes I miss just being me. Just Varka.”

“You’re just Varka right now.”

“I know.” His smile is soft. “That’s why I like being here. With you.”

You rest your head on his chest. Listen to his heartbeat.

“I like being here too,” you whisper.

“Good.” His fingers thread through your hair. “Then stay.”

“For how long?”

“As long as you want.”

(Forever, you think. I’d stay forever if you asked.)

But you don’t say it.

Just close your eyes and pretend three days might be enough.

On the third day, you wake up crying.

Not sobbing. Just quiet tears sliding down your face while you lie there in the pre-dawn dark.

This is the last day. Tomorrow, he leaves Mondstadt entirely.

Varka’s arms tighten around you. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re crying.”

“I know.” Your voice cracks. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He turns you to face him and wipes away your tears with his thumbs. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t want this to end.”

His breath catches. “Me neither. Don’t want to leave,” he says, holding you close. “Want to stay right here.”

“But you have to.”

“Yeah.” His forehead rests against yours. “I have.”

You’re both quiet for a long moment.

Then he kisses you. When you break apart, you’re both shaking.

“We still have today,” he murmurs.

“One more day.”

“One more day.” His hands cup your face. “Let’s make it count.”

You don’t waste time talking after that.

He takes you against the wall. Urgent and hungry and almost rough, both of you chasing something you can’t quite name.

Then slow in the bed. Reverent and aching, like if he’s gentle enough time might stop.

Then once more in the dark. Quiet and desperate, his face buried in your neck as he moves inside you, your fingers in his hair, both of you breathing each other’s names like prayers.

After, neither of you sleep. You just hold each other, memorize the weight, the warmth, the way you fit together.

“I’m going to miss this,” you whisper. “Miss you.”

“I’m gonna miss you too.” His voice is rough. “I’ll come back,” he adds. “However long it takes. I’ll come back.”

You don’t answer. Just kiss him until the dawn comes.

The expedition leaves at mid-morning.

The whole city turns out. People cheering, knights in formation looking proud and ready.

You stay back. Don’t make a scene.

But before he leaves, Varka finds you in the crowd and pulls you aside. His eyes drop to your neck.

You’re wearing the falcon charm. Something in his expression softens.

“You kept it.”

“Of course I kept it.”

He cups your face and kisses you like the world is ending. “Don’t wait for me,” he says against your mouth.

Your hand goes to the charm and grips it. “Can’t promise that.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Like he wants to say a thousand things and can’t find the words for any of them.

So he just kisses you again.

Then he’s gone.

You watch the expedition disappear through the gates. Watch until they fade from view.

Then you go home. At night, you let yourself cry.

— ✦ —

You’re strong at first. You go back to your routines. Work. Help out in the city. Meet people. Keep busy.

People talk about Varka sometimes. You smile and change the subject.

You wear the falcon charm every day.

It becomes a talisman. A reminder.

Freedom, he said.

But it feels like a chain, tying you to someone who left. To weeks that might have been a dream.

You touch it sometimes without thinking, feel the worn wood smooth under your fingers. Wonder if he even remembers giving it to you. Wonder if it meant anything at all.

You lie awake wondering: Is he hurt? Varka would hide injuries. Would downplay pain to keep morale up.

Is he eating enough? Sleeping enough? Is he thinking about you at all or have you already faded into just another pleasant memory?

You touch the falcon charm at your throat.

He's fine. He's the Grand Master. He knows what he's doing.

But what if he's not fine? What if something happens and you never know? Never get to say—

You cut the thought off. He's fine. He has to be fine.

(You repeat it until the words stop meaning anything. It doesn't help you sleep.)

The first few months, you sleep in Varka’s shirt every night.

You bury your face in the fabric, breathe in the scent of him, pretend he’s still there.

It helps. A little.

By month five, the scent is starting to fade.

You wash it carefully. Rarely. Trying to preserve what’s left.

By the first year, it just smells like your detergent. Then it‘s just fabric, carrying no trace of him except your memory.

You still sleep in it anyway.

— ✦ —

Varka sits in his tent, writing by lamplight. Standard correspondence. Nothing personal.

He signs it and sets it aside for Mika. Then he just sits there.

The tent is quiet. Cold. Outside he can hear the wind howling.

He wonders if you’re still in Mondstadt at all, or if you’ve moved on like he told you to. Traveled somewhere new. Found someone who doesn’t disappear for years chasing duty across frozen lands.

He hopes you did. (He hopes you didn’t.)

His hand moves before he's decided. He pulls out fresh paper. Picks up the pen. Stares at the blank page.

I miss you.

That's what he wants to write. That’s what he's been wanting to write for months.

But he doesn’t. Because he told you not to wait. Because pulling you back now would be selfish. Because you deserve better than letters from the edge of the world while he’s still years away from coming home.

He sets the pen down. Folds the blank paper. Puts it away.

One of his knights pokes their head in. “We’re doing rations check before bed. Need you to sign off.”

“Be right there.”

Varka stands and leaves the tent. Goes back to being the Grand Master. Pushes thoughts of you somewhere deep where they can’t distract him.

It works. Mostly.

(At night, though, when he’s trying to sleep, he still sees your face. Still hears your laugh. Still feels the ghost of your hand in his hair.

Still wonders if you’re thinking of him too. Still hates himself for hoping you are.)

— ✦ —

Varka’s official letter arrives with Mika months after the expedition left.

That night you almost write him. Almost send a letter to Varka care of wherever they are now.

But what would you say?

I miss you. I think about those weeks constantly. I’m waiting even though you told me not to.

It feels selfish. Distracting. He has important things to do. You stay strong.

Then, your fire starts to die. You notice it in small ways first. Food tastes duller. Colors seem muted. The things that used to make you laugh just don’t anymore.

You start traveling to Liyue. Tell yourself it’s for new experiences. A change of scenery.

Really, it’s because you can be anonymous there.

The first time, it’s almost an accident.

You’re at the harbor. Someone buys you a drink. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Easy smile.

You let him flirt. Let him lean close. Let him kiss you in a shadowed corner where the music is too loud to think.

It helps. Briefly. Makes you feel something other than the constant ache.

When you pull back, you notice his eyes are brown.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

You leave before he can ask your name.

The second time, you’re more deliberate. Scan the bar until you find someone tall. Blond hair. Strong jaw.

It’s close enough that your chest tightens. You approach. Smile. Let the conversation happen.

His voice is wrong. Not low enough. His laugh doesn’t rumble. But when he kisses you, you close your eyes and pretend.

It works for maybe thirty seconds. Then you feel his hands—smaller than Varka’s, wrong wrong wrong—and you pull away.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I can’t—”

You’re gone before he can respond.

It becomes a pattern. Every few weeks, you find yourself in Liyue. Different locations. Different districts. Always looking for the same thing.

Tall men. Broad builds. Contagious laugh. Blue eyes if you can find them. Pieces of him scattered across strangers who aren’t him and will never be him.

You know what you’re doing. Know it’s not healthy.

You do it anyway.

The worst part isn't the kissing. It's after. You go back to your rented room and lock the door. You lie down alone. And dream of him. His hands. His mouth. His voice. You dream of him above you, beside you, under you, inside you.

The dreams are so vivid you wake up gasping. Reaching for someone who isn't there.

One night you dream he's holding you. Just his arms around you while you sleep.

You wake up sobbing. Because that's what you want the most. Just him being there. And he's not. And you don't know if he ever will be again.

Another night, after kissing someone who had his build but wrong hands, you dream differently.

Varka’s standing in front of you. Looking at you with disappointment. “This is what you’re doing? Kissing strangers?"

“You told me not to wait.”

“I know what I said.” His expression is sad. “But I didn't think you’d—”

You wake before he finishes.

One night you’re kissing someone, and he says something that makes you freeze. “You’re tense. Relax.”

The cadence is wrong. But the tone is deep and warm. Authoritative in a way that’s so close to Varka’s voice that for a second you can’t breathe.

You kiss him harder, desperate. Trying to chase the echo. Trying to make it real.

His hands slide to your waist and they’re wrong. Too smooth. Not his, not his, not—

You break away, gasping.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just—I have to go.”

You’re out the door before he can stop you. Stand in the alley, shaking, hands pressed against the cold stone wall.

This isn’t working. This will never work.

You’re kissing strangers trying to find pieces of someone who isn’t here and all you’re finding is proof that no one is him. No one moves like him. Sounds like him. Makes you feel the way he did.

You’re chasing a ghost. And it’s killing you.

You keep doing it anyway. Because for those brief moments you can pretend. Can pretend his hands are on you. His mouth. His voice saying your name. Can pretend you’re not alone in this.

Even though you know you are. Even though you know you’re just making it worse.

One night you catch your reflection in a window and barely recognize yourself.

Hollow eyes. Fake smile still plastered on your face from the stranger who just bought you a drink. Lips swollen from kissing someone whose name you didn’t ask.

You leave. Don’t say goodbye to the stranger. Don’t finish your drink. Just leave.

You finally accept what you’ve been denying: No one else will ever be him. And pretending they might be only makes the emptiness sharper.

— ✦ —

You’re back to Mondstadt the next day. The apartment is exactly as you left it. Dust on the surfaces. Stale air. Silence so thick it presses against your ears.

You close the door behind you and lock it. You stand there in the entryway for a long moment.

You should clean and unpack. Do something productive. Instead you walk to the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed.

Your hands are shaking. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. You just need to rest. Get back to normal. Stop whatever this is that you’ve been doing in Liyue and just—

Your breath hitches. No. Not now.

You’ve been holding it together for months. You can hold it together a little longer. Just breathe. Just…

The sob tears out of your throat before you can stop it. Then another. And suddenly you can’t stop.

You curl into yourself—knees to chest, arms wrapped tight—and everything you’ve been holding back comes pouring out.

You cry for the person who watched him leave and thought they could be strong.

For the months you spent pretending you were fine while slowly falling apart. For the strangers in Liyue you kissed just to feel something—anything—other than the emptiness.

You cry because you miss him so much it’s physically painful and you hate yourself for it.

He told you not to wait. And you’re still waiting anyway.

You press your face into your knees and sob until you’re gasping and your throat is raw and your chest aches and there are no more tears left.

Even then, you stay curled up on the bed, shaking and breathing in gasps.

The room is dark when you finally lift your head.

You don’t remember when the sun went down. Don’t care.

You drag yourself under the covers and close your eyes. Sleep doesn’t come for hours.

The second day, you don’t leave the bed. Can’t muster the energy.

Just lie there staring at the ceiling while your mind circles the same thoughts over and over.

He’s not coming back. Not for you. Why would he?

Those weeks meant nothing. You’re making it into something it wasn’t.

You need to move on. You need to forget. You need to—

But you can’t.

Can’t forget the way he looked at you. Can’t forget his hands, his mouth, his voice saying your name like it meant something.

Can’t forget that he told you not to wait and you said you couldn’t promise.

Can’t forget that you’re still not over him and it’s been so long and you’re pathetic and broken and—

You cry again. Silent tears sliding down your temples while you stare at nothing.

Is he even alive?

The thought hits you like a physical blow.

You would’ve heard. Someone would’ve told you.

Would they? Who would tell you?

Your breath comes faster, panic rising.

Stop. Stop thinking like this.

But you can’t stop. Can't stop imagining him hurt. Alone. Calling for help that doesn’t come.

You pull his shirt over your head, bury your face in fabric that doesn’t smell like him anymore and cry.

At night, the dreams come.

Him bleeding out, you running but never reaching him. Him alive and happy and in someone else's arms. Him coming home. The reunion you’ve imagined a thousand times. His arms around you. His voice saying I'm back, I'm home, I love you.

The third day, you force yourself up. Bathe. Change clothes. Eat something that tastes like cardboard. Go through the motions of being a person.

It doesn’t feel real.

You feel like you’re watching yourself from outside your body. Going through familiar routines in a fog. But you do it anyway.

Because what else is there?

After that, you try. Go back to work. Smile at people who ask how you’ve been.

Fine. I’m fine. Just needed a break.

During the day, you almost believe it. But at night the apartment is too quiet. Too empty. Too full of memories you can’t escape.

You lie in bed and think about blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled.

Think about strong hands that knew exactly how to touch you. Think about his voice—warm and rough—saying I’ll come back. Think about weeks that felt like the most real thing you’ve ever experienced.

And you cry. Quiet tears in the dark. The kind that soak into your pillow and leave your eyes swollen in the morning. The kind you can hide with cold water and forced smiles.

It becomes a pattern.

Days of going through motions. Nights of falling apart.

Weeks blur into months. You stop counting how many nights you cry yourself to sleep. Start accepting that this is just what your life is now.

This hollow, aching existence where you’re alive but not really living. Where you’re waiting for someone who told you not to wait. Where you’re holding onto a memory that might be all you’ll ever have.

— ✦ —

The knights gather around the campfire after a long day of patrols.

Someone breaks out the Dandelion Wine, and the mood lightens considerably.

Varka takes a drink. It tastes like home.

Like Angel’s Share on warm evenings. Like corner booths and comfortable silences and—

Like you.

He takes another drink. Longer this time.

“Are you okay?” One of the younger knights is watching him with concern.

“Fine.” He forces a smile. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How much I miss real food.” It’s not a lie. Just not the whole truth. “This expedition diet is getting old.”

The knights laugh. Start swapping stories about the worst field rations they’ve encountered.

Varka participates. Jokes with them.

But the wine tastes like you and all he can think about is those nights at Angel’s Share. Your knee pressed against his. Your hand in his. The way you'd laugh at his terrible jokes and make better ones.

The way you looked the last time he saw you. Standing in the crowd at the gates. Wearing that falcon charm. Eyes bright with tears you were trying not to shed.

Don’t wait for me.

Can’t promise that.

Varka wonders if you’re still waiting. If you’ve moved on. If you think about him or if those weeks were just a brief moment in your life that you’ve already forgotten.

(He knows you haven’t forgotten. You don’t forget something like that. But maybe you should have.)

The wine is half-gone when Varka realizes he needs to stop.

Because he’s thinking about you and he promised himself he wouldn’t. Promised he’d focus on the expedition. On his duty. On everything except the person he left behind.

He sets the cup down and stands.

“Varka?”

“Heading to bed. Early day tomorrow.”

“You didn’t finish—”

“Not thirsty anymore.”

He leaves before anyone can question it. Back in his tent, he stares at the canvas ceiling and thinks about you anyway.

About whether you’re safe. Happy. Moving on like you should be. About whether you still wear his shirt sometimes. About whether he’ll ever see you again or if this is it.

He doesn’t sleep well.

The next evening, when the knights break out the wine again, Varka declines.

“No more drinking for me,” Varka says. “Someone needs to keep watch.”

“We have scheduled watches—”

“Yeah, I know. Taking an extra shift anyway.”

He does. And the next night. And the night after that. Anything to avoid the campfire, the wine that tastes like you, and pretending he’s fine.

(He’s not fine. Hasn’t been fine since he left Mondstadt. Probably won’t be fine until he sees you again.

If he sees you again.)

— ✦ —

Eventually, you start traveling again. Fontaine first. Then Sumeru. Everywhere except where he might be. Like someone scooped out your insides and left you hollow.

People talk sometimes about the expedition.

Still going. Making progress. The Grand Master’s doing well.

You smile. Nod. Feel nothing.

Then one day you’re in Natlan again and you hear it:

The expedition’s making progress in Nod-Krai. Flagship’s become something of a meeting point.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. But you travel to Nod-Krai anyway.

— ✦ —

Varka is in Nod-Krai writing a letter to Mondstadt.

Progress updates. The usual.

He should just send it. But he’s been thinking about you again. Has been for days. Weeks, really.

Years, if he’s honest.

Wonders again if you’re still in Mondstadt. If you moved on like he told you to. If you ever think about those weeks or if they were just a blip in your life.

He pulls out a second sheet of paper. This is stupid. Selfish. You might not even be there to receive it. He writes anyway.

I’m sending this with the official correspondence. Probably shouldn’t. But I’m doing it anyway.

Been thinking about those weeks with you a lot. About how you said you’d rather have the memory than nothing. I get it now. I really do.

This is selfish. I know that. I’m still in Nod-Krai. Could be another year before we’re done.

And here I am writing to someone who probably moved on like I told them to.

But here’s the thing.

Got hurt a while back. Bad enough that I got to thinking.

The Wild Hunt. Long story, not important. What’s important is that it made me think about all the things I never said. All the chances I didn’t take.

Made me realize I was being a coward.

Told you not to wait because I thought it was the right thing to do. The selfless thing.

But all the fighting and the distance and the lonely nights made me selfish.

Made me realize I don’t want to come home to an empty city. Don’t want to wonder for the rest of my life what might have happened if I’d just been honest.

So here’s me being honest: I miss you. And I’m done pretending that’s not true.

And I need you to know: When I get back—whenever that is—I’d like to see you.

If you’re still around. If you want to.

No pressure. You don’t owe me anything.

But if you’re reading this… if any part of you still wants to…

Come find me when I’m back.

Or don’t. If you’ve moved on, I get it. You should. You deserve someone who doesn’t disappear for years at a time.

Either way, those weeks mattered. And those three days were the best of my life.

You mattered.

Still do.

—V

P.S. Hope you’re doing well. Hope you found whatever you were looking for.

He seals it separately from the official report. Addresses it to your apartment. Sends both letters to Mondstadt.

Doesn’t know your apartment is empty.

Doesn’t know you’re not even in Mondstadt anymore.

The letter sits in your apartment.

Waiting.

— ✦ —

Nod-Krai is different than you expected.

You don’t seek Varka out directly. Just ask around. Casual questions.

Where do the knights gather? What’s their schedule? How’s the expedition going?

“Going well,” people say. “Tough fights though. The Wild Hunt’s been brutal.”

Your stomach drops. “The Wild Hunt?”

“Aye. Vicious things. The Grand Master took them on a while back. Got hurt pretty bad.”

The world tilts.

“Is he—”

“He’s fine now. Recovered. Tough as they come, that one.”

Hurt bad. Recovered now.

You should feel relief.

You feel nothing.

That night you see Varka outside the Flagship. Laughing with other knights. Drink in hand. Looking healthy.

But you know warriors. Know injuries.

Know he’s still hurting even if he won’t show it.

You watch from across the square.

He doesn’t see you.

You should approach. Should check if he’s okay. Should—

He’s fine. He doesn’t need you. He has a life here. A purpose. People who actually matter.

You turn away.

The next time you see him, he looks different. More like the first time you met him.

Happy.

Alive in a way that makes your chest ache.

You keep watching him from a distance. He doesn’t see you.

Once, you’re close enough to hear his voice.

He’s telling a story about a Wild Hunt fight. Making it funny somehow, downplaying the danger, getting laughs from the crowd.

“Thought I was done for,” he says with a grin. “But turns out I’m too stubborn to die.”

Everyone laughs.

You feel sick.

He got hurt, and you weren’t there.

Wouldn’t have known until—

You shake your head and leave.

You tell yourself you’ll approach tomorrow.

Tomorrow becomes the next day.

Then the next.

For a week you watch him. See him joke with his knights. See him help locals with heavy lifting. See him throw his head back laughing at something someone said.

He looks good. Better than good.

He looks like someone who has a life. A purpose. People who need him.

And you—

You’re a ghost haunting his periphery. Too hollow to even approach.

This is his life now, you think, watching him clap someone on the shoulder. That’s good. He’s happy.

This is good.

(You don’t believe it. But you repeat it until the words stop meaning anything.)

— ✦ —

You leave Nod-Krai the next day.

Can’t stay. Can’t keep watching him live a life that doesn’t include you.

Can’t keep existing in this hollow space between wanting to approach and knowing you shouldn’t.

After leaving Nod-Krai, you drift.

Fontaine for a month. Sumeru for two. Eventually you end up back in Natlan.

Your relatives welcome you without question.

“You look terrible,” your cousin says bluntly.

“Thanks.”

“I mean it.” They study you with the directness tribe members are known for.

“What happened?”

“Long story.”

“We’ve got time.”

But you don’t tell them. Can’t find the words to explain years of waiting and breaking and putting yourself back together wrong.

So you just say: “I need somewhere to stay for a while.”

“Stay as long as you need.”

The settlement is exactly as you remember.

Qucusaur roosts. Training grounds where warriors spar. The places where the Wayob’s presence feels strongest.

It should feel like coming home. Instead it just feels like another place you don’t belong.

You exist there for months. Going through motions. Participating in ceremonies without really being present.

The tribe doesn’t push. Just lets you be.

Courage means facing your demons alone at times. Discipline means not burdening others with your struggles.

You appreciate it. Even if it means you’re slowly drowning and nobody notices.

Then the war comes.

The Abyss pushing into Natlan from multiple fronts. Threatening everything.

The clans mobilize. Proud warriors rising to defend their homeland like they’ve done for generations.

Your relatives prepare for battle.

“You don’t have to fight,” your cousin says. “You’re not officially with us anymore. This isn’t your—”

“I’m fighting.”

“You sure?”

You grab your weapon, feel its familiar weight. “I’m sure.”

The war is brutal. You throw yourself into it. Too hard and too reckless.

Your cousin notices. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Maybe.”

They grab your arm. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

“So what if it is?” You pull away. “I’m fighting, aren’t I? Isn’t that what the clan values? Courage?”

“Courage isn’t the same as suicide.”

“Close enough.”

You walk away before they can stop you.

But they’re right.

You are being reckless. Volunteering for the front lines. Fighting like you have nothing to lose.

(Because you don’t?)

The numbness that’s been eating at you for years has calcified into something worse. Into active self-destruction.

The battle at the Stadium of the Sacred Flame is the worst.

You fight for hours. Blade in hand. Moving on pure muscle memory and adrenaline. Not thinking. Just reacting.

A blade slices across your ribs.

You barely feel it. Just counter. Strike. Keep moving.

Blood soaking through your shirt. Vision blurring at the edges.

Someone’s shouting your name. You ignore them.

There’s still enemies. Still work to do.

You keep fighting.

When Natlan is finally saved and the war ends, you’re standing in the aftermath. Covered in blood. Shaking. Barely able to stand.

Your cousin finds you. Takes one look and their face goes white.

“Oh, ancestors—”

Your legs give out.

They catch you before you hit the ground. “Stay with me. Hey—stay with me—”

But you’re already gone.

You wake up three days later. Every part of you hurts.

“Don’t move,” someone says. A healer. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Don’t feel lucky.”

“You lost a lot of blood. Cracked two ribs. Nearly gave yourself heat exhaustion.” They give you a look that’s equal parts concern and frustration. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I needed to fight.”

“You nearly died.”

“But I didn’t.”

They shake their head. “Rest. Recover. The war’s over. You did enough.”

Recovery is slow and painful.

The Flower-Feather Clan has ceremonies for warriors returning from battle. Rituals to honor the fallen. Practices to help process trauma and grief.

You participate because refusing would be disrespectful. But you don’t expect them to help.

Then there is one ceremony that actually reaches you.

The entire clan gathers. Sharing stories of those who fell. Honoring their courage. Their sacrifice.

Someone speaks about strength. About how true warriors know when to fight and when to heal.

“Courage isn’t just facing the enemy,” they say. “It’s facing yourself. Your pain. Your limits.”

“Discipline isn’t just controlling your blade. It’s knowing when to put it down.”

The words sink in slowly.

You’ve been fighting for years. Not just in Natlan. Not just against the Abyss Order. Fighting the grief. The loneliness. The part of yourself that still loves someone who left.

And all it’s done is destroy you.

The healing doesn’t happen all at once. It's gradual.

You're participating in ceremonies, listening to stories and learning the philosophies all over again.

Your cousin sits with you sometimes. Doesn’t push. Just exists nearby while you process.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” they say one evening. “But you should know—we noticed. That you were struggling.”

“I thought I was hiding it.”

“You were. From yourself.” They give you a long look. “But we know our own.”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t know how to ask for help.”

“That’s the hard part, isn’t it? The discipline to admit you need it.”

You nod. Can’t speak.

They squeeze your shoulder. “You’re home now. We’ve got you.”

One day, you ride a Qucusaur for the first time in years.

It’s terrifying.

The height. The speed. The way the wind tears at your hair and clothes. But it’s also freeing.

You soar over the plains. Over the settlements. Over battlefields that are slowly returning to normal.

And for the first time in years, you feel something other than pain.

Not happiness exactly. But maybe possibility.

Your cousin finds you after you land. “Good flight?”

“Yeah.” You’re slightly breathless. Smiling despite yourself. “Really good.”

They grin. “Thought you might’ve forgotten how.”

“Almost did.” You pat the Qucusaur’s neck. “But it came back.”

“It usually does.” They pause. “You thinking about staying? In Natlan?”

You consider it.

The tribe would welcome you. Would give you purpose. Community. The structure you’ve been missing.

But you often hear rumors about the expedition returning to Mondstadt. And you have to know.

“I have some things I need to take care of,” you say slowly. “In Mondstadt.”

“Varka?”

You blink. “How did you—”

“You talk in your sleep.” They give you a knowing look. “And you’re not as subtle as you think.”

Your face heats. “It’s complicated.”

“It always is.” They clap your shoulder. “But you should go. Handle it. Come visit us agan if you want.”

“You sure?”

“You belong to us. Even if you left. Even if you never come back.” Their smile is warm. “You’re always one of us.”

— ✦ —

You leave Natlan two weeks later.

When Mondstadt finally appears on the horizon—familiar windmills and city walls—something in your chest loosens.

Home.

Or maybe just where he is.

Same thing, really.

You don’t let yourself think about whether he’s back yet. Don’t let yourself hope.

You return to Mondstadt on a grey afternoon. The city looks the same. Feels the same.

You feel like a stranger walking through familiar streets.

Your apartment is dusty. Untouched. Exactly as you left it.

There’s a letter by the door. You recognize the handwriting immediately.

Your hands shake as you open it.

I’m sending this with the official correspondence.

You get three lines in before you have to sit down.

Five lines before your vision blurs.

By the time you finish, you’re sobbing.

I miss you.

Come find me.

Those three days were the best of my life.

You’re moving before you’ve finished the thought.

You don’t walk.

You run.

The Knights of Favonius headquarters isn’t far, but it feels like miles.

Your heart is hammering. Your lungs are burning. The fire you thought was dead is roaring back to life.

He came back. He wants to see you. Has wanted it all this time. He missed you.

You round the corner near the square and collide with someone.

Hands catch your shoulders, steadying you. “Easy—”

You look up. Blue eyes. Blond hair. A face that’s haunted your dreams for years.

You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can only stare at him while your heart tries to beat out of your chest.

He looks older. Tired. There are new lines around his eyes, new scars you don’t recognize.

But it’s him.

He’s here. He’s real. He’s staring at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

“You’re—” His voice cracks. “You’re here.”

“I got your letter,” you manage. Your voice is shaking. “I just—I came back and it was there and I—”

You don’t finish. Can’t finish. Because you’re grabbing his coat, pulling him down, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is desperate. Years of missing him. Years of breaking apart. Years of wondering if you’d ever see him again.

All of it poured into the press of mouth against mouth.

Varka makes a sound, and his arms wrap around you, crushing you against his chest like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You kiss him harder. Hands in his hair. Tears streaming down your face.

He’s kissing you back like he’s drowning and you’re air. Like he can’t get close enough. Like those years weren’t nearly long enough to forget how this feels.

When you finally break apart, you’re both shaking. Both crying.

“You came back,” you gasp against his mouth.

“Told you I would.” His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away your tears even as his own fall. “Told you I’d come back.”

“I waited. I tried not to but I—”

“I know.” He presses his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize. You’re here now.”

“I’m here.” His arms tighten around you. “I’m home.”

You kiss him again.

Around you, people are definitely staring. Neither of you care.

“Come on.” He takes your hand and threads your fingers together like he used to. “Let’s get off the street.”

You barely make it through the door before you’re kissing again.

But it’s different now. Less desperate. More deliberate.

Taking time. Relearning.

Varka’s hands slide under your coat and start to push it off.

You help him and shrug it off your shoulders.

That’s when he sees it.

You’re wearing his shirt. The one he gave you years ago. Soft and worn and carrying no trace of his scent anymore but still unmistakably his.

He goes completely still. “Is that—”

“Yeah.” Your voice is quiet. “I’ve been sleeping in it for years.”

His breath catches. “It doesn’t even smell like me anymore.”

“I know.”

“You kept it anyway.”

“I kept everything.” You reach up and touch the falcon charm still around your neck. “Everything you gave me.”

He stares at the charm. At the shirt. At you. Then his face crumples.

“C’mere.”

You go to him. Let him pull you into his arms. Hold you so tight you can barely breathe.

“Missed you,” he says against your hair. “Every single day. I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.”

“I thought—” He stops and swallows hard. “I thought maybe you’d moved on. Found someone else. That I’d come back and you’d be gone.”

“I couldn’t. Because no one—” You pull back to look at him. “No one was you.”

You kiss him again. When he pulls back, he’s smiling slightly despite the tears.

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

“I am.”

“It’s way too big on you.”

“I know.”

“You look good in it.” His hands slide down your sides. “Though I’m hoping you’ll let me take it off you.”

Despite everything, you laugh. “Smooth.”

“I try.” His grin is soft and warm. “Damn, I missed your laugh.”

“Missed making you smile.”

“Well.” He pulls you closer. “We’ve got time now. All the time in the world.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He pulls you into his lap.

“I love you,” he says. “Should’ve said it years ago. Should’ve said it in the letter. Should’ve said it the second I saw you today.”

Your breath catches. “I love you too.” The words come out broken. “I’ve loved you for years and I—”

He kisses you.

And for the first time in years, you feel all warm.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. More Varka to follow soon. :)

You turn.

The man standing there is large. Broad-shouldered, muscular, with an easy confidence that probably makes most people instinctively defer to him.

You’re not most people.

“Fine,” you say flatly. “I won.”

His eyebrow rises. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

Something flickers in his expression. Surprise. Maybe respect. “At the same time?”

“One got the jump on me while I was fighting the first.” You turn back to Katheryne. “So as I was saying—”

“The commission requires three people,” the large man interrupts. “For a reason.”

You give him a look. “And you are?”

“Varka. Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius.”

Most people would be embarrassed. Apologetic. Deferential.

You just nod. “Nice to meet you. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“I’m not excusing you.” But he doesn’t sound angry. If anything, he sounds… amused?

“I’m telling you that commission is too dangerous to take alone.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“You’re getting it anyway.” He crosses his arms, and you notice he’s trying not to smile. “You’re good—I can tell that much. But good gets you killed if you’re reckless about it.”

“I’m not reckless.”

“You’re trying to take a three-person commission solo. That’s reckless.”

You glare at him.

He gazes back, completely unmoved, and now he is smiling.

Katheryne clears her throat. “Perhaps a compromise? There’s a similar commission, lower rank, still challenging—”

“Fine.” You snatch the posting. “This one.”

Varka’s smile widens. “Smart choice.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

You turn to leave.

“Hey,” he calls after you.

You glance back.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate. “Why?”

“So I know what to call you when I inevitably have to save your reckless ass.”

Despite yourself, your mouth quirks. “It’s not going to happen.”

“We’ll see.”

You leave without giving him your name.

(He finds out anyway. Katheryne tells him within the hour. He asks three times to make sure he heard it right.)

(You definitely don’t think about how his arms looked when he crossed them. Or how his smile changed his entire face. You absolutely don’t notice these things.)

The commission pays well.

You try not to think about blue eyes and an irritating smile while you work. You fail.

When you return to the city two days later, the sun is setting and you’re covered in dirt and blood. You’re walking over the bridge when—

“Heading out?”

Of course.

You don’t turn around. “Just got back.”

Varka falls into step beside you anyway, looking entirely too fresh and clean for someone who’s supposedly been working all day.

His stride is easy, unhurried, and you’re very aware of him. He could probably carry your pack and you without breaking a sweat.

“Successful commission?”

“Obviously.”

“No near-death experiences?”

“Not a single one.” You glance at him. “Disappointed?”

“Relieved, actually.” His smile is warm. “Though I did have a bet going with myself about how long you’d last before needing rescue.”

“How long did you give me?”

“Two days.”

“It’s been two days.”

“Exactly.” He’s grinning now. “I’m very good at reading people.”

Despite yourself, you almost smile. “You’re very irritating, is what you are.”

“I’ve been told that.” He doesn’t sound bothered. “Where are you headed?”

“Guild. Report the commission.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“Free city. Walk where you want.”

“That’s not a no.”

You don’t dignify that with a response.

He walks with you anyway, making easy conversation about nothing important. The weather, festival preparations, a merchant who’s trying to sell him “authentic Fatui memorabilia” that’s obviously fake.

You find yourself listening. Occasionally responding.

“You know,” he says casually, “you’ve got guts. Most people wouldn’t take commissions like that alone. You must really enjoy the thrill of it.”

You stop walking. “What?”

He blinks. “The danger. The fight. Some people are drawn to—”

“I don’t do this for thrills.” Your voice is sharp.

His smile fades. “I didn’t mean—”

“I do it because someone has to. Because if I don’t, people die.”

The words come out harsher than you intended.

Varka goes very still.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “That was stupid of me. I made an assumption.”

You start walking again. Varka catches up, falling into step.

“You’re trying to protect people,” he says. “Same as me. I should’ve seen that.”

You glance at him. His expression is serious. No defensiveness. Just understanding.

“Yeah,” you say finally.

He nods once. Doesn’t push. The tension eases slightly.

When you reach the Guild, he stops.

“Well,” Varka says, “this was nice.”

“You have a strange definition of nice.”

“Spending time with interesting people? That’s my definition exactly.” His eyes are warm. “See you around.”

He’s already walking away before you can respond. You stand there for a moment, watching him go. Then you shake your head.

You see him again two days later. And three days after that. And then it stops being surprising when he just shows up. The pattern continues. You take commissions. He appears. You work together with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people who barely know each other.

(Except you’re starting to know him. The way he fights. The way he laughs. The way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.)

Two weeks later, he shows up again.

“You know,” you say, blocking a treasure hoarder’s strike, “don’t you have Grand Master things to do instead of slacking off?”

“Probably.” Varka disarms another hoarder with casual efficiency. “But this is more interesting.”

“Following me around?”

“Protecting Mondstadt.” He grins at you over the hoarder’s shoulder. “And getting to do it with you.”

He pauses, and something in his expression softens. “Enjoy spending time with you.”

You fumble your next parry.

The hoarder takes advantage, lunging forward, and Varka’s there instantly, intercepting the blade.

You catch a glimpse of his arms as he blocks. The way his muscles shift under his sleeves, controlled strength that could probably break someone in half but he’s using it to protect you—

Focus. You need to focus.

“Careful,” he says, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the hoarder.

Later, after the fight, you watch him sheath his claymore. There’s a scratch on his forearm that wasn’t there before, and you have the absurd urge to check if he’s alright.

He fought three hoarders without breaking a sweat. He’s fine.

You’re still looking at his arm when he nudges your shoulder.

“You alright? You seemed distracted there for a second.”

“Fine.” Your face feels warm. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing important.” You busy yourself cleaning your blade. “Thanks. For the save.”

“Anytime.” His voice is soft. “That’s what partners do.”

“We’re not partners.”

“Aren’t we?” He gestures at the defeated hoarders. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You don’t have a response to that.

— ✦ —

A month after your first meeting, you’re tracking Abyssal activity when he appears.

(You heard him coming. You always hear him now. You’ve learned the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his breathing when he’s trying to be quiet.)

“You’re getting predictable,” you say without turning around.

“Am I?”

“Every time I go after Abyssal monsters, you show up. Commission or not,” you mutter, refocusing on the tracks.

He’s quiet for a moment. “You track them outside of Guild work?”

“Someone has to.”

“That’s…” He pauses. “That’s dangerous.”

“Don’t care. Someone has to keep them away from the cities.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Guess you need someone protecting you then.”

You swallow hard. “What are you doing here, Varka?”

“Maybe I’m just very good at timing.” He crouches beside you, examining the tracks. “Or maybe I worry.”

That makes you look at him. “Why?”

“Because you hunt them like it’s personal. Not just for the mora.” His voice is gentle. “And personal makes people reckless.”

“I’m not reckless.”

“You absolutely are.” But he’s smiling. “You’re like a firecracker. All explosive energy and no hesitation.”

You snort. “That’s not a compliment.”

“Sure it is. Firecrackers are exciting. Dangerous.” His eyes meet yours. “Beautiful when they go off. Hard to look away.”

Your breath catches. He’s close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Close enough that if you leaned forward just slightly—

“The tracks go northeast,” you say abruptly, standing. “We should move.”

“Right. Northeast.” He doesn’t move immediately. Just keeps looking at you with that soft expression.

“Varka.”

“Yeah. Moving. I’m moving.”

But he’s still smiling as he follows you.

Four days later, you’re following a track near the Thousand Winds Temple when you hear his footsteps. Again.

You stand, facing him. “I can handle this alone.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why—”

“Because you don’t have to.” There’s frustration in his voice now. An edge you haven’t heard before. “You keep doing this. I’m right here and you just—”

He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I’m right here,” he repeats. Quieter this time.

You blink at him. “I didn’t ask you to be.”

The words come out sharper than you intended. Something flickers across his face. Hurt, maybe. Or frustration.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”

Silence stretches between you.

He looks at a loss. Like he doesn’t know what to say. What to do with his hands.

It’s so unlike him that you actually feel bad. “Look,” you say finally. “You’re all strength and efficiency. And you like making use of your skills instead of just being in your office. I get it.”

Varka’s expression shifts. Something lighter creeping back in. “You could’ve just said you like it when I help you out.”

Despite yourself, your mouth quirks. “Must be the adrenaline talking.”

“Right. Adrenaline.” But he’s almost smiling now. “From all the standing around examining tracks.”

“Very intense track examination.”

“Clearly.”

He crouches beside you, examining the traces. Closer than necessary. “Not easy to rely on others,” he says quietly. More statement than question.

“Works better like this.” You keep your eyes on the tracks. “Simpler.”

“Simpler,” Varka repeats. “Right.”

He doesn’t sound convinced. But he doesn’t push.

Seven weeks in, at Dadaupa Gorge, the fight gets messy. The Hilichurl camp is larger than expected.

You’re outnumbered, outflanked, and one of them has a crossbow—

Varka's improvised shield takes the bolt meant for your head.

“Behind you!” you shout.

He spins, catches your attacker with his shoulder, sends them flying like they weigh nothing. You’ve seen him fight before, but there’s something about watching him move that makes your breath catch.

He’s close enough now that you can see the sweat on his brow, the way his chest rises and falls with exertion.

You force your eyes back to the fight. You barely dodge the next strike. You cover Varka's flank as three more rush in.

The fight is chaotic. Messy. Dangerous. And you’re both laughing.

“This is insane!” you call out.

“I know!” Varka sounds delighted. “Isn't it great?”

“Are you actually enjoying this?”

“You're smiling too!”

You are smiling. You can’t help it.

Fighting beside him feels like you’ve been doing this for years. Like you know exactly where he’ll be, what he’ll do, how he moves.

The last Hilichurl swings wild—you dodge left, it clips your shoulder, throws you off balance—

You crash into Varka. He tries to catch you but the momentum sends you both down. You land on top of him, straddling his waist, hands braced on his chest to catch yourself.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Your heart is still pounding from the fight. Adrenaline singing through your veins. Blood rushing in your ears.

And now you’re acutely aware of everything.

The way his chest rises and falls hard beneath your palms. The heat of him even through armor. The way his hands have landed on your hips, fingers flexing slightly like he’s not sure whether to push you away or pull you closer.

Your faces are inches apart. His eyes are very wide. Very blue.

“Hi,” you manage. Your voice comes out breathless.

“Hey.” His comes out rough. Almost wrecked.

You should move. You can’t seem to make your body cooperate. Neither can he, apparently, because his hands are still on your hips and he’s just staring at you.

“You good?” His voice is lower than usual.

“Yeah. You?”

“Honestly?” His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up. “Not sure.”

Your breath catches. The adrenaline from the fight is mixing with something else now. Something that makes your skin feel too tight and your pulse jump for entirely different reasons.

“You’re—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re still on top of me.”

“I know.”

“Just making sure you noticed.”

“Hard not to.”

Something flickers in his expression. Heat and surprise and want all tangled together.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips. You feel it everywhere. “If you wanted to pin me,” he says, voice rough, “there are easier ways.”

“I didn’t—I fell—”

“I know.” His mouth quirks, but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at you. “But if this is a new combat technique, it’s very effective. I’m thoroughly distracted.”

“Varka—”

“Can’t think straight right now,” he admits. “You should probably move.”

“Probably.”

You don’t. Neither does he. His thumb brushes against your hip, and it sends heat racing up your spine.

“Firecracker.” His voice is strained. “You’re killing me here.”

That breaks the spell. You scramble off him so fast you nearly fall again, heart still hammering.

He catches your arm, steadying you, and when you glance at his face he looks flushed. Breathing hard.

You notice the scratch on his forearm then. Fresh, bleeding slightly. Without thinking, you catch his wrist, turning his arm to see it better.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.” But his voice comes out rougher than usual.

Your fingers brush over the scratch and the older scars beneath it.

His breath hitches. You look up sharply, but he’s not pulling away. Just watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

“You take a lot of risks yourself,” you mutter, still holding his wrist.

“Have to.” His voice is steady. Confident. “Besides, I’m good at what I do.” There's no arrogance in it. Just fact.

Your thumb traces the edge of one scar. Longer than the others, almost stretching across his whole forearm.

“Quite the battle map you’ve got.”

His mouth quirks. “That obvious, huh?”

“Tells a story.” You glance up at him. “Lots of them, looks like.”

“Yeah, well.” He tries for lightness. “Comes with the job. Can't lead from the back.”

“Mondstadt’s very own hero,” you say.

“Something like that.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “External scars tend to do that. Give people a heroic impression.”

Something flickers in his expression then. Brief. Complicated.

External. The word hangs there. You almost ask. Almost.

“You take calculated risks though,” you say instead, thumb still resting on one of the scars. “Not like me. You think things through.”

You glance up at him. “I admire that. Admire you for it.”

Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something softer.

He clears his throat. “You’re growing soft on me, firecracker.”

“You wish.”

He laughs. That low, rumbling sound that you’re starting to recognize. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. You keep me on my toes.”

Something in your chest does a complicated flip.

But he’s already shifting, gently pulling his arm from your grip. Not rejecting the touch, just closing the moment.

“We should—” He gestures vaguely toward the city.

“Yeah.” You let him go. “We should.”

His hand finds your shoulder briefly. Warm. Steady.

Neither of you moves for another few seconds.

When you finally do start walking, there’s a new awareness between you. The way he stays close. The way you’re hyper-conscious of every accidental touch.

Everything’s shifted. And you both know it.

— ✦ —

A few days later, Varka catches you before you can leave the city again. “Angel’s Share,” he says. “Tonight. Just drinks. Just us.”

“Varka—”

“Please.” The word is simple. Sincere. “I want to understand. And I think you want to tell someone.”

You shouldn’t say yes. You do anyway.

The tavern is warm, filled with low conversation and the clink of glasses. You sit in a corner booth, and for a while neither of you speaks.

Then Varka sets a drink in front of you. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says quietly. “But I want to understand why you hunt them like this. Why it’s personal.”

You stare at your glass for a long moment.

“My parents,” you finally say. “Years ago. Abyss order attack.”

His expression shifts—understanding, sympathy.

“We were traveling. Coming back from visiting family.” Your hands clench around the glass. “It was supposed to be safe. The road was well-traveled, close to town. The enemy never came that close to villages”

“But they did.”

“Yeah.” Your voice is flat. “They did. We saw them too late. Mages. Hilichurls. They came out of nowhere.”

You stop. Breathe.

“My parents told me to run. Get to town, get help. I didn’t want to leave them but my father—” Your throat tightens. “He made me promise. So I ran.”

Varka’s quiet for a long moment. Then his hand covers yours on the table. Warm. Calloused. Surprisingly gentle for its size. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, and you’re suddenly very aware of every point of contact.

“By the time I got back with the guards, it was over.” You have to force the words out. “My mother was… she’d tried to crawl toward town. Trying to get to safety. But she didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My father fought them. Gave her time to try to run. There were five mages and he was alone and—” Your voice cracks. “I should have stayed. Should have fought with them instead of—”

You stop. Your eyes are burning.

“If I’d been stronger, if I’d stayed and fought, maybe—”

A tear slips down your cheek.

“Hey.” Varka’s voice is gentle. “It’s not your fault.”

“I left them—”

“You did what they asked. What any parent would want.” His thumb brushes across your knuckles. “You survived. That’s what they wanted.”

You wipe at your eyes roughly.

“That’s why,” you say. Your voice is thick. “That’s why I hunt them. Why I track them even without commissions. They came too close to town that day. Too close to people. And I can’t—I can’t let that happen again.”

Across the tavern, a bard starts playing. Soft strumming that gradually builds into something familiar. An old Mondstadt tune you've heard before but never really listened to.

A few people join in, humming along. The words drift over the conversation:

“When the wind calls you wandering...”

The melody is warm. Steady. Not quite cheerful. Not quite sad. Something in between. Comforting in its familiarity.

“Because you’re protecting people,” Varka says quietly.

“Because I won’t let anyone else lose their family like I lost mine." Your jaw tightens despite the tears. "I won’t let them get that close again."

“Follow the wind that’s whispering, the northern wind from far…”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Looking at his drink. Turning the glass slowly. “And you still care,” he says finally. “After everything. Could’ve been easy to just shut down. Get cold. But you didn’t.”

Something in his voice makes you look up.

“Lot of people rely on me,” he continues, still not meeting your eyes. “Knights. Citizens. Whole damn city. Not much room for…” He stops. “For anything else.”

He glances up then. Brief. Vulnerable. Your breath catches. He clears his throat. Looks away.

The song swells around you. Voices blending together, something about steady winds and finding your way even when you’re lost.

“Your parents would be proud,” Varka says quietly, nearly lost under the music. “What you’re doing—it takes incredible strength.”

“Home is not the place you harbor, but the heart that waits for you...”

The chorus fades. Returns to gentle strumming. Your throat tightens again.

“I’m proud of you,” he adds. "For what that’s worth.”

You look up at him. His expression is open. Warm. Full of understanding. “Thank you,” you whisper. "For listening.”

“Always.” His hand is still covering yours. “Anytime you need to talk. I’m here.”

Something in your chest loosens.

The music continues in the background. Familiar now, wrapping around the conversation like a blanket. You don't pull your hand away.

For the rest of the evening, you talk. About lighter things, easier things.

Varka tells you stories about the knights, about Mondstadt, about the time he accidentally started a food fight at an important dinner. He tells you about his past, and you can't help but imagine a younger Varka.

You tell him about little things. People you met on your travels. Encounters you are still fond of. Experiences that taught you something about life or yourself.

You laugh more than you have in months.

When you finally leave, his hand lingers at the small of your back as he walks you out.

The night air is cool. Welcome after the warmth of the tavern. You walk in comfortable silence for a while.

Then Varka glances at you. “You doing okay? That was a lot to talk about.”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” And you mean it.

You walk a few more steps. “You know,” you say, “most people get uncomfortable when I talk about it. They either avoid the topic completely or try to tell me it wasn’t my fault and I should move on.”

“That help?”

“Not really.”

“Didn’t think so.” He's quiet for a moment. “Grief doesn’t work on other people’s timelines.”

You glance at him. “You sound like you know something about that."

“Lost people too. Different circumstances, but...” He shrugs. “Yeah. I know.”

“So,” you say after a moment, deliberately lighter. “Do you always walk random Adventurers home? Or am I special?”

He grins. “Of course you’re special. Most Adventurers don’t try to fight several Mitachurls alone.”

“I won that fight.”

“One time.”

“Every time.”

“Keep telling yourself that, firecracker.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. He doesn't budge. Just laughs. “See, this is what I mean,” he says.

“What?”

“This. You giving me shit. Making me laugh after a long day.” He's smiling, but there's something genuine underneath. “Does me good.”

“What, having someone insult you?”

Varka looks at you, and there's something warm in his expression. “Makes me feel alive.” He clears his throat.

At that moment, you reach the corner where you usually part ways. Neither of you moves.

“This was nice,” he says.

“It was.” And you mean it.

“We should do it again.”

“Varka—”

“As friends,” he adds quickly. “If that's what you want. Or as—” He stops. “As whatever you want.”

You look at him. This large, kind, persistent man who's somehow worked his way into your life. Who listened without judgment. Who makes you feel less alone. Who you apparently make feel alive.

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

His smile is warm. “I’ll take it.”

— ✦ —

Three months in you’re walking back to the city after a fight, the sun setting behind you, when Varka glances over.

“You ever think about doing anything else?” he asks. “Besides commissions?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Settling down. Taking a break. Living life instead of constantly fighting.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Fighting is living. For me.”

“Because of your parents.”

“Yeah.”

“I get it.” His voice is soft. “But you can’t hunt the Abyssal creatures forever.”

“Watch me.”

He laughs quietly. “Stubborn.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not. It’s very you.” He pauses. “Just don’t forget there’s more to life than revenge.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.” He gestures between you. “Working together. Talking. Spending time with people who—” He stops. “With people who care about you.”

Your heart does something complicated.

“Varka—”

“I know. Too much. Too fast.” But he doesn’t sound apologetic. “Just think about it.”

The shift happens gradually.

His hand lingers when he helps you over rough terrain.

He stands closer than necessary when you’re reviewing maps.

He finds excuses to see you even when there are no commissions. Bringing food, checking if you’ve eaten, asking if you want to spar.

And he flirts. Openly. Shamelessly.

“You know,” he says one afternoon, watching you sharpen your blade, “you’re really good with your hands.”

You don’t look up. “That’s what makes me a good fighter.”

“Also what makes you distracting.”

“How is me sharpening a blade distracting?”

“Everything you do is distracting.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed, smiling.

“But especially that. Very focused. Very precise.”

You can feel your face heating and look down. “Don’t you have paperwork?”

“Probably.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Better view.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

You make the mistake of looking up again. He’s backlit by the window, and the afternoon light catches in his hair, highlights the line of his shoulders.

There’s something unfairly appealing about the way he’s standing there, completely relaxed, just watching you.

“You’re—” The words slip out before you can stop them. “You’re very distracting too.”

His eyebrows rise slightly. “Distracting, huh?”

Oh no.

Your face heats. “I didn’t—that's not—”

“No, no. Don't take it back.” He’s grinning now. Fully grinning. “I’m listening. Distracting how?”

“You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“That—” You gesture vaguely at him. “Standing there all... like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know what you're doing.”

“Just standing here.” He’s clearly enjoying this. “Tell me. How am I being distracting?”

You look back down at your blade very quickly, then back at him. “The... the stones by the cathedral are very nice this time of year.”

Varka blinks. “What?”

“Stones. Cathedral. Nice. Pretty. You should look at them instead.”

His expression does something complicated. Confusion and delight and fondness all at once.

“You just tried to redirect my attention to cathedral stones."

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“They’re very interesting stones.”

“They’re not.”

“Sure they are. Very stone-like.”

He’s trying not to laugh. You can see it. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he says.

“I’m not flustered.”

“You just recommended I look at rocks.”

“Stones.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Rocks are different from stones. Rocks are rougher. Stones are—” You stop. “Why am I explaining this?”

“Because you’re flustered and deflecting.” He’s fully smiling now. “And it’s working. I’m thoroughly distracted by your stone categorization system.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He pushes off the wall. “But I’ll go look at the stones if it makes you feel better.”

“It would.”

“Alright.” He pauses at the door. “For the record? Still more interested in you than any stone. No matter how stone-like it is.”

He leaves.

You sit there, blade forgotten, face burning.

Stones. You talked about stones. This is getting out of hand.

— ✦ —

The weeks that follow establish a rhythm you didn’t plan but can’t seem to break. You take commissions. He appears.

Sometimes he has a reason—patrol routes that conveniently overlap with your targets. Sometimes he doesn’t bother with excuses, just shows up with that easy smile and asks if you need a hand.

You always say no. He helps anyway. (You're secretly glad.)

You fight together in Wolvendom. Clear hilichurl camps near Springvale. Track treasure hoarders.

People start noticing. Adventurers at the Guild exchange looks when you both walk in together. Knights nod at Varka with barely concealed smirks when you’re spotted training near the city walls.

You pretend not to notice. So does he. But when you’re both in Mondstadt at the same time, you end up at Angel’s Share.

It becomes a habit.

It's late evening when you walk into the tavern and find him already there, sitting in your usual booth.

He looks up when you enter. Smiles.

There’s already a drink waiting across from him. Your usual.

Your feel all warm.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” You slide into the seat, fingers curling around the glass. Still cold. He ordered it recently. Like he knew you’d show up.

For a while, you just sit. Comfortable silence. The warmth of the tavern wrapping around you, the soft murmur of conversation and music in the background.

Then Varka glances at you. “Windblume Festival’s coming up,” Varka says, turning his glass slowly.

“Mm.”

“You going?”

You shrug. “Haven’t decided.”

“You should come.” He’s watching you now. “It’s beautiful. Music, dancing, flowers everywhere.”

“Not really my thing.”

“Relaxation and joy?” His mouth quirks. “Yeah, I can see how that’d be terrible for you.”

You kick his shin lightly under the table.

He grins. “Come with me.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“To Windblume. Come with me.” He says it easily, but there’s something careful in his expression. “We could walk around. Listen to music. I could show you the good food stalls. It’ll be—”

“Like a date?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

“Would that be so terrible?” he asks quietly.

The same bard from before is playing tonight. You recognize the melody immediately. That song about the wind. But this time it's different. Slower. Softer. Almost intimate.

No one's singing along. Just the gentle lute weaving through the quiet murmur of conversation, the melody familiar and grounding.

Your breath catches. “Varka—”

“I know.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I know you’re focused on your mission. I know you don’t want distractions. But I—” He stops. Breathes. “I like you. A lot. And I keep hoping maybe you feel the same.”

The music shifts to that gentler refrain. Something about home not being a place but a person.

“This is complicated,” you manage.

“Doesn’t have to be.”

“You’re the Grand Master—”

“And you’re an Adventurer. So what?” His hand finds yours across the table. “We're also two people who work well together. Who trust each other. Who enjoy each other's company. Who—” He stops himself.

“Who could be good together,” he finishes. “If you wanted to try.”

The bard’s fingers dance across the strings. Soft. Steady. Like a heartbeat beneath the words.

You’re acutely aware of his thumb brushing across your knuckles. Of how close he is across the table. Of the way his eyes keep dropping to your mouth.

Your heart is hammering. You should keep the distance you’ve maintained. But his hand is warm over yours, and his eyes are soft, and he's looking at you like you’re something precious.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit quietly.

“Neither do I.” His smile is gentle. “But we could figure it out together.”

The music seems to fade into the background. Or maybe you just stop hearing anything except the blood rushing in your ears. The space between you feels impossibly small.

“Varka—”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “Can I kiss you?”

You should say no.

“Yes.”

He leans across the table and kisses you soft and slow, like he’s been thinking about it for months. (He has.) His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek. Your hand finds his shoulder, gripping, and you feel him smile against your mouth.

When he pulls back, his eyes are warm and wondering.

“So,” he murmurs. “Windblume?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Windblume.”

He smiles. “Good. Because I already told half the knights we’d be there together.”

“You did what—”

“I’m an optimist.” His grin is unrepentant. “And I was really hoping you’d say yes.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. He kisses you again. Quick and sweet and full of joy.

The bard finishes the song. Starts another. But that melody lingers. When you finally leave the tavern that night, Varka walks you partway home.

(You still don’t tell him where you live. Some habits are hard to break.)

At the corner where you usually part ways, he catches your hand. His thumb traces across your knuckles. A gesture that’s becoming so familiar. Comforting. But now it also makes your pulse jump.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Meet me at the statue? The one near the gates. Afternoon, around three?”

Your heart skips. “Why?”

“Because I want to see you.” He says it simply. “And because we should probably talk. About this. About us.”

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Three o’clock. At the statue.”

His smile is brilliant. “It’s a date.”

“Varka—”

He kisses you before you can finish. “See you tomorrow, firecracker.”

You watch him walk away, heart full and terrified in equal measure. Tomorrow, you think. I can handle tomorrow.

You arrive at the statue at quarter to three. (You’re not nervous. You’re not. This is just talking. Figuring things out. It’s fine.)

Three o’clock comes.

No Varka.

That’s fine. He’s probably just running late. He’s the Grand Master. Things come up.

Three-fifteen. Three-thirty. By four o’clock, you’re still standing there, feeling increasingly foolish. By four-thirty, something in your chest starts to hurt. He’s not coming.

You wait until five. Then you leave.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Maybe he got called away. Maybe something came up. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe the kiss was a mistake and he realized it and didn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you misread everything.

You don’t go back to the gates. You don’t go to Angel’s Share. You take commissions without talking to anyone. Everything, not just fighting commissions. You train. You try not to think about it.

(You fail.)

— ✦ —

By day ten, the not-knowing is worse than any answer could be.

You find yourself walking to Angel’s Share without consciously deciding to. The tavern is busy. Warm. Familiar.

Charles sees you come in, and something flickers across his face. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says.

“Been busy.” You slide onto a barstool. “Just water tonight.”

“Right.” He sets the glass down. Then hesitates. “There’s, uh… there’s a message for you. From Varka.”

Your heart stops. “What?”

“He left it about a week and a half ago. Said if you came in, to give you this.” Charles pulls out a folded piece of paper from under the bar.

Your hands shake slightly as you take it.

The handwriting is unmistakably Varka’s. Bold, slightly messy, rushed.

Firecracker, Got called to Liyue. Something came up—had to leave immediately. Tried to find you this morning but you weren’t at the Guild, and I realized I don’t know where you live.

Left this with Charles in case you come by. I’ll be back as soon as I can. A week, maybe two.

Don’t take any stupid commissions while I’m gone. —V P.S. - Still want to take you to Windblume. Don’t forget.

You read it three times.

He didn’t just leave. He tried to find you. He left a message. And you weren’t here to get it.

For ten days, you’ve been thinking he abandoned you, when really—

“You okay?” Charles asks.

“Yeah.” Your voice is rough. “I’m—yeah.”

You sit there, holding the note, feeling like an idiot.

Don’t forget.

An hour passes. Then two.

You’re still sitting there, nursing the same glass of water, when the door opens.

Your heart leaps—

Varka walks in. He looks tired. His armor is dusty and his hair is disheveled and he’s the best thing you’ve seen in ten days.

He scans the room—

His eyes find you.

Stop.

For a moment neither of you moves.

Then someone calls his name. A group of knights in the corner, waving him over.

He glances at them. At you. Back at them. He goes to the knights.

You stare at your glass.

The minutes crawl by.

You should leave.

You stay.

Across the room, Varka sits with the knights, but he’s not drinking. Not really talking. Just present.

He looks as miserable as you feel.

Another hour passes.

The knights eventually leave.

Varka stays.

You’re both sitting in the same tavern, fifteen feet apart, not talking.

It’s ridiculous.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore. You stand. Cross the room. Slide into the seat across from him.

“You’re back,” you manage.

He doesn’t look up from his glass. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

This is wrong. He’s never this distant, never this quiet.

“I got your message,” you say, holding up the paper.

“When?”

“Tonight. Just now.”

His eyes lift to the note. Something flickers across his face. Relief? Hurt? You can’t tell.

“When did you get back?” you ask.

“Three days ago.”

Your stomach drops.

“I haven’t been coming here,” you admit. “I thought you just… left. Without saying anything.”

“I tried to find you that morning.” His voice is rough. Careful. “Couldn’t.”

“I know. I read—”

“I don’t know where you live.” The words come out blunt. Almost accusatory.

You blink. “What?”

He finally looks at you fully, and there’s something raw in his expression.

“Your apartment. I don’t know where it is. Spent a week in Liyue thinking about you. Got back, wanted to see you, and I didn’t know how to find you.” His jaw tightens. “Came here every night hoping you’d show up.”

Every night. He’s been here. Waiting. And you—

The confession lands between you like a weight.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t be.” But his voice is strained. “Should’ve asked before. But we kept running into each other and I didn’t think—” He stops. Drags a hand through his hair. “Point is, I didn’t know. And it bothered me.”

The air between you shifts. Some of the tension bleeding out.

You take a breath. “Come on.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Come with me.”

You walk in silence through Mondstadt’s streets.

He follows without question.

You stop outside the door.

“Here,” you say. “This is where I live.”

He looks at the building. At you. Back at the building. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Do you… want to come up?”

“No.”

The word is gentle but firm.

At your expression, he adds quickly: “Not—not because I don’t want to. But because if I come up, I’m going to—” He stops. “I need to do this right.”

“Do what right?”

“This. Us.” His hand finds yours. “I’m not going to rush this. Not going to mess this up because I’m impatient.”

“Varka—”

“I’m a knight,” he says, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “I’m supposed to be honorable. Patient. Do things properly.”

Then, quieter, he adds: “You regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“The kiss.”

Your breath catches. “No,” you say. “Do you?”

“No.” He steps closer. “But I’ve been gone for days thinking about it. Wanting to—” He stops. “Can I—”

You kiss him before he finishes asking.

This time there’s nothing tentative about it.

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds immediately. His hand cups the back of your neck, the other sliding to your waist, and he kisses you like he’s been starving for it.

You make a sound—surprise or need or relief—and he swallows it, deepening the kiss. His thumb strokes the side of your neck and you feel his pulse hammering against your palm where your hand has found his chest.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

“I missed you,” you admit against his mouth. The words slip out before you can stop them.

His forehead drops to yours. “I was going crazy. Not knowing where you were. Not being able to find you.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t.” His hand tightens on your waist. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”

He kisses you again. Slower this time but no less intense.

Your fingers find their way into his hair and he makes a low sound in his throat that sends heat racing through you. When you finally break apart for the second time, you’re both flushed and breathless.

“Grand Master!”

You both jerk apart.

A knight is running toward you, out of breath.

“Sorry—urgent—there’s been an incident—”

Varka’s jaw tightens. He looks at you. At the knight. Back at you.

“Go,” you say. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s your job.” You squeeze his hand once. “Go.”

He searches your face. Then nods reluctantly.

“I’ll find you tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll talk. Properly.”

“Okay.”

He kisses you once more. Quick and fierce.

Then he’s gone, running toward headquarters with the knight.

You stand outside your apartment, touching your lips, heart hammering.

Tomorrow, you think.

But something twists in your chest.

The way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way your whole body responds when he’s near.

The way you spent ten days thinking about him. Missing him. Aching for him.

Oh.

Oh no.

This isn’t just liking him. This isn’t just attraction or enjoyment or companionship.

You’re in love with him.

The realization hits like a physical blow.

You’ve never been in love before. Never wanted to be. Never had time for it, never saw the point when you had a mission, a purpose, a—

But now there’s Varka.

Varka who shows up. Who stays. Who looks at you like you’re something precious.

Who kissed you like you matter.

Who keeps getting pulled away by duty because he’s the Grand Master and that’s who he is and you knew this, you knew this—

Your chest feels too tight.

You don’t know how to do this. Don’t know how to be someone who loves someone who has responsibilities to an entire city, who could be called away at any moment, who—

You need to think.

Need space.

Need to clear your head.

At dawn, you see the commission posting.

Stormbearer Point. Camp spotted.

You stare at it.

You should wait. Should ask Varka to come with you.

But the thought of seeing him right now, of having to look at him and pretend everything’s fine when you’re still processing this crushing realization—

And he’s busy anyway. Always busy. He’s the Grand Master—he has responsibilities that don’t include accompanying you on every commission.

You can handle this.

You’ve been handling Abyssal monsters for years.

You grab the posting.

— ✦ —

Bennett crashes through the headquarters doors, wild-eyed and terrified.

“Grand Master—need help—”

Varka is on his feet immediately. “Bennett? What happened?”

“Commission—went wrong—there were Mitachurls—multiple Abyss Mages—they’re—”

His blood turns to ice. “Who’s with you?”

Bennett names you.

Varka’s already moving, grabbing his sword from the wall.

“Sir, should I alert—”

“No time.” His voice is clipped, focused. “How long ago?”

“Not long—I ran as fast as—”

Every second counts.

“Where?”

“Stormbearer Point, near the cliffs—”

Varka is out the door before Bennett finishes.

He hits the street at a run.

(Later, Jean will ask why he didn’t wait. Why he didn’t bring knights. Why he went alone.

He’ll say it was the fastest option. That he knew the route. That backup would’ve slowed him down.

All true.

But the real reason—the one he doesn’t say—is that it had to be him.

Because it was you.)

The clearing is too quiet when Varka breaks through the tree line.

His eyes sweep the scene. Fallen Hilichurls and Abyss Mages, scorched earth, broken weapons scattered across trampled grass.

And you.

Standing in the center of it all, swaying slightly, one hand pressed to your side.

Relief floods through him so fast it nearly makes him stumble.

“Hey!” he calls, running toward you. “You alright? Bennett said—”

You turn toward his voice.

That’s when he sees your face.

Too pale. Eyes unfocused. Blood—too much blood—soaking through your fingers where they press against your ribs.

“Varka,” you say, and your voice sounds distant. Confused. “What’re you… doing here?”

“What am I—” He’s moving faster now, closing the distance. “You sent word you might need backup—”

“Did I?” You blink slowly. “Oh. Right. Got a bit messy.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He’s close enough now to catch you if you fall. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Your eyes won’t quite focus on his face.

“’m fine,” you mutter. “Just need a… minute…”

“Sure. You’re fine.” His hands hover near your shoulders, careful not to jostle you. “That's why you’re bleeding through your clothes?”

“’s not that bad.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s assessing you rapidly. The blood, the way you’re holding yourself, the slight tremor in your legs. “How long have you been standing here?”

“Dunno. Few minutes? Half an hour?” You frown. “What time is it?”

His stomach drops.

“Alright. We’re sitting you down—”

“No.” You shake your head and immediately regret it, swaying dangerously. “Still got… gotta check if they’re all…”

“They’re all down. I checked on my way in.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You did good. Now let me—”

“Varka, I’m fine—”

Your knees give out.

He catches you before you hit the ground, arms banding around you with desperate speed.

“Easy—I’ve got you—”

His heart is hammering against your cheek. He’s breathing hard. From the run, from the fear, from the relief of catching you.

“Sorry,” you mumble against his chest. “Legs stopped… working…”

“Yeah, that happens when you lose blood.” He’s lowering you carefully to the grass, hands supporting your head, your back. “Stay with me. Eyes open.”

You blink up at him, and there’s something almost dreamlike in your expression.

“You came,” you say, like you’re surprised.

His chest tightens. “Of course I came.”

“Thought you were… in meetings…”

“Meeting can wait.” He’s already reaching for his pack, pulling out supplies with practiced efficiency. “You can’t.”

Your hand catches his wrist. Weak grip, but determined.

“’m okay. Really. Just… dizzy.”

“You’re not okay.” His voice is steady, but his hands shake slightly as he starts checking your injuries. “But you will be. Just let me work.”

He works methodically.

Years of battlefield experience make his movements efficient, clinical. Checking pulse points, assessing wounds, prioritizing treatment.

Gash on your arm. Superficial. He binds it quickly.

Bruised ribs. Painful but not critical.

The wound on your side where your hand had been pressed. Deep, still bleeding, but manageable.

He’s packing it with cloth, hands steady, when he notices your pant leg.

Dark. Too dark.

Wet.

His hands still.

“When did this happen?” His voice comes out rougher than he intends.

“What?”

“Your leg.” He’s already cutting the fabric away, and—

Oh.

The gash runs from mid-thigh nearly to your knee. Deep. Still bleeding sluggishly. The kind of wound that would’ve dropped most people immediately.

“How are you even—” His hands are shaking now. Actually shaking. “How long have you been walking on this?”

“Didn’t really… notice…” You’re squinting down at your leg like you’re seeing it for the first time. “Huh. That’s… not good.”

“No.” His voice cracks. His hands still for just a moment, like he’s forcing himself to keep moving. “It’s really not.”

He presses cloth to the wound. “You’re okay,” he says. To himself. To you. “You’re going to be okay.”

“’m sorry—”

“What were you thinking?” The words come out sharp.

You blink slowly at him.

His jaw is tight. “You could have—” He stops. His hands are shaking harder. “You could have died.”

“Varka—”

“I found you bleeding. Barely standing. Do you understand—” His voice cracks. “Do you understand what I thought when I saw you like that?”

You try to respond, but the words won’t come. Your vision is blurring.

Is that tears or is everything going fuzzy again?

“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out small. Broken. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

A tear slides down your cheek.

He stops. Stares at you.

Then his whole expression crumbles.

“Shit. No. I’m sorry.” He shifts closer, hands gentler now. “I’m sorry. You’re in shock and I’m—”

Another tear falls.

“Hey.” His voice is softer now. Rough with emotion. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You’re crying, but you’re not sure why. The fear, the pain, the adrenaline finally crashing—

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, thumb brushing away tears. “You’re safe now.”

He's focused. And tense. You see how tight his jaw is, the way he keeps checking your pulse.

“Hey.” Your hand finds his arm. “Varka. I’m okay.”

“You’re not.” The words come out sharp. “You’re really not.”

“But I will be. Right?” You’re trying for reassuring and landing somewhere around slurred. “You said… you said I will be…”

“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “Yeah, you will be. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Talk to me,” he says. “Keep talking. Tell me what happened.”

“Commission went… sideways.” You’re watching his face instead of his hands. “More Hilichurls than… expected. Abyss Mages. And a Mitachurl. Strong one.”

“Did you fight them alone?”

“Didn’t have much… choice…”

“You could’ve run.”

“Couldn’t.” Your voice is getting quieter. “Had to stop them…”

His hands still for just a moment.

Then he continues bandaging, but his voice is rough when he speaks.

"You stubborn, reckless, incredibly brave firecracker."

“That a… compliment?”

“No.” But there’s something that sounds almost like a sob caught in his throat. “It’s me trying not to lose my mind right now.”

You blink slowly. “You’re...scared.”

“Terrified.” He doesn’t hide it. “When I saw you standing there bleeding—when you collapsed—”

He stops, breathes. “Yeah. Terrified.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just stay awake.” He finishes with the bandage and immediately shifts to check your pulse again. “Keep talking to me.”

“’bout what?”

“Anything. Everything. Just keep those eyes open.”

So you do.

He finishes bandaging in silence, hands steadier now.

— ✦ —

The sun is dropping toward the horizon.

Varka glances at the sky, then at you, then makes a decision. “We’re not making it back to the city tonight,” he says. “Not with you like this.”

“I can walk—”

“No.” It’s not harsh, just absolute. “You’re not putting weight on that leg until you feel better. We’re staying here.”

“Where?”

“I’ll figure it out.” He’s already looking around, cataloging options. “There’s a rock outcropping over there. Defensible. Out of the wind.”

“Varka—”

“Not arguing about this.” He looks down at you, and his expression is gentle despite the firmness in his voice. “I’m keeping you safe tonight. That’s what’s happening.”

You don’t have the energy to argue.

He works quickly—gathering branches, building a simple lean-to against the rocks, making a space that’s warm and dry and protected.

Then he comes back for you. “Alright. Arms around my neck.”

You comply, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing—one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back.

“Don’t jar the leg,” you mumble against his shoulder.

“I’ve got you.” And he does. Steady. Careful.

He settles you inside the shelter, back against the rock, and immediately starts building a fire.

“Cold?” he asks.

“Little bit.”

His cloak is around your shoulders before you can blink.

“Varka, you need—”

“I’m fine.” He’s arranging blankets, positioning you more comfortably. “You’re the one losing body heat.”

The fire catches. Warm light flickers across his face.

He settles beside you. Close enough to monitor, close enough to reach you if anything changes.

For a moment he just sits there, staring at the fire, jaw tight.

Then his shoulders drop slightly. Like something in him is finally letting go of the fear now that you’re stable.

He pulls you against his side, arm around your shoulders, holding you steady.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice is quiet. “But I’m going to anyway.”

You don’t argue.

For a while there’s just the crackle of fire and the sound of breathing.

Then Varka starts talking.

“You know what the worst part was?” His voice is low. Rough. “Seeing you standing there and thinking you were about to fall, and knowing I was too far away to catch you.”

“But you did catch me.”

“Barely.” His arm tightens slightly. “Another second and you would’ve hit the ground.”

“’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” He presses his face briefly against your hair. “Just don’t do this again. Please.”

“Can’t promise that.”

“I know.” A rough laugh. “It’s what you do. But maybe next time don’t wait until you’re bleeding out to call for help?”

“Noted.”

“How you feeling?”

“Dizzy. Tired.” You pause. “Safe.”

His breath catches. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re here. So… safe.”

His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.

“Not letting anything happen to you,” he murmurs. “Not tonight. Not ever if I can help it.”

You lean into him, and he adjusts to support your weight more comfortably.

“Varka?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks for coming. For staying.”

“Nowhere else I’d be.”

Time becomes strange.

You drift.

Sometimes you’re lucid. Aware of the fire, of Varka’s solid presence beside you, of the pain that’s settled into a dull throb.

Sometimes you’re floating. Disconnected, confused, words coming out wrong.

Varka talks through all of it.

Later—or maybe just minutes, you can’t tell—you’re drifting when Varka’s voice pulls you back.

“You know what happened last week?” he says.

“Kaeya convinced me to help him with inventory in one of the wine cellars. Made me believe I still owed him one.”

You make a vague sound.

“Should’ve known it was a trap. Man is always up to something.” There’s warmth in his voice now.

“Got down there and realized he’d ‘accidentally’ locked us in. Said we weren’t getting out until I told him about ‘the Adventurer who has the Grand Master running around Mondstadt like a lovesick puppy.’”

Normally you’d react to that. Tease him. Say something.

You don’t.

He continues anyway. “Tried to break down the door. Jean heard the noise, came to investigate. Very calm. Very professional. Right up until she saw me covered in wine because Kaeya had ‘accidentally’ knocked over a bottle trying to dodge my attempt to strangle him.”

Silence.

His hand stills in your hair for a moment.

“The look on her face,” he continues, voice a little more forced now. “Like she was reconsidering every leadership decision that led to that moment. Pretty sure she’s still thinking about bringing it up in a dignified way.”

Nothing.

“Hey.” His voice shifts—less storytelling, more concerned. “You still with me?”

“Mmm.”

“Come on, firecracker. Give me something. Tell me the story’s boring. Tell me Kaeya’s a scoundrel. Tell me anything.”

“’s boring,” you mumble.

“Liar. That story’s hilarious.” But there’s relief in his voice. “Though you’re right about Kaeya being a scoundrel.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it.”

Silence falls again.

His hand resumes stroking your hair, but there's tension in the movement now.

“You're scaring me,” he admits quietly. “You're not talking. You're not arguing. You're just—” His voice roughens. "Just stay with me. Please.”

“'m here.”

“I know. But I need you to stay here.” His arm tightens around you. "Keep talking to me. Even if it's just to tell me to shut up.”

“Won't tell you... to shut up.”

“Why not? You usually do.”

“Like... your voice."

He chuckles. “Yeah?”

“Mmm. 's nice. Warm.”

His hand is trembling slightly as it cups your face. “You're going to be okay. You hear me? You're going to be fine.”

“I know.” Your voice is getting quieter. “'cause you're here.”

“That's right. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

Time passes. You're not sure how much.

The pain starts to dull. The dizziness eases slightly, then gets worse again. You drift.

Varka keeps talking. About anything, everything, his voice a steady anchor.

Then something shifts.

He's not talking anymore. He's humming. Quiet. Almost unconscious. Like he doesn't realize he's doing it.

You recognize the melody through the haze. That song from the tavern. The one about wind and wandering, about following the north wind home.

His voice is rough, unpracticed, but steady. Familiar. Safe.

Eventually, the fog lifts enough that you can follow thoughts again. The pain settles into something manageable.

You shift slightly, and your head finds his shoulder.

“Varka?”

The humming stops. “Right here.”

“That song...”

“Mm?” He sounds surprised, like he didn't realize he was doing it. “The one from Angel's Share?”

“Yeah.”

“Couldn't get it out of my head,” he admits quietly. “You looked... peaceful. When it was playing. Thought maybe...”

He doesn't finish. But you understand. He remembered. Noticed it comforted you. Used it to keep you here. His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.

He starts humming again. Softer this time.

When the wind calls you wandering...

“You're really warm,” you murmur.

“That's the point.” His voice is soft, relieved. “Keep you warm. Keep you with me.”

The melody continues. Gentle. Grounding.

“'m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” His voice is fierce. “You better not.”

His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together. “Feeling better?”

“Little bit." You are. The fog is lifting. “Still dizzy. But better.”

“Good. That's good.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't apologize. Just don't do it again.”

“Can't promise that.”

“I know." His laugh is rough. “But I can hope.”

You lean into his warmth, and his arms come around you more securely.

The humming fades, but the melody stays. Wrapped around you like his cloak. Like his arms. Like safety.

“Tell me another story,” you murmur.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The wine cellar one was good. Even if you tell it boring.”

“Knew you were listening.” But he sounds delighted. “Alright. Think I got something...”

And then he starts talking again.

His voice rumbles through you, steady and warm and alive.

You hold onto the sound. And somewhere underneath it, you can still hear that melody.

Slowly, slowly, you start to feel like maybe you really will be okay.

Later, you're mumbling something that doesn't quite make sense.

“...can't believe you... came all this way...”

“Course I did.”

“Could've... sent someone else...”

“No time. Wasn't sending anyone else anyway.” His hand strokes your hair gently. “It was you. Had to be me.”

“Why?”

The question hangs in the air.

His hand stills for a moment. “You know why," he says quietly.

You're floating again. The words come out before you can stop them.

“Love you... too much to die...”

His breath catches audibly. “What did you just say?”

"Didn't mean... to say that...” You're fading, words slurring. “Wasn't supposed... to tell you... yet...”

“Hey.” His hand cups your face gently, turning you toward him. “Stay with me. What did you just say?”

But you're already drifting off, eyes closing.

"Damn.” He sounds wrecked. “You're gonna tell me this now? While you're half-conscious?”

He pulls you closer, and you feel his forehead press against yours.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright. We're talking about this. But later. When you're actually awake enough to remember saying it.”

His thumb strokes your cheek.

“And for the record?” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “I love you too. So you have to wake up properly so I can tell you that when you'll actually remember it.”

He starts humming again. So quietly you might be imagining it.

Home is not the place you harbor, but the heart that waits for you.

The melody wraps around you. Steady as his heartbeat. Warm as his arms.

Following you down into sleep like a northern wind guiding you home.

— ✦ —

You wake to sunlight and the smell of smoke.

Your body aches everywhere.

But you’re warm. And alive.

And Varka is right there, sitting beside you, looking like he hasn’t slept at all.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Welcome back.”

“Did I… sleep?”

“On and off. You talked a lot.” His mouth quirks. “Said some interesting things.”

Oh no.

Your face heats. “What kind of things?”

“We’ll get to that.” He’s already checking your pulse, your bandages, assessing.

“How you feeling?”

“Like I fought a mitachurl.”

“You did.” He helps you sit up carefully. “And won. Somehow.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.” He hands you water. “Drink. Slowly.”

You do. It helps.

“Leg?” he asks.

You shift slightly and wince. “Hurts. But… better than last night.”

“Good. We’re getting you to a healer today.” He’s packing up the camp with efficient movements. “I’m going to carry you part of the way. When you feel steady enough, we’ll walk slowly. But you’re not putting full weight on that leg yet.”

“Varka, you can’t carry me the whole—”

“I can carry you as far as needed.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “We’ll take it slow. Rest when you need to. But we’re getting you treated today.”

The journey back is slow. Careful.

True to his word, Varka carries you for the first stretch—one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, moving with steady purpose through the terrain.

“You can put me down,” you mumble against his shoulder after a while.

“Can I?”

“I can walk.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” But there’s warmth in his voice.

Eventually, when the path levels out and you insist, he sets you down carefully. Keeps one arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, his other hand ready to catch you if you stumble.

“Still with me?” he murmurs every few minutes.

“Still here.”

“Good. We’ll rest when you need to.”

You do need to rest. Twice. But each time he’s patient, never rushing, just sitting with you until you’re ready to continue.

By the time the healer’s house appears, you’re leaning heavily on him, exhausted.

The healer—a woman named Greta—takes one look at you and immediately gets to work.

Varka hovers.

“Sir, I need space—”

“I’m staying.”

“The wounds need cleaning, it’ll hurt—”

“I’m. Staying.”

Greta looks at you. You shrug slightly.

She sighs. “Fine. But sit down and don’t get in my way.”

He sits.

But his hand finds yours, and he doesn’t let go through the entire process. When Greta irrigates the leg wound and you gasp, his grip tightens.

When she stitches and you bite back a sound, his thumb strokes across your knuckles.

“Almost done,” he murmurs. “You’re doing great.”

Finally, Greta steps back.

“Well. You’re lucky.” She’s washing her hands. “That leg wound was deep. Another few hours without treatment and we’d be having a different conversation.”

Varka’s face goes pale.

“But,” she continues, “you’ll heal. Keep it clean. No strenuous activity for two weeks minimum. And someone needs to monitor you for the next few days.”

“I’ll do it,” Varka says immediately.

You blink. “Varka, you don’t have to—”

“I’m doing it.” He looks at you, and there’s no room for argument in his expression.

“Not negotiable.”

Greta‘s mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. “Alright then. Change the dressings twice daily. Make sure they eat. Rest. Plenty of fluids.”

“Got it.”

“And get some sleep yourself. You look exhausted.”

“I will.”

(He won’t.)

He takes you back to his place.

“Varka, I have an apartment—”

“Which is up three flights of stairs.” He’s helping you through the door. “You’re not climbing stairs on that leg.”

“I can manage—”

“You’re staying here.” He settles you on his couch with surprising gentleness. “At least until you can walk without limping.”

“That could be weeks.”

“Then you're staying for weeks.” He's arranging pillows, getting blankets, moving around his space with purpose.

He sits beside you, and for a moment there's just comfortable silence.

Then you notice him looking around his own place with a slightly bemused expression.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing. Just...” He gestures vaguely. “Place feels different with you in it.”

“Actually—” He stands, and there's something determined in his expression now.

He stops. Turns to look at you.

“You should just move in.”

You blink. “What?”

“Move in. With me.” He says it simply. Like it’s obvious. “Move in. For as long as you need. And if you want to stay after that, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Varka—”

“I know it’s fast.” He sits beside you again. “But last night, when I thought—” His voice roughens. “When I thought I might lose you—”

He takes your hand.

“I don’t want to waste time anymore. I want you here. Where I can see you. Where I know you’re safe.” He pauses. “Where I can tell you I love you every day instead of just when you’re half-conscious and bleeding.” Your breath catches.

“You… you remember that?”

“Every word.” His thumb strokes across your knuckles. “You said you loved me. And I said it back. And I meant it.”

“I meant it too.”

“I know.” He smiles. “So. Move in with me. Please.”

You look around his space. At the care he’s already taken to make you comfortable. At the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most important thing in his world.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You squeeze his hand. “I’ll move in.”

The smile that breaks across his face is brilliant.

“Good.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours carefully. “Because I’m never letting you do something that stupid alone again.”

“Hey—”

“You fought alone. While injured.”

“I protected Mondstadt—”

“I know.” His voice softens. “I know you did. You’re brave and strong and incredible. And I love you. But you’re also reckless and stubborn and you’re going to give me gray hair.”

You laugh despite yourself.

"Don't scare me like that again," he whispers.

You're quiet for a moment. Thinking about the night in the clearing. About him finding you. About how it felt to wake up in his arms knowing you were safe.

About how you told him you loved him while half-conscious and he said it back.

“Can't promise I won't do something stupid again," you say finally. “But I can promise this.”

“What?"

You look up at him. “I’ll only be reckless with you.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You heard me.” You squeeze his hand. “No more dangerous solo hunts. No more running off without backup. If I’m going to do something stupid..." You pause. “I want you there.”

His expression does something complicated. Surprise and joy and relief all tangled together.

“That's not much of a promise," he says, but his voice is thick with emotion. “You're still planning to do stupid things.”

“Yeah. But with you.” You manage a small smile. “We can be reckless together. A little. Like partners.”

“Partners,” Varka repeats softly.

“If you want.”

"If I want?” He laughs. Rough and wondering. “I've wanted that since you tried to take that commission alone and glared at me for interfering.”

“That was months ago.”

“I know.” He presses his forehead to yours carefully. “Took you long enough to catch up.”

Despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the fear still lingering—you laugh.

“So,” he murmurs. “Reckless together?”

"Reckless together,” you confirm.

“I can work with that.”

He kisses you. Gentle, careful, full of relief and love and the fear he's still processing.

When he pulls back, his eyes are very bright.

He settles beside you, arm around your shoulders, and you lean into his warmth.

“Welcome home,” he murmurs.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you actually are.

⋆ ✦ ⋆ A/N: Thanks for reading. :) I hope you enjoyed it. More Varka to follow soon. :)

The first thing you learn working at Angel's Share is that people talk.

The second thing you learn is that people talk even more when Varka walks in.

It isn’t subtle, either. The shift moves through the tavern the way a gust of wind stirs tall grass. One moment the room is full of low conversation and clinking glassware, and the next there are heads turning toward the door, voices lifting in greeting, and chairs scraping as someone stands to clap the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius on the back like an old friend. Mondstadt adores its heroes, and Varka, loud and golden and larger than life, has always been one of the city’s favorites.

You, unfortunately, are not among his admirers.

Behind the bar, you continue polishing a glass with the patience of someone who refuses to acknowledge the storm gathering across the room. The lanternlight catches against the rim of the glass as you turn it in your hands, wiping away a nonexistent smudge while the noise of the tavern swells briefly in welcome.

Someone laughs near the door and you know, without looking, exactly who has just arrived.

Charles does look up, of course. Charles is polite.

“Evening, Grand Master,” he says as the man himself approaches the counter.

Varka’s boots come to a stop on the other side of the bar, and there is a brief, deliberate pause that’s heavy with expectation. When you finally lift your gaze, you find him watching you with open interest.

He looks exactly as irritating as usual—broad-shouldered, forearms slightly tanned from the sun, his blond hair falling in a careless sweep around his face. The lanternlight catches along the scar at his neck and glints faintly in his blue eyes, which are bright with the same irrepressible good humor that seems to follow him everywhere.

He smiles when you meet his gaze, as if the sight of you is the best part of his evening.

“Good evening.”

You set the glass down with a soft, decisive clink.

“What do you want to drink.”

“See?” The Grand Master glances at Charles as though seeking confirmation. “She always greets me so warmly.”

“If I greeted you the way I actually wanted to, I suspect I’d lose my job.”

Varka laughs.

It is a bright, unguarded sound that spills easily into the room, drawing the curious attention of the nearest tables. He seems entirely delighted by the exchange, leaning his arms comfortably against the bar as though he has settled in for the evening.

“You look lovely tonight,” he remarks after a moment, studying you with an ease that would be charming if it were directed literally anywhere else.

“You looked better when you were out of my sight,” you answer, already reaching for the bottle that holds his usual order without waiting for him to ask.

“How cruel,” Varka sighs, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest as though you’ve driven a lance clean through it. “The most beautiful woman in all of Mondstadt, wanting absolutely nothing to do with me.”

You slide the bottle back into place behind the counter.

“Drink your wine, Grand Master,” you tell him flatly. “Before someone notices the Knights of Favonius are being led by a man with a martyr complex.”

Varka lifts the mug, still smiling to himself, but before he can say anything else a voice calls from deeper in the tavern.

“Grand Master Varka! Over here!”

A long table near the hearth has erupted into motion—several knights waving him over with the loose enthusiasm of men already halfway through their evening. One of them raises a mug in salute, while another pounds the table loud enough to rattle the dishes.

Varka glances toward them, then back to you.

For a moment it looks as though he might say something else, some last comment meant solely to annoy you—but instead he sighs, pushes away from the bar, and picks up his drink.

“Duty calls,” he singsongs.

“You’re drinking with your men,” you deadpan. “Hardly duty.”

“Morale is just as tantamount as everything else,” Varka counters with solemn dignity, and with that he turns and makes his way across the tavern, the crowd parting easily around him as he goes.

The moment he is out of earshot, Charles chuckles quietly beside you.

You shoot him a look. “What?”

“Nothing,” he insists, still smiling as he stacks a row of clean glasses. “It’s just that not everyone has the courage to speak to the most powerful man in Mondstadt the way you do.”

You scowl.

“If we let people like Varka have their way around here,” you reply crisply, reaching for another bottle, “Master Diluc wouldn’t be very pleased with us.”

Charles hums in mild agreement, though the amusement remains firmly in his expression.

The night presses on regardless.

Angel’s Share settles back into its usual chaotic rhythm. You move easily through the noise, as well as the familiar motions of the evening: pouring drinks, sliding plates across the counter, accepting payments while Charles handles the orders piling in from the tables.

It’s work you take seriously. The pay is good. The hours are reliable. The owner of the establishment expects competence, and you pride yourself on providing it. Angel’s Share is the most reputable tavern in Mondstadt, and you intend to keep your position here for as long as possible.

Which means you know better than to indulge certain distractions.

Unfortunately, those distractions have a habit of staring at you.

You do not need to look to feel it—the faint, unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze lingering across the room. Every so often it settles against the back of your neck with enough persistence to be noticed. When you glance up by accident, it is always the same pair of bright blue eyes watching from somewhere among the tables.

The infuriating man seems to know everyone in the tavern tonight.

At one moment Varka is laughing with a cluster of knights near the hearth. At another he is leaning back in his chair beside a group of adventurers who appear thrilled by the attention. Someone claps him on the shoulder. Someone else pours him another drink. But every now and then, those crystalline blue eyes drift back toward the bar.

Toward you.

You promptly look away.

You have no intention of tossing scraps of attention to a wolf who already believes he has been invited to the feast.

“Well, this is quite interesting.”

The voice arrives beside you like a cat slipping silently onto the counter.

You don’t need to turn to recognize Kaeya, whose talent for locating entertainment in other people’s suffering is well documented across Mondstadt. He settles against the bar with the languid ease of a man who has come here for a very specific purpose, his visible eye flicking between you and Charles with undisguised delight.

Beside him stands Rosaria, her expression as unimpressed as ever. Without so much as asking, she reaches across the counter and lifts a glass, holding it up like she’s deciding whether the contents are strong enough to justify her attention.

They are regular fixtures at the bar by now—faces you see often enough that their habits are as familiar to you as the grain of the wood beneath your hands. Most people would call them an unlikely pair, but you know better. Especially on nights when Kaeya has selected a target for his amusement, and Rosaria has decided the evening might be improved by watching someone else suffer for it.

“What do you want?”

Kaeya gestures loosely toward the other side of the tavern, where Varka has just burst into another round of laughter with his companions. “The Grand Master seems… distracted tonight.”

You slide a mug toward another patron without missing a beat.

Rosaria leans on the counter beside Kaeya, her pale gaze drifting lazily toward the laughing table across the room. “He’s been watching you for the last twenty minutes.”

You frown. “Then he clearly needs a better hobby.”

Kaeya chuckles softly.

“My dear,” he begins, “I believe you are the hobby.”

You fix him with a flat stare. “Order a drink or leave.”

“Alright, alright.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “A glass of dandelion wine, and story about… Ah, what do the kids call it these days? Your… situationship with the Grand Master on the side, please?”

Rosaria snickers into the rim of her glass.

“A ‘situationship’ requires two willing participants,” you tell him flatly. “What you’re witnessing is a persistent pest and a woman trying to earn a living without committing regicide.”

Kaeya doesn’t even flinch. He just leans further onto the polished wood, his single eye dancing with a mirth that makes you want to dump a bucket of ice down his collar. “Regicide? My, we’re thinking big, aren’t we? I didn't realize the Grand Master had already ascended to royalty in your heart.”

“He’s a king-sized headache, if that’s what you mean,” you snap, turning your back to them to reorganize the shelf of colorful liquor bottles.

“Careful,” Rosaria mutters as she stares into the middle distance. “If you keep denying it that hard, you’re going to pull a muscle. The man is practically vibrating over there every time you look in his general direction.”

You ignore her, but your eyes involuntarily flicker toward the reflection in the dark, polished glass of a bottle Charles set on the counter sometime ago. In the distorted surface, you can see the golden blur of him.

Varka is currently gesturing broadly with a meat skewer in one hand and a mug in the other, telling a story while the younger knights are hang on to every word. Even from across the room, you can feel the sheer, gravitational pull of his presence. It isn’t just that he’s the strongest man in Mondstadt; it’s the way he wears that strength like a comfortable old cloak.

Throughout the night, you’ve caught glimpses of him between orders—the way he claps a nervous new recruit on the shoulder hard enough to make the poor boy nearly spill his drink, the way his laughter rolls across the room until even the hearthfire seems to crackle a little brighter for it. There is nothing distant about him. He is not some austere statue looming over the Church of Favonius, nor merely a heroic name preserved in the records of the Knights.

He is flesh and blood, smelling of pine needles and morning dew. And perhaps most dangerously of all, he possesses that terribly human ability to be completely, hopelessly ridiculous.

Then, the reflection shows him turning his head. Those blue eyes find yours—even through the distorted glass—and he offers a slow, knowing wink. Your blood pressure rises immediately.

“He’s doing it again,” Kaeya chirps, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “The ‘Look of Longing.’ Truly, it’s like a romance novel, only with significantly more sarcasm on the protagonist’s part.”

You would have volleyed back with yet another sharp retort, but something in your peripheral vision catches your attention.

“Charles.”

“Yes?” your coworker asks, his voice suspiciously high-pitched. You glance over to see him “polishing” the same spot on the counter for the last three minutes.

“If you don’t stop eavesdropping and go check the back for inventory, I will tell Master Diluc you’ve been giving the Cavalry Captain a ‘loyalty discount’ on his Death After Noon.”

Charles pales, offers a quick, apologetic shrug to your present company, and vanishes into the back room with impressive speed.

You turn back to Kaeya and Rosaria, slamming a fresh napkin down in front of them with enough force to make the wood rattle. “Both of you. Out of my face. Kaeya, your wine. Rosaria, whatever that sludge is you’re drinking. If I hear the word situationship out of either of your mouths again, I’m banning you from the Angel’s Share until the Grand Master actually manages to grow a brain cell. Which, by my calculations, should be somewhere around the next decade."

“So you’re saying there’s a timeline?” Kaeya teases, picking up his glass.

“Get. Out.”

They retreat to a corner table, chuckling like a pair of hyenas. You take a deep breath as you smooth out your apron, and try to regain your composure. You are a professional. You are the best bartender in the city. You do not let overgrown golden retrievers in armor distract you.

Naturally, that’s when a shadow falls over the bar. A very large, very familiar shadow.

“They seemed to be enjoying themselves,” Varka says, his voice a low rumble right in front of you. He’s leaned back against the bar, facing the room but tilting his head just enough to watch you. “What was the joke? I love a good laugh.”

“The joke,” you begin, leaning in until you’re mere inches from his face, relishing the way his pupils dilate just a fraction, “is currently standing right in front of me, asking for more attention than a toddler in a toy shop.”

Varka’s grin doesn't waver. If anything, it sharpens into something dangerously fond. “A toddler, eh? Well, I suppose I do have a certain... youthful energy.”

“You have the impulse control of a slime,” you counter, moving to the other end of the bar.

“But the heart of a lion!” he calls out after you, loud enough for half the tavern to hear. “And that lion is very thirsty for another round, my lady!”

You don’t look back, but you can feel the heat in your cheeks. Barbatos, give me strength, you think, grabbing a bottle with a little more violence than necessary. Or give him a very long expedition to go on.

It turns out that Barbatos has a sense of humor.

The announcement tore through Mondstadt like a gale-force wind. An expedition. A northern crusade into the heart of the Abyss. The city, never one to miss an excuse for a festival, turned the night before the departure into an absolute riot. Angel’s Share was the epicenter of the madness, the air thick with the smell of spilled ale, roasted meat, and the heavy, humid anxiety of a people seeing their strongest protectors march into the unknown.

You were exhausted. You spent the last twelve hours pouring pint after pint for weeping recruits and boisterous knights who were drinking to forget the fear of what lay ahead. But as the clock struck midnight and the tavern began to thin out, the relief you’d been nursing suddenly felt hollow.

Then, the floorboards groaned under a familiar, massive weight.

Varka doesn’t slide up to the bar with his usual swagger. He doesn't offer a witty remark about the quality of the wine or try to bait you into an argument. He just pulls himself onto a stool, his shoulders slumped, his face flushed not just from the drink, but from the weight of a thousand eyes waiting for him to be a hero.

He looks… human. And that is significantly more terrifying than him being an annoyance.

“One more,” the Knight of Boreas mutters, waving a hand vaguely at the tap. His voice is gravelly, stripped of its usual theatrical boom.

You set a mug down, not bothering to ask if he wants his usual. “You’ve had enough. If you fall off your horse tomorrow because you’re nursing a hangover, the entire city will be weeping in the streets.”

Varka lets out a short, dry laugh. He stares down into the golden liquid as if it holds the secrets to the North. “They think I’m going there to win, you know. They think I’ll march in, clear the Abyss, and come back with a victory feast already planned.”

“And won’t you?” you ask, your voice softening despite your best intentions.

He looks up at you then, and the blue in his eyes is muted, weary. “I don’t know what’s out there. I really don’t. We have intel, yes, but the Abyss… it’s not a battlefield you can just charge into. It’s an endless rot that eats at you from the inside-out.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it in a disarray that looks uncharacteristically fragile. “I’m taking the best of our men, and I’m not sure if I’m a leader, or just a man who’s going to get a lot of people killed.”

You freeze. Someone of his position, the pillar of Mondstadt and the Knights, never admits doubt. Certainly not to a cynical bartender. But the truth in his expression is naked, and for the first time, you don't feel the urge to bite back. You don't want to tell him to stop whining.

You lean over the counter, the distance between you shrinking until you can smell the pine and the sharp, fermented tang of the Dandelion Wine on his breath.

“You’re an idiot,” you say, but the sharpness is gone, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve. “You’re an arrogant, loud-mouthed, paperwork-hating idiot. But you’re our idiot. If you go up there and die, there’s nobody left in this city with enough ego to keep the Knights in line. Much less the Abyss.”

Varka blinks, caught off guard by your lack of a sting. He stares at you, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes, his expression shifting into something far more dangerous than his usual teasing flirtation.

“Is that so?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you press on, forcing your hands to stay steady on the bar. “So don’t you dare go getting yourself killed. Because if I hear that you’ve fallen, I’m going to track down every single barrel of wine we’re sending to your caravan, and I am going to poison the lot of them personally. I’ll make sure your last drink is your worst one.”

Varka laughs, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. It is the first genuine thing you’ve heard all night. He leans forward, closing the final inch of space between you. The air in the tavern seems to vanish, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming heat of him. He looks as if he is going to bridge the gap—as if he is going to press that brash, smiling mouth against yours right here in the middle of the tavern.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, a traitorous, frantic rhythm. You hold your breath, leaning in just a fraction—

Then, he stops.

Varka pulls back, his hand brushing against your knuckles as he pushes himself off the bar. The moment shatters.

“Poison, hmm?” he repeats huskily, his playful mask sliding back into place, though the wolfish grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be sure to come back, then. I wouldn’t want to suffer a bad vintage on my way out.”

The Grandmaster turns and walks toward the door, leaving you standing there clutching a clean rag with white-knuckled intensity, your face burning with a heat that has nothing to do with the hearth.

Come morning, the sun rises over Mondstadt with a clarity that feels almost insulting.

You stand at the very back of the crowd near the city gates, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Varka is mounted on a horse so large it looks like it was plucked from an old legend, his golden hair catching the light as he laughs and waves to the citizens. He is every bit the Knight of Boreas should be—charismatic, unwavering, and draped in bravery in a way that makes people feel they could survive a literal apocalypse just by standing in his shadow.

It’s jarring. You keep looking for the man who leaned over your bar and admitted his fear of leading his men to their doom, but he’s gone, replaced by the invincible Grand Master. You realize then that life in Mondstadt is built on this very illusion. He has to be the most reliable man in the world so that everyone else can sleep at night, even if he's the most annoying man in the world to you personally.

As the caravan disappears into the horizon, a strange, ringing silence settles over the city.

The months that follow are exactly what you spent years praying for: quiet. With eighty percent of the Knights gone, the nights of rowdy drinking songs and Varka’s booming laughter are replaced by the low hubbub of civilian regulars and the occasional group of weary squires-in-training.

Kaeya and Rosaria remain your most consistent—and most irritating—patrons. The Cavalry Captain spends most of his evenings draped over the bar, sighing dramatically about how he “lacks a cavalry to captain”. Rosaria just drinks in silence, though she occasionally shoots you a knowing look when you find yourself staring a second too long at Varka's favorite empty stool.

Even Master Diluc makes more frequent appearances, his presence a somber weight in the room when he isn’t busy playing Darknight Hero under the city’s nose. But despite his outwardly stoic demeanor, your boss is sharper than most people. You can tell he’s well aware of the shift in your mood, and maneuvers around it just as carefully as Charles would, much to your surprise and annoyance.

Because it doesn’t make sense.

This is the monotonous, peaceful life you wanted. No one pestering you. No one calling you “the most beautiful woman in Mondstadt” just to watch you scowl.

So why does it feel so dull?

Oftentimes, you find yourself cleaning the counter with a bit more aggression than necessary, your ears unintentionally straining for a boisterous, unguarded laugh that hasn’t echoed through the rafters in nearly half a year. The king-sized headache is gone, and in his place is a void that makes Angel’s Share feel much larger and colder than it ever has before.

“You've polished that spot three times already,” Kaeya’s voice cuts through your thoughts, smooth as silk and twice as sharp. He leans in, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were actually missing the sound of his voice.”

“I’m missing the revenue his knights brought in,” you snap back, though your hand hitches for a fraction of a second. “Nothing more.”

Yes… This is the truth.

You’ve been praying to be rid of the nuisance that was the Knight of Boreas for Archons know how long. So why is it that when you find a letter neatly tucked beneath the door of your apartment after running errands, your heart nearly skips a beat?

You flip the envelope over, your thumb catching on the rough grain of the parchment. There is no wax seal, and certainly no return address. It’s a plain, unassuming thing that has no business making your chest buzz with this much frantic anticipation.

Your rationality insists it can’t be from him. He never promised to write. Why would he? You spent every waking moment of his presence in Mondstadt pushing him away, meeting his boisterous affection with nothing but barbs and sighs of exasperation.

Still, you don't wait. You unlock your door with trembling fingers, slip inside, and kick the door shut. You don't even take off your cloak before you tear the envelope open.

The handwriting is exactly what you expected: bold, messy, and large enough that it practically marches off the page. It’s the handwriting of a man who is clearly used to handing off his administrative duties to the next poor soul down the hierarchy of the Knights of Favonius.

EXPEDITION REPORT: NORTHERN FRONT TO: The Most Dangerous Woman in the Angel’s Share FROM: Your King-Sized Headache

My Lady,

I trust this reaches you before you’ve successfully replaced me with a more manageable regular. If you have, don’t tell me. My heart is already fragile enough from the frost up here.

We’ve finally reached a settlement in a region called Nod-Krai. It sits just a few miles south of the Snezhnayan border. It’s a strange, haunting place—not quite as biting as Dragonspine, but it lacks the golden warmth of Mondstadt’s sun. I find myself looking at the horizon and missing the way the light glitters across Cider Lake.

The Knights are currently settling into our encampment. We’ve made contact with a local group called the Lightkeepers. Stalwart folk, though they don’t laugh nearly as much as we do. But I won't bore you with the logistical nightmares of setting up a garrison in the tundra.

Tell me, have you learned any new mixes while I’ve been away? I find myself inexplicably jealous of every man who gets to sit at your bar and watch you work. I’ve even caught myself staring at our traveling supply of Dawn Winery’s finest and thinking it tastes remarkably flat. It turns out that even the best vintage in Teyvat doesn't compare to a drink served by a sharp-tongued beauty who looks like she’s considering poisoning me.

I don’t expect a reply. A man of my reputation shouldn't be so needy, right? But, should you find yourself bored and holding a pen, I’ve made an... arrangement. If you leave a letter on shelf 12A on the first floor of the Favonius Library and tuck it inside the twelfth tome from the right on the third row, it will find its way to me.

Take care of yourself. And keep that tongue sharp. I’d hate to come home to a polite bartender.

Yours, in exile,

Varka

You stare at the letter for a long minute, the ink blurring slightly as you read his specific, ridiculous instructions for the library. Shelf 12A? The twelfth tome on the third row?

“Idiot,” you mutter.

You toss the letter onto your coffee table with a decisive flick of your wrist. You have no intention of dignifying this with a response. You are not some lovelorn maiden waiting by the window for her knight. You are a professional, and you have a shift starting in four hours.

You leave the letter right where it is, stubbornly clinging to your pride as you move to the kitchen to make tea. You won't write back. You won't.

You stay stubborn for exactly three days.

By the fourth, the silence in your apartment feels loud, and the letter on the coffee table starts to look like a personal challenge that you are much too competitive to set aside.

That is how you find yourself in the Knights of Favonius library during the quiet morning hours when Lisa is busy elsewhere. Shelf 12A. Third row. Twelfth tome from the right. You pull the book—a dry, dusty record of Mondstadt’s civilian taxes from a century ago—and slip your folded parchment into the middle of it.

TO: The “King-Sized Headache” Currently Staining the North FROM: The Bartender Who Still Has Your Tab Open

Grand Master Varka,

Mondstadt is quiet. It is peaceful. It is, frankly, a relief to work a shift without having to listen to your voice drowning out the sound of the actual music. The only downside is that without your knights around to run up their tabs, the tips have been abysmal. So, for the sake of Angel’s Share’s bottom line, try not to get eaten by a lawachurl.

Nod-Krai sounds miserable. If there’s no sun, I assume you’re currently the color of a blanched radish. Is the food there even edible? I’ve heard rumors that the northerners live on nothing but dried fish and melted snow. If you’ve lost weight, don't expect me to pity you when you get back; you had plenty of “youthful energy” to spare.

And stop being ridiculous. The men in the bar are customers, and unlike some people, they actually know how to order a drink without making a theatrical production out of it. I haven't bothered with any new mixes. Why would I? There’s no one here with a refined enough palate to appreciate them—or a big enough ego to demand them.

Don’t get used to this. I am only writing because the silence in the tavern is making Charles go stir-crazy, and I needed something to occupy my mind while he reorganizes the cellar for the fifth time this week.

Stay warm. If you come back with even a single toe missing, I’m doubling the price of your wine for the next three years. I’m serious, Varka. One piece. Or don't come back at all.

Try not to be an idiot (I know it’s hard),

—The One Who Should Be Paid to Deal With You

The correspondence between you and the Grand Master isn’t what anyone would call “regular.”

It lacks the frantic pace of a romance and the rigid structure of a carefully penned report. Sometimes, his letters sit on your coffee table for weeks, while you go about your life in a city that feels increasingly like a toy box he left behind.

It isn’t always out of spite. Most of the time, it’s simply because life in Mondstadt is… well, Mondstadt. You tell him about the wine yields, the way the wind smells before a storm, and how Charles finally managed to drop a full crate of dandelion wine without breaking a single bottle. Then you read his latest letter. It was filled with accounts of Abyssal skirmishes, diplomatic dances with the Snezhnayan border guards, and the beautifully moonlit landscape of the north. Once you put it down, you feel a sudden, sharp sting of insignificance.

Your life is a quiet tavern; his is a map of the world.

Eventually, you find something worth reporting. You spent three pages detailing the arrival of a golden-haired Traveler and a floating guide who sounds like an over-caffeinated finch.

You write with uncharacteristic fervor about the Stormterror crisis, and how this stranger managed to soothe a dragon that had been part of Mondstadt’s soul since the beginning. You feel a strange sense of pride in delivering the scoop, imagining him reading it in some tent and finally realizing that Mondstadt can produce heroes even when he isn’t there to hog the spotlight.

His response arrives three weeks later.

My Lady, I was touched by your detailed account of our honorary Knight’s exploits. Truly, I was flattered that you went to such lengths to keep me informed. However, Jean’s official report reached me two days prior. Still, I prefer your version—you have a much better way of describing how 'insufferable' the Traveler’s companion is.

You don't reply to that one. In fact, you don't even put it on the coffee table. You shove it into a drawer and sulk for a month, refusing to even walk near the library. The nerve of the man, letting you write your heart out about a national crisis only to tell you he’d already read the “official” version.

But Varka has always been a man who thrives on the impossible—including reading your mood from across a continent.

The Windblume Festival arrives in a flurry of cecilias and dandelion fluff. The air in Mondstadt is sickeningly sweet with romance, and Angel’s Share is packed with couples sharing special Love and Aftermath cocktails. You are mid-pour, your jaw tense from a day of forced customer-service smiles, when the bell above the door chimes with a familiar rhythm.

Kaeya Alberich doesn’t head for his usual stool. He leans over the counter, blocking your path to the tap, with a small, elegantly wrapped parcel held between two fingers.

“Move, Kaeya. I have three orders waiting,” you grumble.

“My, my. Still as prickly as a Whopperflower,” Kaeya hums. “And here I am, acting as a royal messenger at great personal expense to my own social calendar.”

“If you're here to take over being the biggest annoyance in my life while your boss is away, you're doing a stellar job. Now move.”

Kaeya snorts, a genuine sound of amusement. “Oh, I would never dream of it. I know my limits; I’ll never be worthy of that particular title. No, this is a delivery from the Great North.”

Your hand freezes on the tap. You finally look at the parcel. It isn’t flashy—wrapped in sturdy, dark blue paper and tied with a simple leather cord.

“The Grand Master sends his regards,” Kaeya whispers, sliding the package across the wood. “He was quite insistent that it reach you today. Apparently, he’s a stickler for tradition.”

“I don’t want it,” you insist, even as your fingers twitch toward the cord that binds it.

“Of course you don’t. That's why your face is currently the color of a Jueyun Chili,” Kaeya teases, straightening up. “I’ll leave you to your... professional duties.”

When Kaeya is out of sight, you snatch the gift from the counter and, without a word to Charles, retreat into the back room. You tell yourself you’re just checking the inventory. You tell yourself you’re going to throw it in the trash.

Instead, you tear the paper open.

Inside is a small, hand-carved wooden box. When you open it, the scent hits you first—the sharp, clean smell of northern pine. Resting on a bed of dried moss is a single, preserved flower you don’t recognize: a hardy specimen with three jagged leaves. Small, ice-blue crystalline shards cling to the tips like permanent droplets of frozen dew, shielding a central bud that glows with a warm, pale yellow heart. Beside it lies a small, heavy iron coin, its surface polished until it shines like silver.

A note is folded and tucked into the lid.

I’m told it’s Windblume back home. The knights are all busy making fools of themselves writing poetry to girls they haven’t seen in months. I thought about joining them, but I figured you’d find a poem from me even more offensive than my presence.

I found this winter icelea on a ridge overlooking the Abyss. It reminded me of you—stubborn enough to grow in a place where nothing else dares to, and far more beautiful than the pampered flowers in the city square. I also found this coin in an old ruin. It's useless as currency, but it’s heavy and hard to break. Keep it in your pocket; think of it as a weight to keep you grounded until I get back to annoy you in person.

I wish I could be the one dragging you out to the plaza tonight to watch the fireworks, even if you spent the whole time telling me how much of a spectacle I was making. Since I can’t be your date, consider the flower my proxy. Don't let it die out of spite.

Missing the sting of your tongue,

Varka

Your heart doesn’t just flutter; it does a full, traitorous somersault against your ribs. You stare at the tiny, resilient flower, feeling a lump form in your throat that no amount of dandelion wine can wash away. You are furious. You are flustered. You are…

You slam the box shut and march back out to the floor, your face burning.

“Everything alright?” Charles asks, retreating a step at the sheer intensity of your glare.

“Fine,” you bark, grabbing a shaker and snapping it into place with enough violence to startle a nearby table of tourists.

Master Diluc, who is reviewing the ledgers in the corner, looks up. He watches you for a long, silent moment, his red eyes tracking the frantic, slightly-too-fast way you are mixing drinks. He then looks at the corner where Kaeya is smirking into his glass.

Diluc lets out a short, dry exhale—the closest he ever gets to a laugh.

“I didn’t realize the Grand Master’s influence extended to the quality of our service,” Diluc remarks, his voice smooth and deadpan. “Try not to break the glassware. Varka’s ego is expensive enough to maintain; we don’t need to add a replacement fee for the bar equipment.”

“I am perfectly calm!” you hiss, nearly overfilling a glass.

“Clearly,” Diluc replies, returning to his ledger with a ghostly shadow of a smirk.

You spend the rest of the night refusing to look at the back room, even though the weight of the iron coin in your apron pocket feels like a warm hand resting against your hip.

The years have a cruel way of blurring together when the person who defined the noise of your life is replaced by a heavy, echoing silence.

What everyone initially assumed would be a standard display of Mondstadt’s strength has taken on a far more sobering gravity. The expedition into the heart of the Abyss isn't a skirmish; it's a war of attrition. The semi-steady flow of letters that once felt like a game of wits eventually slows, then halts entirely for months at a time. News from the north becomes a rare commodity.

During those long stretches of radio silence, you wonder if he’s cold. You wonder if he has finally met a problem he can't laugh his way out of. But every time your heart begins that traitorous train of thought, you snap out of it with a sharp scowl.

Yet, as Kaeya once noted, Varka is a stickler for tradition. Even when the official reports from the front lines run dry, he never misses the three days of the year that have become the secret pillars of your calendar: the Windblume Festival, Ludi Harpastum, and your birthday.

Each time, a gift arrives. A gem of glowing resin he once called pine amber; a ribbon of silk from a Snezhnayan merchant; a pressed leaf that smells of a forest you’ve never seen. And always, there are the words. He never runs out of them.

“The moon up here is a tempting mistress,” he writes in one particularly late-night scrawl. “She is constant and quiet, a far cry from the rowdy sun of Mondstadt. But don’t worry, my Lady. The sun will always be the hearth in my heart, and you… well, you’ll always be the one holding the poker to the coals. You’re still number one, even if you’re currently several thousand miles away and probably wishing I’d fall into a crevasse.”

By the fourth year of the expedition, the letters have changed you. You’ve developed a habit—one you keep strictly to yourself. On clear nights, after your shift ends and the city is asleep, you climb the long, stone steps leading to the Church of Favonius. You stand at the top of the plaza, beneath the shadow of the great statue of the Anemo Archon, and gaze up at the moon.

You find yourself wondering if it’s the same sky he’s looking at right now, and if the silver light feels as lonely on his skin as it does on yours.

Then comes the day that breaks your carefully maintained composure.

It is a Tuesday—not a festival, not a birthday, just a mundane afternoon at Angel’s Share. One of the knights drops a letter off, and your heart thumps against your ribs at the oddly timed arrival. You tear it open right there at the bar, leaning over the wood as you always do.

You don't even get past the first line.

I’M THINKING ABOUT HAVING YOU SIT ON MY COCK.

SLAM.

The sound of the parchment hitting the bar top is like a gunshot.

Jean, Kaeya, and Diluc, an odd trio who had been sharing a rare, quiet drink together, all jump slightly at the noise. They look at you bizarrely as they take in your state. Your face isn't just red; it is a violent, incandescent shade of crimson that rivals Diluc’s hair.

“Everything alright?” Jean asks, her voice laced with concern.

“I... I need to...” You sputter, unable to form a coherent sentence. Your eyes are wide, and you feel as though you’ve been struck by a bolt of Electro.

“Is that a letter from the North?” Kaeya asks, his voice dripping with a delight that suggests he has already guessed the contents without seeing a single word.

You can't explain it. You can’t tell the Acting Grand Master that her mentor is currently writing smut from a war zone. You can’t tell your boss why you look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.

“Charles?” you call out, your voice cracking.

Your coworker pokes his head out from the back room door. “Yes?”

“Man the bar for me, please,” you choke out, grabbing the letter and clutching it to your chest as if it were a live grenade. “I need to... collect my thoughts. In the back. Now.”

Charles nods, takes your place at front, and you bolt for the storage room, the door swinging shut behind you with a decisive click. You lean against the wood, sliding down until you’re sitting on a crate of wine, and read the rest of the letter with hands that won't stop shaking.

You sink onto the crate, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you stare at that first, heart-stopping line. You force your eyes to move past the initial shock, your breath coming in shallow hitches as you read the rest of the messy, sprawling script.

The tone shifts abruptly. The handwriting, usually bold and steady, becomes a jagged crawl that speaks of exhaustion and something far more clinical.

Forgive the start of this, my Lady. If the ink is smudged, it’s because my hands aren’t quite my own today. We’ve just come through a siege that went sideways. I nearly didn’t make it back to the tent to write the first line. There was a hole in my chest large enough for the northern wind to whistle through, and for a moment, I actually thought Barbatos was finally calling in my tab.

A cold chill that has nothing to do with the storage room air washes over you. Your grip on the parchment tightens.

The only reason I’m still breathing is a woman named Lady Lauma. She’s the leader of the Frostmoon Scions, a group of healers up here whose blood is said to be able to pull any man back from the brink. I’ve spent the last few hours high on whatever concoctions her best healers forced down my throat to keep the pain at bay. That first line? That was the drug-addled honesty of a dying man. I thought about scrapping it once the haze started to lift, but then I realized it was that very thought—the sheer, ridiculous desire to have you exactly where I said—that kept me anchored to my consciousness while they stitched me back together.

You let out a shaky, indignant breath. Even at death's door, the man is an absolute menace.

I won’t be more explicit with the details, lest you decide to pray to Barbatos for a freak hurricane to finish what the Abyss started. But I’ll tell you this, since I’m still too light-headed to lie: I honestly thought the distance would make me less fond of you. I thought the years and the blood and the frost would dull the memory of your scowl. But I have this bad habit of writing to you, and an even worse one of looking forward to your replies. It’s become a fire that’s awfully difficult to kill, no matter how much snow they pile on top of it.

I don’t expect you to return the sentiment. (I know better than to ask for a miracle from a woman who specializes in serving reality on the rocks.) But I’m still looking forward to coming home and seeing that beautiful face of yours, even if it’s currently attached to the sharpest tongue in Mondstadt.

You stare at the page, the silence of the storage room suddenly deafening.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. You want to scream at him for being so reckless, and you want to weep because the thought of that hole in his chest makes your own lungs feel tight. Most of all, you realize that the “situationship” Kaeya joked about years ago has morphed into something you can no longer walk away from.

A soft knock sounds on the door.

“Are you... finished collecting your thoughts?” Charles’s voice is tentative. “Master Diluc is starting to look like he’s going to come back there himself.”

You jump, nearly dropping the letter. You shove it into your apron pocket, smoothing down your hair with trembling hands. You are a professional. You are the best bartender in Mondstadt. You do not let drug-addled confessions from dying giants rattle you.

“I'm coming,” you tell him shakily.

As you walk back out into the tavern, you catch Kaeya’s eye. He’s still smirking, his single eye tracking the way you won't look at anyone. You ignore him, grabbing a bottle of the strongest vintage on the shelf and focusing entirely on the grain of the wood beneath your fingers.

The fire in your chest matches the one Varka described, and for the first time in four years, the silence of the tavern doesn’t feel dull.

It feels like a countdown.

You find the last letter you’ll ever receive from the North tucked beneath your door. It is a plain, nondescript thing, identical to the very first one that started this five-year-long game of cat and mouse.

Inside, there is no sprawling report or drug-addled confession. There is only a single, heavy line of ink that looks as if it were written in a hurry:

We're coming home.

You stare at the four words until they start to lose their meaning. Your first instinct is to scoff—to assume he’s joking, or perhaps simply delusional. The last official word disseminated by the Knights of Favonius was grim; a crisis in Nod-Krai was reportedly reaching a breaking point, a surge of Abyssal activity that threatened to spill over and impact Teyvat as a whole if not contained.

The anxiety of that news had nearly driven you to madness.

You found yourself marching up to the Favonius Library every single day, slipping letter after frantic letter into the old tome on Shelf 12A. You still don’t understand the mechanics of it—Varka never explained how a dusty record of civilian taxes functioned as a trans-continental mailbox, and you never once saw another soul approach that forgotten corner of the library. Yet, without fail, every letter you tucked into those pages disappeared by the next morning. You knew with certainty that he was receiving them.

But now, he claims he and his men are returning.

You keep the scrap of parchment tucked beneath your pillow for a week, a secret weight that keeps you awake at night. You refuse to hold onto hope; five years is a long, agonizing time, and your pride simply cannot handle the crushing blow of a disappointment this large. Even if Varka isn’t “anything” to you, the thought of his favorite stool staying empty for another year feels like a physical ache.

Then, at the end of the week, the silence in Mondstadt finally breaks.

Acting Grand Master Jean stands before the Church, her voice carrying across the plaza with emotion she rarely allows the public to see. She officially announces that the expeditionary force has successfully contained the threat in the North and is currently marching back toward the city gates.

The city erupts. People are weeping in the streets, bells are ringing from the towers, and Angel’s Share is instantly swamped with patrons wanting to toast to a miracle.

But as you stand behind the bar that evening, a realization hits you like a cold splash of water.

Varka hadn't just sent that note as a courtesy. He had told you first. Before the official messengers reached the city, before the scouts signaled the towers, and before he deigned to inform his own subordinates, he had made sure a letter found its way to your door.

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” Charles remarks as he reaches for a clean towel.

“I’ve seen something much more annoying than a ghost,” you mutter, though you can't quite hide the way your hands are shaking as you reach for a bottle of his favorite vintage. “I've seen the return of a man who doesn't know how to follow a chain of command.”

Charles just grins like he’s in the know. Maybe he always has been.

“Well, at least the tips will improve, right?”

You don’t answer. Your eyes drift toward the door, your heart hammering a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like hope. He’s coming back. And this time, you have five years' worth of sharp-tongued retorts—and one very heavy iron coin you always keep in your pocket—waiting for him.

The day of the festival arrives in a riot of color and noise that Mondstadt hasn’t seen in half a decade.

You stand at the very edge of the plaza, arms crossed tightly over your chest. You’ve spent the morning practicing your “unimpressed” face in the mirror, telling yourself that a five-year absence doesn't excuse the sheer audacity of his letters. You are determined to be the only person in the city not currently sobbing with joy.

Then, the horns sound at the gates.

The crowd surges, a collective gasp rippling through the plaza as the first line of the expeditionary force crests the hill. They are not the shiny, pristine knights who left five years ago. They are rugged and battle-worn, their faces lined with the gravity of what they’ve endured.

But it is the man at the lead who makes your breath hitch.

Varka is mounted on a massive, battle-worn steed, looking every bit the legendary Knight of Boreas. His golden hair is much longer now, tied back in a messy, careless tail that grazes his broad shoulders. He looks older, worn thin by all he’s seen and all he’s survived.

He is scanning the crowd, his blue eyes sharp and searching, cutting through the thousands of faces with a singular focus that makes your heart hammer a frantic, traitorous rhythm.

When his gaze finally lands on you, the transformation is instantaneous.

The legendary commander vanishes, replaced in a heartbeat by the same irritating man who used to wink at you through the reflection of a wine bottle. A slow, lopsided smile spreads across his face—one that says he knows exactly how much you've missed him, even if you’d rather die than admit it.

Varka dismounts before his horse has even fully come to a stop, his heavy boots hitting the cobblestones with a decisive thud. He doesn't wait for the official greeting from Jean; he doesn't wait for the cheers of the citizens. He simply stops ten paces away and opens his arms wide, a silent, arrogant invitation.

The jury can find you guilty later.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, before your pride can gain its footing, you are moving. You break from the crowd, abandoned by your own common sense, and run.

You collide with him with enough force to make his armor clank, your hands fisted into the rough fabric of his cloak as his massive arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off the ground. He smells of pine needles, old parchment, and a warmth that feels like the first day of spring after a century of winter.

"Missed me that much, did you?" he rumbles against your ear.

“I missed having someone to threaten with poison,” you choke out into his shoulder, your voice thick and uncharacteristically fragile. “You're late, you idiot.”

Varka laughs—loud and boisterous and everything you’ve ever loved. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a tenderness that ruins you.

“I told you,” he whispers, his blue eyes burning with a fire no northern snow could kill. “I wouldn't want to suffer a bad vintage on my way out.”

In the background, tucked away near a fountain, Kaeya sighs dramatically as he drops a heavy bag of mora into Rosaria’s outstretched hand.

“I really thought she’d hold out for at least thirty seconds,” Kaeya mutters, looking genuinely disappointed in your lack of resolve.

Rosaria doesn't even look at him, her fingers expertly catching the bag. “Never bet on a woman who’s been staring at an empty stool for five years, Captain. It’s bad for the wallet.”

Diluc, standing a few paces away from the sniveling duo, watches the you and the Grand Master for a long moment. He lets out a short, dry exhale before shaking his head with a quiet sigh.

“Charles,” Diluc says to the man idling next to him, not taking his eyes off the scene. “Get the good bottles ready. It’s going to be a very long night.”

“Ah, there you are!” He called out from the doorway, making his voice occupy the space. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You felt it in your bones. It was the kind of voice that could command a legion of Abyss Mages to stand down, or, in this case, make you jump and accidentally reshelve a book on the history of Mondstadt’s windmills under ‘Gourmet Cooking.’

You spun around quickly while you clutched the book to your body which you used as a protective shield. Your attention shifted to Varka who stood at the entrance with his unkempt blond hair shining in the sunlight and a delicate yet interesting scar which marked his skin. His blue eyes shone with a powerful energy that made him appear to possess excessive vitality.

“Grand Master Varka.” Your voice came out a touch higher than intended. You nearly groaned at yourself but covered it with a quick cough. “How may I assist you?”

His heavy boots produced loud thudding sounds which created an impulse that made you step backward. He didn’t seem to notice. He never did.

“Lisa said you were the person to talk to about… organization.” He pointed at the shelves which extended high above him. “I’m trying to find the files on the old Ordo Favonius patrol routes since Jean mentioned them, and I figured I’d look myself. Give you hardworking folks a break.”

He winked.

Just a harmless little wink, all in good spirits.

However, your stomach did a thing. A very annoying, traitorous thing. But you immediately ignored it with the ease of someone who had been doing it for weeks.

“Of course,” you said, your voice admirably steady. “They’d be in the historical military records section. Aisle seven, top shelf.”

“Top shelf,” he repeated while grinning. The massive racks stretched toward the ceiling, catching his gaze before it returned to yours. His eyes seemed warm, like sunlight hitting your skin after hours in frosty air. “My favorite kind. A perfect excuse to show off.”

Before you had a chance to question his meaning, he had already stepped close. He wasn’t merely tall, he seemed built like a mountain given human shape. He overshadowed you physically, but the presence wasn’t sharp or imposing. It was more like standing beneath the broad branches of a massive, welcoming oak tree.

“Here,” he said, his words were soft like a whisper between walls. “Let me handle it.”

He reached past you. Both arms. To grab a book from the shelf right above your head.

He wasn’t even close to you. There was a large difference between him and you. A foot, at least. Yet suddenly it seemed as if heat folded around you, carrying traces of fresh smell of leather, open air, and a hint only he carried. Light slid across his scuffed gauntlet as he reached up. Beneath the worn leather, you could see how his tendons tightened while he worked the old book loose from the wooden ledge.

Your brain, the only part of you still functioning with any logic, screamed, He’s just getting a book, you idiot! It’s the most efficient way!

Your heart, with absolutely no respect for common sense, flipped end over end.

The book came free with a faint tug, sending old dust drifting into the light. He looked down at you, still holding the book, still with his arms essentially caging you in.

“There we go,” he said, eyes softening as they crinkled. “It wouldn't be proper to let you struggle, would it?”

He said it kindly. Helpfully. A perfectly ordinary bit of chivalry. Nothing more.

He handed you the book, as if he just passed you the sun, the moon, and the Anemo Archon’s own blessing, neatly bundled in worn leather.

You grabbed the book from him, your movements were a little bit jerky. 

“Th-thanks. Great. Struggle. Bad. I’ll just… put this on the reading table for you.”

You nearly threw yourself to the side to put some space between you, dropping the heavy book onto the nearest table with a sharp bang that rang through the quiet library.

And he just laughed. A full, rich, rumbling sound that was probably heard in Springvale. “Careful! That’s four hundred years of history you’re manhandling.”

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

That was just the first incident.

The second happened a few days later in the training yard. You had been set to record the new equipment, a dull but easy task. You were kneeling by a crate with a quill in hand. And you didn’t notice the shadow until it stretched over you.

“You’ve got ink on your cheek.”

You looked up, startled. Varka was standing just behind you, perspiring and splendidly disheveled after a sparring match with Eula. His collar was unbuttoned, thus more of his skin was exposed. He seemed as if he had come straight out of a romance novel, only if the romance novels have the feature of men who can almost lift a horse on their back.

“I do?” You immediately rubbed at your face with the back of your hand. And you're almost certain you only made a bigger mess.

Then suddenly he dropped to his knee, meeting your eye level. His presence was so close to you. Close enough that it heightened all your senses. Now, you could smell the faint scent of iron and clean sweat clinging on him, causing you to hitch a breath. Then his huge, rough hand reached out, lifting your chin. But surprisingly, his touch was so delicate and careful.

“No, you missed it,” he said while his sky-colored eyes never left yours. His thumb, tender despite its size, traced the area just below your cheekbone. You felt a surprising spark run through you at the contact and your heart didn't fail to hammer fast inside your ribs. “There. Got it.”

He kept his eyes on yours a beat too long, and his thumb still lightly resting against your jaw.

He’s just being helpful. You had ink on your face. He got it off. This is normal human interaction.

“You should be more careful." He smirked. “Can’t have a pretty face like yours ruined with ink, can we?”

Then he released you as he straightened his posture, and gave your shoulder a clap hard enough to make your teeth rattle before strolling off for a drink, leaving you kneeling in the dirt with your heart pounding like crazy. 

Your mind only focused on one word he had said. One word that echoed in the recesses of your brain like a broken record.

Pretty face. He said you had a pretty face.

No. Stop. He was just being nice. He calls everyone pretty. He probably calls Hilichurls ‘pretty ugly’ and means it as a compliment.

The final straw was during the Weinlesefest preparations.

You were perched atop an unstable ladder where you were struggling to hang the heavy banner from the balcony on the second floor. You could sense your arms shaking from the bar. Then, when you were doing your best to hang the banner even as your patience started to wear thin, that was when two strong hands suddenly grabbed your waist from behind and earned a surprised yelp out of you.

“Whoa there, careful,” Varka’s voice rumbled against your ear. He’d climbed up behind you on the ladder. The ladder, which was already complaining under his weight. “You’re about two seconds from a nasty fall.”

He was supporting you. Helping you to keep your balance. And his chest was like a wall of heat against your back.

His presence here with you is not really helpful for your poor heart. He was too overwhelming for you. Why is he even here? You didn't even notice him entering despite his large stature.

“I-I’m fine,” you stammered while gripping the banner so firmly that your fingers were starting to go bloodless. It was your only anchor from your overdriving emotions.  “Just a little higher…”

“Allow me.” He reached up with one hand, his other arm tightening around your waist like a human safety strap. He easily hooked the banner onto the last fastener. “See? All done. Can’t have our best logistics person taking a dive. Who would I charm into finding my old patrol routes then?”

He laughed, and a deep vibration of the chuckle was passed from his chest to your back, and you felt your whole soul momentarily leave the body.

He was the first one to come down and then he looked at you, with his hands up. 

"Jump. I'll catch you."

That moment seemed to stop upon hearing his words. 

You could only gape at him, your expression frozen in surprise. A laugh almost escaped you and had this urge to ask him if he was joking. But the sight of his hands held high told you he was serious, which you stopped yourself from saying a word.

You scanned the ladder and then to him, it was a three-foot drop. You could easily manage it yourself. 

You were debating whether to agree to his proposal, or just say that you could get down by yourself. But observing him, who's got that dumb smile on his face and waiting for you to jump down, you gave in without much resistance. 

You jumped.

He caught you. Obviously. And with deliberate care, he set you down, his hands brushing your arms and lingering just slightly.

Your eyes lifted to his face, breath catching in short gasps. He smiled. It was effortless, completely unaware of the effect he had. He had no idea. He had absolutely no earthly idea that his casual kindness, his thoughtless chivalry, was thoroughly dismantling your composure piece by piece. Your heart was vigorously thumping that you were pretty sure it’s going to give you a heart attack at any moment.

He is so unfair!

And that’s when the idea struck you. A terrible, wonderful, hilarious idea.

Two could play at this game

The first chance came around not long after. Varka was sitting in his office, buried under a heap of papers that had accumulated while he was away, and his face showed deep misery. You tapped the door which was ajar.

He looked up, his expression brightening instantly. “Ah! A welcome distraction. Come to save me from tax ledgers?”

You walked in, a small cup in your hand. “I noticed you haven’t left this office for three hours. Lisa said you didn't have lunch. Again.” You laid the cup on the corner of his desk and, quite softly, you pushed it towards him. “It’s just some soup from Good Hunter. Figured you’d need the energy.”

He looked up from the cup, blinking in unmistakable, fleeting surprise. “You… brought me soup?”

You forced a casual shrug, hiding the racing of your chest. Yet, you're still determined.

“Mmm. And…” You leaned forward, holding onto his desk with both hands, getting into his space just like he always did to you. You flashed him your most charming smile. “I thought I’d make sure you actually ate it. Can’t have Mondstadt’s mightiest knight fainting from hunger. Who would protect us from… I don’t know, overly aggressive pigeons?”

His one brow lifted higher than the other, while his lips tugged sideways like laughter was stuck halfway out. He looked unsure. Also kind of interested. 

“Was that a jab at my expense?”

"Was it?" You asked him back. You tried to sound casual. You kept looking at him. You did not want to be the first one to look away. His blue eyes were really wide. He looked a little shocked. You felt really happy and excited about this. Now, it was the other way around and that was a great feeling.

You pushed off from the desk, your movement casual. “Eat up, Grand Master. And try not to get ink on your face. It’s a gorgeous face. Would be a shame to ruin it.”

As you left his office, you offered a bit of a wave before very shakily walking away and trying not to show any signs of your nervousness. After not looking back once, you still heard him do something that was quite surprising. He made a gasp as if he were choking. The Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius, the strongest man in Mondstadt, had completely lost his words and had no idea at all why.

The revenge had begun.

The next strike was at Angel’s Share.

Varka was sitting among several knights as a clatter of laughter rose, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug filled with dandelion wine. Midway through a loud tale, something about his encounter during his expedition, you took a seat beside him on a wobbly stool. The volume of his voice would drop and rise again, creating visual scenes of the cliffs, with almost falling off. Despite arriving and sitting beside him, there was no break in the flow of his storytelling, but a hollow silence replaced the previously existing sound.

“…and then the Frostarm Lawachurl just stared at me, and I stared back, and—oh! You’re here!”

He took a bit of a moment to stop from his narration just to acknowledge your presence before he resumed. And then you ordered a drink and silence settled just enough. The moment it arrived, you waited for him to pause between words while he talked about a harbinger named Capitano. You moved closer to him and your shoulder brushed against his large arm without him expecting it.

“You know,” you said under your breath. “for a man with such legendary tales, you’re not nearly as loud as the rumors claim.”

It was a lie, by all means. He was a loud man and everyone in Mondstadt knows it. You were just saying it for the sake of your revenge. However, despite that, your next words were, no doubt, the truth. 

He blinked down at you. “I’m not?”

“No.” You took a slow sip from your drink and your gaze locking with his over the edge of the glass. “Sometimes you’re surprisingly… quiet. Thoughtful. It’s nice. Gives a person a chance to actually look at you.”

You could see his throat move when he swallowed. You observed him closely, then your eyes caught it right away, how the very tips of his ears slightly turned crimson. It was not visible, but it was proof enough you had left Varka flustered.

Noticing the awkward silence, he coughed yet his voice came out slightly hoarse as he continued. “Look at me, huh? See anything you like?”

You pretended to weigh your answer, eyes sliding over his features, catching the scar on his neck, how his blond locks framing his face, then meeting his gaze again. You smiled. 

“Maybe. I’ll let you know.”

You returned to your drink, leaving him sitting there as he pondered your words. He held his beverage half way to his mouth and looked at you. Totally baffled. Eula was observing from across the table while looking at him with a raised eyebrow like she was sizing him up.

“Grand Master? Are you unwell?”

Varka shook his head slowly. He looked dazed, but managed to smile. The confused look was gone. “No. No, I’m… I’m fine. I think.”

The final, glorious act of your campaign of reciprocal flustering happened a week later, on the battlements of the city wall.

It was getting dark. The sky had all these orange and purple colors as the sun went down slowly. You came up here to get some air after a long day, at work. You thought you would be alone, however someone was already occupying it. You tried to take a look closer, and then you saw a face you knew very well. 

It was Varka. 

Your heart started beating fast with excitement and nerves upon seeing him. It was as if your little organ already knew how to do its job when it saw a specific person. He was leaning against the parapet while watching over the vast expanse of Mondstadt. And the wind was messing up his hair. He looked really calm, not like the boisterous Grand Master you knew. His profile was etched against the fading light, making his face appear softer. 

He heard your footsteps and turned. A soft smile touched his lips. “Taking some fresh air?”

“Something like that.” Then you went to stand beside him. You leaned your elbows on the stone and watched the landscape. You just stood there for a while. It was nice and quiet.

Then, for just a little moment, you felt his gaze on you. You turned your head. He was already looking at you, which caught you off guard. His expression was open. Defenseless. He was as if not hiding anything. This was all new to you, something you had never seen before with him. After all, you had known him as a carefree and laid back man, yet really strong. When you saw him looking at you like that. You did not know what to think. Your thoughts just scattered and your heartbeat stuttering as a rush of warmth prickled through you to your fingertips.

“What?” you asked. 

“Nothing,” he said, just as softly. Then, a small, almost shy smile. “Just… looking.”

It was your turn to be struck speechless. It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t smooth or charming. Not like he had done before. It was just... confusing in a way that your impulse got the better hold of you and asked the words you did not want to blurt out.

"At what? The view?"

Varka hesitated, as if deliberating his response carefully. What you didn’t know was that the next words he chose were just as impulsive as your own. 

“At you.”

You caught a sharp breath as you looked into his blue eyes. He was also staring at you with something you couldn't fathom. It seemed soft and... fond. But you were still unsure. You were just at a loss for words and no coherent thoughts swirling in your mind. You could only hear your pulse beating faster and faster, which you were afraid that he might hear it as well.

He seemed to realize what he had said. And then a trace of color began rising along his neck. More visible than the one you saw back in Angel's Share. His gaze immediately diverted elsewhere, though not before a quiet laugh slipped out from him. The moment carried more weight than expected.

But you didn't let him, your emotions were running so wild that they dominated your rationality. Before you could even think, your hand moved toward his arm, a light contact that halted his motion. Surprise appeared in his face when he turned your way.

You smiled, a real smile, not a teasing one. And you whispered, “me, too.”

For once, there was no booming laugh, no casual touch, no easy words. He just stared at you, his blue eyes wide and full of something new. Something he was just beginning to understand. He lifted his hand, the one you were touching, and turned it, his huge fingers gently, tentatively, intertwining with yours.

He looked like he was about to speak, likely ready to ease the tension encompassing between you with that easy, effortless charm of his.

But instead, you held his hand tighter, and returned your eyes back at the view with a contented sigh. 

Then momentarily, you heard him breathe in unsteadily. You didn't turn. You didn't say anything. You just let him be while you're holding your hand. Then you felt it. His thumb was slowly moving in a careful, amazed circle on your skin.

And for the first time, the Grand Master, the Knight of Boreas, the man who could stir anyone’s heart, had absolutely nothing to say.

And for reasons you couldn’t explain, it was the most beautiful sound of all.

Kyryll Chudomirocivh Flins

It was strange — Flins was polite, refined… yet somehow his gaze only evoked chills.

He spoke with the grace of a gentleman but sometimes It seemed more as if he was an entity who wanted to merge with the humans, seemingly inconspicuous. His pupiless eyes were always so...dull but his smile was oh so warm.

Aether never mentioned it once, never once did he want to get on his bad side. If he even had one. And still he quite liked Flins, although he made such odd jokes sometimes according to the traveler.

But now standing before Aether he gazes at the figure before him - ghost? ghoul? human? - standing in front of him, he was certain he and his floating companion would be buried in this cemetery before the night was over. Color drained from Aether's face as sweat slowly started beading at his forehead.

He would personally take everything back about what he said about Flins being so peculiar, because he was certain the figure in front of him was a thousand times more petrifying.

But before he even could speak, a shrill voice shattered the haunted cemetery.

"G-g-ghost!! Don't take Paimon's soul please!!" Sobbed the small fairy, clutching tightly onto Aether's braid.

The figure in front of them stepped closer, lantern in hand. Their eyes were voids — cold, searching, and unblinking. Whoever they were, one thing was certain, they were not happy to see the Traveler

Circling around Aether and the sobbing Paimon, you clenched your jaw tightly and with a slight click of your tongue you turned to leave.

"Oh goody Paimon was so scar-"

You sharply turned back towards the floating thing, staff raised, jabbing the air near her.

"You people always wander in places where you don't belong," you said, voice low and sharp. "Or...would you like to make this your permanent home?"

The lantern's glow slid across your face in such a way it seemed eerily ethereal. Your eyes spoke nothing about your thoughts and the only thing notable about your expression was the small snarl on your lips.

The only thing Aether could do now was hope that someone could save him from this predicament, he fought many enemies before but none who provoked such fear.

Then - a shimmer at the edge of the dark. A small blue flame floated toward the group, its glow cold and unnatural. Then a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"Oh my, I would not think the Traveler here would much like to lay among the dead, darling"

From the shadows among the dead, Flins emerged. Seemingly out of nowhere, walking in steady, graceful steps.

It was almost laughable the way you eased up slightly, enough to flick the floating creature with your staff. The little thing yelped in outrage, darting back and swatting at the staff with her tiny fists, completely forgetting her early fear and even raising her voice in indignant protest.

While Aether ignored Paimon and her antics it seemed as if suddenly a light bulb went off in his head and he spoke up. "Darling? So..they're not a ghost? You know them, Flins?"

"Quite intimately, even," Flins said in a gentle manner, a warm smile on his face once more. "I was not aware that you were coming to visit? Is there something you need?"

Aether was eternally grateful for Flins his appearance, dissipating the tension slightly. His gaze flicked toward your figure and only now noting the way your eyes never left Flins and how seemingly identical your lantern looked to his.

"Do not think I dislike your presence," Flins continued with a short chuckle. "I am simply...pleasantly surprised, but this is not a place for you to linger."

Aether observed the way you suddenly tensed up and clicked your tongue once again, perhaps it was a habit of yours?

"Stop it with those ridiculous human customs, Flins." You hissed, voice sharp and heavy with something unspoken. Then turning your gaze on Aether and his seemingly quiet companion now - you added, "Finish this conversation, and disappear of this cemetery"

Flins keeping his gaze trained on your form retreating towards the lightkeepers house, let out a small sigh with a fond smile.

"Do not fret, Traveler, my partner is just wary of outsiders," Flins gazed at the two in front of him, observing the way Paimon, still wary of her surroundings, now preferred to stick close to Aether.

“Paimon does not understand how you could be together with someone so..so..scary!” Paimon puffed out. Aether just grimaced at her words and gave a crooked, apologetic grin to Flins who didn't say a thing to her words .

"My partner just worries a lot, so let me aid you swiftly and I will be on my way back to them."

~

It wasn't long before Flins returned to your shared home, your eyes immediately flicked towards his presence as he took off his coat to hang it.

He was always far too pleasant toward others, seemingly wanting to understand humans more. But that same warmth had charmed its way into your heart — and bound you together forever.

"I apologize, you know them, do you not?" You were already waiting for Flins when he entered your shared home, even if you were cold and unforgiving to others you could never bring yourself to do that to him. 

"They are acquaintances, I think you would like their company," Flins said, his gaze lingering on the way you sat — still as a statue. "But do not apologize, I simply adore you any way you are."

It seemed his words calmed you once again and you loosened up slightly as your hand now reached out for him. He immediately understood your intentions as he stepped forward and clasped your hand in his, tilting it up to his lips.

He knew you. He knew that whenever people met you, they would think you were an entity — something not quite human. You preferred it that way. You kept others at a distance, offering no softness in your words, no comfort for them to cling to.

The human world was too loud, too bright, its people too quick to demand pieces of you. You belonged to neither the humans nor the fae, and he would not have you any other way.

Yet he saw how it gnawed at you in quiet moments. His fascination with humans was a hunger you could never share, and still, you could not help but feel both beneath them… and far above them. His touch was an anchor, but also a reminder — that he was the only one who could reach you, and that one day, he might choose to reach for someone else.

"I know, but still I..I just get fearful..." You spoke lowly, with a frown contorting your usual rigid expression.

"I understand, but you must remember not all of them leave, isn't my being here not enough proof?" Wrong words, he observed as he saw the way your gaze flicked away with an even deeper set of your brow. "But no matter, you are still stuck with me for eternity so do not worry with such trivial feelings."

Immediately your hand took to his cheek and caressed his cold skin, he leaned in with low-lidded eyes and a soft smile reserved only for you.

You always preferred silent comfort. And loud actions.

("Sorry, I'm a little scared But no one ever really cared")

Wriothesely

He was worried, once again. Lately, it felt as if the only thing he felt was worry.

Wriothesely never once made it known he was, always keeping up his calm persona. But those close to him, mainly Sigewinne, noticed the way he seemed more on edge. She noticed it in the way his jaw tightened when he thought no one was looking, the way tea was cut short with some vague excuse.

You had been a blessing in his life, he always said. While others scattered at your approach, he stayed. But lately, all you seemed to do was cause a stir within the Fortress of Meropide.

He understood, of course he understood. He had been through his fair share of torment, just as you had. You had listened to him when he spoke of his past, and he had listened to yours. The two of you shared a bond built on understanding, especially on the days when old memories refused to stay buried.

He always tried to protect you, though you never wanted it. You called it coddling. So he learned to protect you from the sidelines, never stepping in your way. After all, you were so much like him, capable, stubborn, unwilling to bend.

But in the way he was extremely admired, you were extremely feared. While he was calm and relaxed and even at times unguarded, you were the polar opposite, always ready for battle and your discipline unyielding.

You were seen as a ruthless correctional officer, ever the watchful and hot-headed person.  If someone crossed a line, you were there in an instant, eyes sharp enough to cut. Lately, it seemed even breathing wrong was enough to draw your attention.

He thought about the way you used to laugh — not often, but enough that he’d learned to recognize the rare spark in your eyes when it happened. He thought about the way you’d lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, pretending you weren’t staying just to keep him company.

Now, when you passed his office, you didn’t even look in.

And though he’d never admit it aloud, it scared him. Not the kind of fear he was used to — not the fear of danger, or loss in the physical sense. This was quieter, sharper. The fear of watching someone slip away without realizing it until they were already gone.

Even Sigewinne was worried for the both of you, she saw you only on your patrols now, your boots echoing through the prison halls. You no longer joined her and Wriothesley for tea. The empty chair at the table had begun to feel heavier than the silence that came with it.

And with the way Wriothesley his knee was bounding up and down right now and his gaze locked on the door, it was only a matter of time before he was out of his chair and through the door. Sigewinne just sighed and stood up for her duties of the day.

~

"What do you think you're doing?" Your voice came out cold as ice, eyes as sharp as the blade that hung on your hip.

The inmate in front of you stuttered and looked around in hope of a seemingly escape. Your boots meeting the ground was the only thing that made a noise through the silent hall.

"Are you looking for punishment? Or perhaps you want to be made an example of what happens to those who cross my boundaries?" You spoke as your harsh gaze met that of the man in front of you. "Well? Speak up, I don't have time for people who are so selfish."

"I-I-I don't know w-what you mean..." The inmate stuttered out, it seemed to you that this was one of his first days in the Fortress. But no matter what, you had to do your job because who else would do this.

Suddenly you heard the swishing of a heavy cloak and the drop of boots against the floor, Every step echoed, swallowed by the cold walls. You sighed instantly knowing who was coming.

"I don't think that's necessary," The deep timbre of his voice rolled through the hall, calm yet carrying an authority that rivaled your own. "He's new, he doesn't know the rules yet."

Your jaw tightened. “Then he should learn them quickly.”

The inmate’s gaze darted between the two of you, as if unsure which was the safer devil to face. Wriothesley stopped beside you, his presence a wall of quiet strength. “There’s a difference between teaching and breaking someone on their first day.”

You finally turned to meet his eyes, the cold steel in yours clashing with the steady calm in his. “And there’s a difference between mercy and weakness.”

For a moment, the air between you was taut, the only sound was the faint drip of water somewhere deep in the prison.

Then Wriothesley’s gaze flicked to the inmate. “Go. Now.”

The man didn’t hesitate, vanishing down the corridor like a shadow fleeing the light.

"I want to give them the mercy we never had. I know you want control, but this isn’t what you truly feel." You scoffed at this and turned on your heel to flee him. But he stopped you with a gentle but firm hand on your bicep.

"You don't understand, the man should have been punished otherwise his way will wear off on the other." You faced Wriothesley head on, your fierce exterior cracking under his all-seeing gaze. "And then they will be punished because he was inexperienced and selfish, people always follow those who seem confident."

His hand slid from your arm to your shoulder blade, warm even through the fabric. His other hand lifted to your chin, tilting your face toward his. The closeness stole your breath. A small huff of amusement escaped him. You blinked, caught off guard by the open display of affection here, where anyone could see. But Wriothesley didn’t seem to care.

His hand traced a slow path down your spine, deliberate and unhurried, until it rested at your waist. Then, without warning, he pulled you into his arms.

"As much as I am into your fierce determination, I think you shouldn't burn yourself out like this." You gaped at him, unable to utter a word.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of you..." The warmth of his embrace was too much. You pushed him away, turning sharply and striding down the hall. His low, amused laugh followed you, curling around you like smoke.

To some it would seem you just rejected him, but he just smiled at your fleeing figure and knew that you would loosen up for the time being.

("Every time you get too close, I run, I run away And every time you say the words, I don't know what to say")

Kaedehara Kazuha

He adored the way you rode the waves so fearlessly, always going where the wind took you.

Lately, though, it seemed the wind carried you straight into punching the daylight out of anyone who crossed you — and cursing them, their ancestors, and their future descendants for good measure.

Since he came on the crux fleet, he was enamored with the way you carried your strength on the ship, not just in physical sense but also presence. You were the one who had to keep everyone in check and was one of the longest standing member of the crux. You seemed so at ease with the rough sea and he adored you the day he saw you barking orders at the other members.

Within a week, he’d learned more. Beneath the crude humor, the heavy drinking, and the sharp tongue was someone fiercely protective of the crew you called family.

The first storm proved it. The wind howled, lightning split the sky, and the rain stung like needles. While others hesitated, you were already sprinting across the slick deck, tightening ropes before the sea could claim them. When it was over, you didn’t say a word — just disappeared into your cabin. He followed, carrying a plate of food. You looked up, wet hair plastered to your face, clothes clinging to your skin… and smiled at him for the first time. That smile stayed with him.

He didn't mind all that much whenever the two of you went to board land and you were the talk of any town. But sometimes when you had too much to drink and got into a yelling match with a random person in the tavern he was worried and didn't quite know what to do with you.

Or when you would curse the most colorful words the winds could bring you when you discovered the merchant in front of you tried to sell to you for much higher than the selling price. He got used to it and sometimes would even be amused, when you would walk confidently into town and some merchant scurried away instantly.

But perhaps it was his own way of living that sometimes set him at odds with the way you carried yourself, he preferred to move quietly, to let storms pass without stirring them further.

You, on the other hand, met every wave head-on, fists clenched, daring it to knock you down. And though he admired that fire, there were nights when he lay awake, wondering if one day the sea — or the world — would take you from him before he could tell you just how much you meant. After all he once lost such a person like you before, just as stubborn, just as unyielding.

Whenever he tried to speak to you about not always fighting and cursing, it always struck a nerve he didn’t want to touch. Your eyes would harden, your voice would sharpen, and that old feeling — the one that people would never truly accept you for who you were — came rushing back.

You’d throw cruel words like daggers, and before he could explain himself, you were gone, boots pounding against the deck until the sound faded into the hum of the ship

And yet, each time the sun sank into the horizon and the crew retreated to their quarters, you would return to yours — to him. In the quiet, with the ship swaying gently beneath you, you’d curl into his arms. You knew you were difficult to please, and you saw the way he tried, again and again, to meet you where you were. But you were one of a kind — born on the ship, and you would die on the ship. It was the only home you had ever known, and the only place you ever felt you could truly belong.

He was a gentle breeze while you were a raging tempest, and he wished he could just make you find your serenity.

~

Kazuha watched on in amusement as you barked some nonsensical insults at the man standing in front of you. It started simply — a trip into the port town where the Crux was docked, just to restock and enjoy a few days on land. Then a merchant approached, eager to sell his wares.

You’d stepped forward, intrigued, coin pouch in hand. But somewhere between his smug grin and his inflated prices, your interest soured. Your brows knitted, your grip on the coin pouch tightening until the leather creaked. The merchant’s smug grin only sharpened your glare, and suddenly you started yelling all sorts of curses and the merchant cursed you right back out in a way that got you even more riled up.

In good spirits, Kazuha just let you do your usual violent course of action but perhaps that wasn't the right idea because suddenly the man and you were fist fighting in the middle of the boulevard. In a blur, Kazuha stepped in, one hand clamping the back of your neck, the other locking around your arm — firm, unyielding.

"Fuck you, you selfish bastard, ill show you a good deal! A good deal of shit!" It seemed you were not done yet, you let a strong of curses out at the merchant who clutched his bloodied nose.

"Oh yeah! And next you will destroy my market won't you! You-! You vicious savage." The merchant screamed dramatically at you with fists raised.

"Are you perhaps asking for a more firm beating?" Kazuha was suddenly the one to interfere, you looked up from your crouched position and although his hand was still firmly placed on the back of your neck you could clearly see his tight jaw even if he kept a blank expression.

"You have lost this battle so accept your defeat...or I can't promise to be gentle." It seemed Kazuha's threat worked because the petty merchant scurried off with a few unpleasant words spoken under his breath.

Sighing he turned his gaze towards you. "What has gotten into you lately, even the winds are more ferocious around you..." His hold onto you faltered and his brow furrowed further when he saw the way you knuckle was bruised.

"Well the winds have no clutch on me, I am one with the sea, Kazuha, when will you understand." you shot back, adrenaline still burning hot in your veins.

His mouth pressed into a thin line at your words, his hand reaching out for your bruised one. You pulled your hand back towards your stomach in a defensive manner and sneered at him.

"The sea is savage and a bitch, you would do well to adapt to it. You either become prey or a threat." Clutching your injured hand, you turned sharply and strode away. Kazuha stood there for a moment, watching your figure retreat into the crowd, his shoulders sinking.

A quiet sigh escaped him before he rubbed his eyes, frustration flickering across his face, and followed.

He found you sitting on a weathered rock overlooking the restless waves. The wind tugged at your hair, carrying the salt of the sea. Without hesitation, he stepped into your view, arms crossed over his chest, his shadow falling across you.

You looked up at him with pouted lips and furrowed brows.

"You’re like a storm that’s forgotten its path — all force, no direction. Even the wind knows when to bend around the mountain." You huffed at this and turned your head away from him, he gently tugged your vision back to his face.

"I’m not telling you to change who you are — I fell for you as you are, and you know that. But let the winds carry you toward calmer waters. You don’t have to fight every current."

You scoffed, though the edge in your voice softened.

"What are you even saying, you sap." Even someone like you could melt at his gentle love. This was the first time in a long time he saw that genuine smile of yours once again. He sat next to you on the rock, wrapping his hand around yours as he smiled at you with that gentle smile of his.

"I just want you to be happy."

"Damn what a whirlwind of emotions" Beidou said to no one after witnessing your lovers quarrel, pinking a little stray tear away before taking a swig of her bottle.

("Sorry I blame it on your love, yeah I blame it on your love every time I fuck it up")

Childe(Tartaglia)

He knew he wasn't the most perfect boyfriend, -or even a perfect person. But he did not understand how you could hate his guts this much.

He lied, you didn't hate his guts, but he just couldn't help make it more dramatic. You were one of a kind, so kind and sunny and loving with a heart of pure gold, that's what he told people.

Everyone else? They’d describe you with words like sharp, unapproachable, and don’t make eye contact. If pressed for details, they’d mutter something about "a glare that make you wish for a savior" before quickly changing the subject.

Except your loving boyfriend Childe, always making you seem like an angel on earth. It seems he is quite the liar.

You were brash, sarcastic, and a dyed-in-the-wool pessimist. Passive-aggressive when you felt like it, outright aggressive when you didn’t. People tended to steer clear of your little house on the edge of town — unless they were desperate.

That’s how you met him. Tartaglia. Ajax. Childe. Whatever name he was using that week.

The Fatui were less put off by your bluntness than most civilians. Maybe they were used to worse. Maybe they just didn’t care. Either way, the first time Childe showed up, he was bleeding, impatient, and clearly in a hurry.

"I need this stitched up. Fast," he’d said, leaning on your doorframe.

You’d looked him up and down, unimpressed. "Then heal yourself faster."

And slammed the door in his face. Apparently, that was the moment he decided you were fascinating.

At first, he came once a month. Then once a week. Then, somehow, every day — like a stray cat that had decided your doorstep was home. You complained if he didn’t bring gifts. He complained if you didn’t insult him at least once.

"If you’re going to bother me every day," you’d tell him, "at least make it worth my time. Mora. Tea. Something shiny."

And he always did. You’d never admit it to his face, but you thought he was funny. Infuriating, yes. But funny. And maybe — just maybe — you didn’t mind having him around.

You never took him seriously when he invited you to spar, or when he bragged about his rank, or even when he tried to show off his "impressive" combat skills.

You’d just shrug and say, "Couldn’t give a crap."

Every time, he’d gape at you like you’d just insulted his ancestors — and then try even harder to impress you. It never worked. Eventually, you’d just make fun of him instead. Weirdly enough, he liked it. And you never actually slammed the door in his face again...

…unless he wanted to be healed.

~

Exactly like the situation right now.

You had just finished tending to a villager’s wounds, handing her a small glass bottle of deep green liquid. She turned it in her hands, holding it up to the light with a frown.

"Is this safe to use? It’s such a strange color…"

You didn’t even blink.

"Only if you don’t drink the whole bottle at once."

A pause. A blink. Then she bolted, the door slamming behind her.

You sighed, muttering about "the delicate sensibilities of people these days" as you shuffled your papers into a neat stack. Tea time was calling, and you were determined to answer.

But before you could even stand, there came a persistent knock at the door. Your heels clicked against the wooden floor as you flung it open — and there he was.

Childe.

Blood on his sleeve, dirt on his boots, and that same infuriating grin plastered across his face. Your eyes swept over him, and your expression soured instantly.

"What do you want from me." You clipped out at him.

He chuckled, then pulled the most dramatic pout you’d ever seen. It made your eye twitch. You muttered something about tea time and slammed the door so hard the frame rattled. Somewhere outside, a bird squawked in protest.

From the other side, you heard him mumble,

"Huh. Déjà vu… Guess I should’ve brought flowers. Or a bribe."

You had just poured the first steaming cup of tea when the knock came again.

Not a polite knock. A rhythmic, obnoxious, I’m-not-going-away knock. You froze mid-pour, staring at the door like you could will him to vanish.

"I can hear you ignoring me," Childe’s voice called, far too cheerful for someone bleeding. "And I’m starting to feel faint. Might collapse. Right here. On your doorstep."

You took a slow sip of tea.

"Then I’ll have the peace and quiet I deserve."

A pause. Then the sound of the door swinging open, and there he was, stepping inside like he owned the place — one hand clutching his side, the other holding a small bouquet of flowers with the dirt still clinging to the roots.

"Did you just rip those out of my yard?"

He didn’t even blink — just shoved the bouquet into your hands like it was a peace offering and collapsed into a chair with a wince. You narrowed your eyes, setting the flowers on the table like they might bite you.

“Bribery won’t work.” You huffed out at him.

“It’s not bribery if it’s love.”

You set your tea down with a sigh, already reaching for your medical kit.

“Sit. And if you bleed on my chair, I’ll make sure the stitches hurt.”

“Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

You didn’t answer, focusing on cleaning the wound, but your thoughts betrayed you. You’d tried to push him away more times than you could count — with sharp words, slammed doors, and every ounce of your prickly nature. Yet here he was, smiling at you like you’d just given him the world instead of a threat about painful stitches.

It was obvious to anyone that he didn't want you to change, he was actually very happy with your prickly and reclusive nature. In his mind he had less people to fight for your love.

You traced the wound with a clean cloth as you chewed the inside of your cheek, even now he had such an effect on you. You hated him for making you feel something after all these years of being a crude and obnoxious person, making only the desperate come to you but he came to you of his own accord. 

“You’ll put them in water later, I know you will.” You glanced up at him through your lashes and saw him observing you with an intense expression, you only slightly smile at him in response. Immediately you see his eyes widen and his mouth fall open in utter captivation. 

It seems you both made each other feel things, never felt before.

("My cold heart is finally melting I confess, I'm not that versatile Say, "I'm good," but I might be in denial")

Varka

The Grand Master was an honest, well-liked man. Yet whenever someone pointed out your flaws, he would simply scoff and wave those accusations away.

In his eyes, they were nothing more than idle words. He knew you could be judgmental and controlling at times, and that you weren’t the easiest person to charm. But he also understood that this wasn’t your true nature — it was the armor you wore, the front of a disciplined knight.

When Varka first met you, after you rose to the rank of an important knight, he was cautious. Your brashness and your extreme honesty could be disarming, but he had long since learned not to judge people by first impressions. Actions, he believed, revealed far more than appearances ever could.

And your actions spoke volumes. He saw the way you went out of your way to help Noelle train, even forcing her to take breaks when she pushed herself too hard. He noticed how you lent a hand to the nuns with simple chores during your own rest hours, or quietly took over tasks for civilians and fellow knights without ever seeking recognition.

While others often kept their distance, he saw how Noelle and the nuns would go out of their way to greet you, thank you with warm meals, or offer kind words — gestures you would simply wave away.

Varka was certain you had a good heart, and that certainty made his decision clear: he would get to know you better, as he put it, “to make my knights feel welcome.” You, however, were convinced he either wanted you gone from the Knights of Favonius or was attracted to you — and you told him so outright.

He only laughed, loud and unrestrained, as he so often did, before inviting you out for drinks.

You agreed, simply because you saw no fault in it and you were bound to feel lonely just as any other person. He soon concluded that you didn’t drink any liquor, and you stated that it would tarnish your honour as a knight.

He learned you had been raised by parents who were knights of the highest honour. From them, you inherited an unyielding code: fight and die with dignity, but expect little in the way of affection. By the time most children were learning to write, you were already gripping a sword with calloused hands, your stance drilled into perfection before you could even understand why.

Their way of living left its mark. You trusted few, spoke only the truth, and carried yourself with the discipline of someone who had never been allowed to falter.

It puzzled Varka. Despite your guarded nature, you never pushed away his warmth or his emotional way of speaking. In fact, he liked that about you — the way your strength and independence stood firm against the world, the way you brushed off cruel words about your person without a second thought, the way your sense of justice never wavered.

One evening, after far too many drinks, he began to ramble. His words spilled out in a drunken stream — praise for your courage, your righteousness, your unshakable will. Then, with a flushed grin and no hesitation, he blurted out a confession of love… before collapsing face-first onto the table with a heavy thud.

You never spoke of that night again. But when he awoke, it wasn’t in his own bed. The room was unfamiliar, filled with many swords and under a sheet of fresh linens. You were there, quietly tending to him, as if nothing had happened at all.

When he later set out on an expedition, you were, of course, among the chosen — one of the best knights in the order. Out there, he saw more of the side people whispered about, the one others complained or gossiped over. But instead of losing interest, he seemed to enjoy it even more.

Like right now.

~

Standing outside the tavern known as The Flagship, you were about done with everyone and their ancestors. Beside you, Varka was in full commander mode, booming about “celebrating their victory” and delivering yet another rousing speech about the good deeds everyone had done and how amazing they all were. He always did this — normally, you could tolerate it but right now, you just wanted to get inside.

Your breath came out in clouds, your fingers numb despite the thick fur-lined gloves. You were ready to die an honourable death — but not one claimed by the cold of Nod Krai. You had no idea how Varka stood there looking completely unbothered, or how some of the others, wearing even less than you, weren’t shivering.

You were wrapped in a thick shawl, a fur-lined hood pulled low, boots and gloves trimmed with the same heavy pelt — and still, another minute out here and you’d be a knight-shaped ice sculpture.

A familiar high-pitched voice cut through the cold.

“Traveler… Paimon thinks that person next to Grand Master Varka is going to obliterate someone here…” she whispered to Lumine.

You flicked your gaze toward them — you’d met Lumine when she came to see Varka — then turned your eyes back to him.

“I get it,” Lumine whispered back to Paimon. “It’s way too cold out here.”

Varka caught your look and grinned, the kind of grin that said fine, fine, we’ll go in.

You didn’t wait. The moment the speech ended, you slipped inside, letting the wave of heat wash over you. You claimed a corner table, away from most of the crowd.

Varka followed, carrying two mugs. “Not looking for festivities?” he teased, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“There aren’t any festivities if there are still things that need to be solved,” you replied coolly, though you gave him a quiet thank you for the steaming mug of tea.

“Don’t drink too much,” you added, your tone sharp but not unkind. “It’s not something honourable for a knight to do.”

“Heh, it seems you just care for me too much,” he boomed, clearly already tipsy. “No need to worry, I got this under control!” Before you could respond, his meaty arm came down around your shoulders, pulling you against the solid wall of his chest.

You sighed, not bothering to push him away. “Or maybe,” you said dryly, “I just think you should take your job as a knight more seriously.”

Varka’s laugh rumbled through his chest, the sound vibrating against your shoulder. “I get it now, how people say you are controlling - but I like you like this, always the most responsible person in the room.”

“That’s duty,” you corrected, though the faint curve of your lips betrayed you.

The tavern was loud — boots stomping, mugs clinking, voices rising in drunken songs — but here in your corner, the noise blurred into a distant hum. 

He studied you for a moment, his grin fading into something quieter. “You know,” he said, voice low enough to be lost under the tavern’s din, “I like this. Just you and me. No speeches. No battles.”

You arched a brow. “You’re forgetting the part where you’re half-drunk.”

“Half,” he agreed, smirking. “Which means I’m still sober enough to tell you that you’re the best part of my victories.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hand found his under the table, fingers brushing against his calloused knuckles. “You’re lucky I’m used to your sentimental streak.”

He squeezed your hand gently, his thumb tracing over your skin. “And you’re lucky I’m used to your bossy personality.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Careful, Grand Master — keep talking like that and I’ll think you’re trying to charm your way out of knightly duties.”

The tavern’s noise faded into a distant blur — just the steady weight of his arm around you, and the unspoken truth that no matter the battles or the speeches, you’d always end up together.

("I work so much, can't be reminded Life feels worse, but good with you in it Supposed to be on stage, but fuck it, I need a minute")

Tighnari

 Tighnari prided himself on patience.

But right now? It took every ounce of restraint not to snap at you — and the only reason he hadn’t yet was because he loved you.

He stood in front of you, arms folded tight across his chest, tail flicking in short, irritated swishes. His ears angled back just slightly, a telltale sign you’d pushed him past “mildly annoyed” and into “dangerously close to lecturing you for an hour.”

You mirrored him perfectly — arms crossed, chin tilted, eyes narrowed in challenge. The two of you looked like reflections in a mirror, right down to the faint crease between your brows. It was eerily similar.

Collei lingered nearby, clutching her satchel like it might shield her from the tension. She’d only come to Tighnari with a simple question about a plant she’d found. He’d given her an answer. You, of course, had disagreed — loudly — and now here you were, locked in a silent battle of wills.

The forest seemed to sense the standoff. Even the wind stilled, as if nature itself was waiting to see who would break first.

“You’re being unreasonable.” Finally, Tighnari’s voice cut through the stillness — calm, but with that sharp edge you knew all too well.

“No, I’m being correct. There’s a difference.” You arched a brow, your voice dripping with cool defiance.

“There’s also a difference between correct and stubborn.” His tail gave a sharper flick and his brow furrowed even deeper.

You leaned forward slightly, smirking. “Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you. Guess we really are made for each other.”

That earned you a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth — not quite a smile, but close enough to make your chest tighten.

Tighnari exhaled slowly, his ears twitching once.

“You can’t just dismiss years of research because it doesn’t fit your theory.”

Collei’s eyes darted between you like she was watching an intense battle, then she muttered something about “checking on the greenhouse,” and slipped away, her footsteps quick and light.

Many people knew about your short fuse, so they kept their distance, often seeking another forest-watcher in Gandharva Ville instead. Even the Akademiya scholars avoided you — especially since you seemed to have a particular dislike for them.

On the rare occasions when someone had to approach you, the outcome was almost always the same: arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and a sharp tongue ready to pick apart every flaw in their request. You didn’t just criticize — you dismantled, often dragging their poor mothers into the argument for good measure.

You were difficult to deal with, prone to locking horns over the smallest details just to prove you were right. Cynicism colored much of your worldview, and you rarely took people’s intentions at face value.

Those closer to you — Collei and Cyno, especially Tighnari — knew the truth behind the storm. You were judgmental, sassy, and stubborn to a fault, yes, but also fiercely protective of those you cared for. Perhaps that’s why you and Tighnari fit so well together; he shared your sharp mind and unyielding nature, though his patience far outstripped yours.

But when the two of you disagreed, that shared stubbornness became a battlefield. Patience met defiance like flint striking steel — and the sparks were anything but gentle.

You uncrossed your arms just long enough to gesture sharply.

“And you can’t just cling to your research because you’re too proud to admit there might be another explanation.”

“It’s not pride. It’s evidence.” His gaze locked on yours, unflinching, the kind of look that always made your pulse skip—though now it burned instead of warmed.

You smirked, tilting your head. “There is other evidence as well, you just don't want to see it.”

His tail lashed once, sharply, but his voice softened just a fraction. “You know, for someone who claims to value logic, you let your emotions do a lot of the talking.”

“And for someone who claims to be patient, you’re awfully close to losing your temper.” Having taken offense to his words, you huff at him.

The air between you was taut, like a bowstring drawn to its limit. The forest held its breath. Somewhere in the distance, a leaf finally fell, spiraling lazily to the ground — the only movement in the stillness.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you blinked.

And neither of you was going to give in first.

“You act like this, then wonder why people avoid you.” The words slipped from him before he could stop them, and the instant they left his mouth, you saw the flicker of regret in his eyes.

They landed like a blade, clean and deliberate, but beneath the sting was something worse—the knowledge that he knew exactly where to cut. This was the first time in your entire relationship, and even before that, that he went this low.

“If that’s how you feel,” you hissed, your stance tightening, “you should’ve told me sooner. I’ve wasted my time with you.”

His eyes widened — caught off guard, words dying in his throat. Regret flickered there, but pride clamped his jaw shut. You searched his face for something — anything — that might make you stay. Finding nothing, you turned sharply and vanished into the forest, your footsteps swallowed by the rustle of leaves.

~

Because you were too wounded and too prideful, you missed the way his large ears twitched in fear, or the way his tail laid low on the ground. 

Tighnari stood frozen, the sting of his own words echoing in his mind. Cyno’s warning came back to him: One day, your pride will bite you right in the tail. He never imagined it would be over something so trivial… so stupid, he couldn’t even remember what started it.

But no matter how wrong he was, no matter how stubborn his pride, he couldn’t let you go. Not like this. Fennec foxes mated for life — and so did he. Not only because of instinct, but because you had become his entire world.

With a frustrated growl, he raked his fingers through his hair and stormed forward. A group of forest rangers stepped aside instantly, their chatter fading as they caught the sharp edge of his mood.

Finding you wouldn’t be hard. He knew every place you loved — the sunlit clearings, the moss-covered rocks, the quiet streams where you thought no one could find you. And if you’d discovered a new hiding spot, he’d always made sure to learn it too.

And seeing you there, back to work — you always did that when you wanted to escape — pained him more than he could admit. The way your hands moved with forced precision, the way you avoided looking up… it told him everything. Your stance shifted slightly, a subtle sign that you knew he was there. 

“I am sorry, okay?” Tighnari finally spoke up after a few minutes, you froze mid-motion the moment he opened his mouth.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he tried again, louder this time, one hand scratching nervously behind his ear. “I just… uh… I really—”

He faltered when you stood, leaving your work scattered in the grass. His eyes searched your face, desperate for something to hold on to.

“It was stupid, and I care about your opinion and I don’t think you are..avoidable..” His ears flattened slightly atop his head, even saying it felt like a huge blow to his pride, but he didn't look away this time.

“I should apologize, actually,” you said, frowning and breaking his gaze. “You were right. It’s the reason people avoid me, and that’s fine by me… but I can’t bear it if you were to look at me the way they do.”

A small snicker escaped his lips, and your bewildered gaze snapped back to him. His eyes were full of mirth and something softer — fondness. Heat flared in your chest, the thought striking you that maybe he’d been playing with you this whole time.

“Come now,” he said, smiling, his tone light but not unkind. “Why are you speaking so formally?”

The tension in your shoulders eased, just a little. His smile lingered, warm and steady, and for the first time since the argument began, the air between you felt less like a battlefield and more like a bridge.

You huffed, trying to keep your expression stern, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, twitching upward.

“I’m not speaking formally,” you muttered, though the words lacked their earlier bite.

Tighnari tilted his head, ears perking slightly. “Mm, you are. You only do that when you’re upset… or when you’re trying not to cry.”

Your breath caught. He always noticed too much.

His tail brushed the grass behind him, low but no longer heavy with defeat. “I meant what I said,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “I don’t want to lose you. Not over something so… small. Not over anything.”

You looked up at him, and for the first time since the fight began, you saw no pride in his eyes — only sincerity.

Without thinking, you reached out, brushing a stray leaf from his shoulder. His ears went upright at the touch and his tail was slowly moving left and right, but he didn’t move away.

And just like that, the air between you shifted — no longer sharp and brittle, but warm, fragile, and worth protecting.

("I took you for granted Just a big misunderstandin' I just wanna spend the night")

Cyno

He was aware he was intimidating thats why he made dry jokes, to soften his image as The General Mahamatra

You, however, were a different story entirely. You made no such effort to temper your presence. If anything, you seemed to lean into it. Even on something as mundane as a trip to the market, you carried yourself with the same stern composure you wore on duty.

Your scowl was not the fleeting kind born of irritation — it was a steady, unyielding expression that seemed carved into your features. Merchants, upon meeting your eyes, would immediately drop their prices to the bare minimum, as if bargaining with you was not only futile but dangerous.

At first, Cyno thought little of it. It wasn’t unusual for people to avoid those in the Matra — justice was rarely welcomed with open arms. But the extent of it with you was… different. It wasn’t just researchers or those with guilty consciences who kept their distance. It was everyone. Street vendors, scholars, even the occasional guard would find a reason to step aside when you passed.

He only truly realized the scope of it when a group of researchers were speaking to each other one afternoon, their voices hushed but urgent. They complained that you were “extremely hostile,” “unnecessarily harsh,” and “impossible to approach.” Cyno listened in, his expression unreadable, though inwardly he found their words almost amusing. He knew you better than anyone else. He had seen you in moments of quiet thought, heard your laughter at his dry jokes, and witnessed countless small, unguarded gestures that told him who you really were

To him, you weren’t frightening. You were direct, uncompromising, and perhaps a little too blunt for most people’s comfort, but never cruel. Yet, as he watched the way people’s eyes darted away from you, how conversations died when you entered a room, he began to understand that the world saw you through a very different lens. 

Cyno was no stranger to wariness himself. Many researchers kept their distance from him, wary of his ruthless enforcement of the Akademiya’s rules. But he made an effort to put people at ease when he could. Watching you do the opposite startled him in a way he couldn’t quite name.

You carried a ruthlessness he thought was his burden alone. It worried him — not because he feared you, but because he feared what it might do to you. You had always preferred your own company, but after becoming a Matra, you seemed to retreat even further into solitude.

That wasn't a fate he wished for you, Cyno tried coaxing you out of your shared home inviting you to join him for his TCG card game meet-ups. You’d come, but only to sit in a quiet corner, a drink in hand, joking that it was strong enough to get through the night. To Cyno, it sounded less like humor and more of a quiet surrender to a fate you hadn't yet seen for yourself.

Then came the day you had the task to find a certain Akademiya researcher and bring him in for disciplinary actions for his wrong doings in said research. The man refused to comply, and you did not take kindly to it. Cyno’s gaze sharpened, a faint unease curling in his chest. 

You decided justice when you grabbed the man, dragging him across the floor as his boots scraped against the stone. Cyno’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He could feel the eyes of the onlookers, their whispers increasing.

You barely gave Cyno a glance as you walked past him with the yelling man in one hand, the other raked through your hair in frustration. The researcher was dramatically wailing about ‘unjust accusations’ and other nonsense, but you moved as if his protests were nothing more than background noise.

When a woman -clearly connected to the man- stepped in your way to defend the man, Cyno instinctively shifted his weight, ready to intervene. But then your expression changed.

 Your scowl settled heavy on your features. The air seemed to tighten, and Cyno felt the shift - the way people’s gaze dropped, the way the crowd around you scurried off as if the space around you had become dangerous.

Moments later, the woman was in your other hand, your glare daring anyone else to try their luck. Cyno’s fingers twitched at his side as the only sound around were your shoes against the stone and the low complaints you muttered as you hailed them both away.

He followed in silence, his mind heavy with the thought that you were walking a path far lonelier than he remembers you telling him you wanted.

Watching you now, he couldn’t help but think back to the early days of your relationship. The path to each other hadn’t been easy — both of you guarded, and his position as your superior only added to the scrutiny. People judged, whispered, and speculated, but there had been no rule against your bond.

He remembered how you avoided crowds, not out of disdain, but because you felt the sting of judgment more deeply than you let on. You had put on a front, but he had seen the way it hurt you. Together, you had pulled through.

But now… now you seemed to invite that judgment, almost daring people to speak. He couldn’t understand the change. Had you grown harder, or had his work taken so much of his time that he’d failed to notice what was happening to you?

~

After you dropped off the man and woman for their judgment, you stepped out of the building — and straight into Cyno’s gaze. His eyes swept over your face and posture with quiet precision, searching for something he couldn’t name. His expression was unreadable, but suspicion prickled at the back of your mind.

You didn’t indulge him. Instead, you stepped around him without a word, your heels clicking against the floor. That action made him absolutely baffled. The sound startled him from his stillness, and he fell into step beside you almost instinctively.

The walk was silent, the air between you taut. You kept your eyes forward, heading toward the Avidya Forest — a place where the canopy’s shade promised respite. Cyno’s gaze lingered on you, his thoughts a tangle.

At last, he cleared his throat. You didn’t glance at him, didn’t slow, didn’t offer even the smallest acknowledgment. His jaw tightened. He had considered breaking the silence with a dry joke, something to cut through the tension, but your indifference made the words taste bitter before they could leave his tongue.

Cyno was not a man who doubted himself. But right now, your silence was a blade, and he couldn’t tell if it was meant to wound or protect. He had thought you trusted him. He had hoped you did. But the wall between you felt higher than ever.

When you finally looked at him, your eyes were tired. His composure cracked, just slightly, enough for the faintest crease to form between his brows.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Instead, you reached for his hand, your fingers curling around his with quiet certainty. The warmth of your touch seeped into him, dissolving the cold tension that had been building with every step.

“Is it too much for you?” he asked at last, his voice low, measured. “Do you want me to take some work over for you? Or…” — his lips twitched, almost imperceptibly — “should I distract you with a joke?”

A small, involuntary laugh escaped you, breaking the heaviness like a crack in glass. “What would the other Matra think if you were playing favorites?”

“They would be jealous,” he replied without hesitation, his tone as flat as the desert horizon. “They would want to hear my genius jokes as well.”

You shook your head, but your grip on his hand didn’t loosen. The silence that followed was no longer sharp — it was softer now, warmer, like the first breath of shade after walking in the sun.

Then, just when you thought the moment had settled, he added, deadpan, “Speaking of shade… did you hear about the tree who got promoted? It was outstanding in its field.”

You stopped walking, staring at him in disbelief. “That’s… awful.”

“I thought that one was really good,” he said, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I can explain it to you further, maybe then you would think it's funny.”

And though you rolled your eyes, you didn’t let go of his hand. And when Cyno looked closely he could see the way a small imperceptible smile hung on your lips.

("Change my mind so much it's exhaustin' I'm more hurt than I would admit I'm supposed to be an adult, but fuck it, I need a minute (Oh)")

Kinich

Whenever Kinich returned from Saurian slaying, the tribe greeted him with silence sharp enough to cut through his armor.

Eyes narrowed, lips curled, and whispers slithered between the huts as if his victories were sins. He’d learned to ignore them — until you came into his life.

You were the only one who met him with respect. When others muttered, you didn’t just defend him — you made sure they thought twice before speaking again. Kinich told you it wasn’t necessary, but you’d only give a quiet shrug. Still, he noticed how people began to look away instead of spitting their disdain.

You were eccentric, though not in a way that drew hatred — more in the way people didn’t quite know what to do with you. A great blacksmith, always dusted in soot, hands forever busy with some tool or scrap of metal. You spoke your mind without hesitation, your voice carrying like a hammer strike, and your view of the world was… blunt. Sometimes morbid. Kinich found himself agreeing with you more often than not.

He first met you when his claymore needed urgent repairs, after coming back from battle with a feral saurian. You named a price that made his brow furrow.

“That’s too much,” he said flatly.

“It is actually quite appropriate for my work,” you replied, already turning back to your forge. “But I’ll make it less, because I don’t have time for haggling. Death’s on the horizon.”

He blinked, unsure what to make of that, but said nothing. Ajaw, however — his ever-annoying, floating companion — was never one to leave a mystery alone.

“Are you dying?” Ajaw demanded out of curiosity. “Or is someone hunting you?”

Without looking up from your work, you muttered, “Death’s always near.” Then you caught sight of the small, hovering creature and paused.

Kinich expected surprise, maybe curiosity — but instead, you waved Ajaw away like an irritating fly.

“Speak quietly,” you said, “or not at all. Your bratty voice grates my ears.”

Ajaw gasped, scandalized. “You! You insolent mortal! Show respect to the almighty dragonlord!”

Kinich almost smiled. Almost.

He left that day with his repaired claymore and the faintest trace of amusement — a rare thing for him. But fate, or perhaps bad luck, had a way of bringing him back to your forge.

When his work demanded more repairs, he found himself seeking you out again and again. Over time, your lives began to intertwine. 

You were fiercely protective of him, and you made it known. You’d cut Ajaw off mid-sentence with a sharp word, glare down anyone whose whispers lingered too long, and track the market crowd with the sharp focus of a hawk.

Kinich had long believed his life would be one of quiet solitude, his only companions the weight of his blade and Ajaw’s endless chatter. But you barged into his thoughts, loud and uninvited, until he wasn’t sure he wanted them to himself anymore.

He didn’t mind your sharp edges — in them, he saw his own reflection. There was a darkness in you, a kind of wrongness the world would never forgive, but to him it felt familiar. The way you spoke made people wary; you’d talk about life in such a morbid way, and they’d shift uncomfortably, unsure if you were joking or simply telling the truth.

Even if your strange manner kept most people quiet, Kinich knew there would always be someone willing to speak. And if anyone dared speak ill of you, he would make sure their words never reached your ears — a glance, a hand resting on his blade, enough to silence them.

Kinich knew that sometimes you were very boisterous when you went drinking, but after he told you about his past, you never touched a drop in his presence. You never explained why, and he never asked — but he noticed.

Outsiders in every corner of Teyvat, you and Kinich carried the same sharp edges the world didn’t know how to hold. It was easier that way — easier to keep walking together, never speaking of parting, even if neither of you would ever say it out loud.

~

It was late when Kinich came by again, the village long since gone to sleep. The forge was still alive with the low glow of embers, the air thick with the scent of metal and smoke. You were there, sleeves rolled up, hair sticking to your forehead, the steady rhythm of your hammer breaking the silence.

“You work too much,” he said from the doorway, his voice low so as not to startle you.

Without looking up, you replied, “Says the man who hunts Saurians for a living.”

He stepped inside, the warmth of the forge wrapping around him like a heavy cloak. “At least I stop when the job’s done.”

You set the hammer down, wiping your hands on a rag. “The job’s never done. Not for people like us.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The coals hissed softly, and the shadows danced across your face. Kinich studied you — the faint smudge of soot on your cheek, the tired set of your shoulders, the way your eyes still burned with something fierce and unyielding.

“You haven’t been drinking,” he said finally. It wasn’t a question.

You glanced at him, then back to the blade cooling on the anvil. “Didn’t feel like it,” you said, then added with a shrug, “Besides, I’d rather keep my wits about me in case the ceiling decides to fall in.”

Kinich’s brow twitched — the smallest flicker of reaction — but he didn’t comment. He’d learned that you often said things like that, and that you meant them… at least a little.

He didn’t press, but the truth sat between you, unspoken. You’d given something up for him, and he wasn’t used to people doing that.

Kinich rested his hand on the claymore at his side. “I’ll try not to give you too much work,” he said.

You smirked faintly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I’d get bored without your messes to fix.”

And for the first time in a long while, he smiled almost imperceptibly. 

He stepped forward. You set down the weapon you’d been working on, watching him close the distance until he stood in front of you.

“What is it?” Your voice was quiet, almost lost in the crackle of the forge.

Instead of answering, his hand rose slowly, deliberate in its movement. His fingers brushed your cheek, warm against your skin, and lingered there. His gaze stayed fixed on that spot, unreadable, as if he were memorizing the shape of your face. The moment stretched, the air between you thick with the heat of the forge and something else entirely.

“You had a spot on your cheek,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. If you hadn’t caught it, you might have missed the tease entirely.

You huffed, turning away to snatch the weapon back into your hands. “Time for you to scram. Work doesn’t end magically.” 

“Ill find you later then, wouldn't want you to collapse of tiredness in here.” He simply stated as he caught the faint hitch in your voice, the way your shoulders stiffened just slightly, and the way you avoided looking at him now. 

He didn’t mind your sharp words at all. In fact, he’d come to expect them — they were just another part of you, as much as your strange habits, your blunt humor, and the way you seemed to see the world from an angle no one else did.

("I love it when you need me I blame it on your love every time I fuck it up I blame it on your love, I do")

Diluc

A righteous man with far too many attitude problems — that’s how some would have described Diluc. Others preferred “The uncrowned king of Mondstadt” or… well, the list went on.

He dismissed all those names with an incredulous look, as if the very idea of them was beneath consideration. Truthfully, he couldn’t care less what people said. Sometimes the rumors were so absurd that they almost entertained him.

What did catch him off guard, was you, his personal assistant, taking offense on his behalf. It was even more surprising when you actually went ahead to berate those people into quietness, or when you would glare intently at a certain florist. And when words weren’t enough, you had no problem silencing them with a sharp retort, or fixing them with a glare so pointed it could cut glass. 

He didn’t mind. In truth, he found it… oddly reassuring. Perhaps even amusing when people would scatter at the sight of you. You were meant to handle bookkeeping, planning, and the endless demands of the winery, yet somehow you’d taken on the role of bodyguard.

Not that he needed one, but he would never ask you to stop. It made his life easier. And, though he’d never admit it aloud, it also made him feel… seen.

He’d known you for so long now that the day he hired you had blurred into memory. The only details that remained were your simple requests: a generous salary and a warm, comfortable home — something the Dawn Winery could certainly provide.

He also remembered why he’d chosen you in the first place. You couldn’t find work in Mondstadt because of your blunt, guarded nature. You rarely spoke to strangers, and you questioned everyone’s intentions.

Those were traits that mirrored his own — and, more importantly, traits he needed in someone he could trust with his life’s work. 

It was obvious to anyone that you would only answer to Diluc. You held him in the highest regard, and you had little interest in being bothered by the outside world. Over time, you had become distant, almost unapproachable — and you preferred it that way.

So when you learned of his rampage in Snezhnaya, or that he was the so‑called Darknight Hero, you weren’t surprised. If anything, it only deepened your respect for him — not for the mask he wore at night, but for the steadfast heart beneath it

 It was proof that there were still people willing to stand for what was right, no matter the cost.

By his side day after day, you came to know the weight of his past and the demands of his present — just as he came to know yours. Diluc understood that you were a person with nothing to your name but a lifetime of memories, most of which you called grievances.

The two of you were more alike than anyone could guess. You both carried your past like a shadow — never spoken of, but always there. That quiet understanding made working together effortless.

He only sent you out for minor errands; he was still a man who couldn’t sit still for long. He never wanted to burden you with the darker parts of his work, but you never saw it as a burden. You welcomed the weight without hesitation.

In meetings, you were always a step behind him. When he hesitated, his eyes sought yours first, and your answer was all he needed. If a business partner dared to question your presence, a single cutting glance, from him or from you, was enough to still the air and end the matter.

Even when he worked behind the bar, you were there somewhere. Perhaps seated in the corner with a drink, sorting through his letters — deciding which ones deserved his attention and which were better burned.

On the rare occasion someone tried to strike up a conversation with you, you met them with a flat, unblinking stare that said, Can’t you see I’m not interested? They usually got the message.

When his shift ended, the two of you left together without a word — the quiet walk home as much a ritual as anything else. On the rare days you weren’t needed in Mondstadt, your absence didn’t go unnoticed.

Even Charles, the bartender at Angel’s Share, would sometimes inquire after you when you weren’t around. Diluc would indulge him out of respect, though he could see the glint of mischief in Charles’s eyes — as if the man knew more than he let on.

So it wasn’t much of a surprise to anyone who might discover that the two of you shared the same chamber, the same bed. None of the maids questioned it; in fact, they seemed quietly pleased that Diluc had found someone he could take comfort in.

To the casual observer, nothing had changed between you. Of course, there was gossip,  there was always gossip, but it was just that.

Still, those who watched closely might notice the way his gaze lingered a moment too long, or how his hand would brush yours when passing a glass, his touch lingering just enough to be felt.

The two of you denied everything, though in different ways. Diluc simply refused to indulge the rumors, letting them pass like wind through the trees.

You, on the other hand, met them head-on — your stare sharp enough to cut the words from their tongues. Whether it was because you despised gossip or simply had no patience for meaningless chatter, no one could say.

At the end of the day, it didn’t matter what anyone whispered or said. The two of you would find yourselves here, in the hush of the room, the only sound the soft crackle of the hearth. And in that warmth, the world beyond the door ceased to exist. It was the one moment of the day the two of you would find peace in, with a lingering closeness and a glass of grape juice.

But peace never lasted long. Not in your world.

~

With Diluc busy tending to business at Angel’s Share, you were left to deal with the snobby merchant standing before you. The man reeked of rum, his breath sour enough to make you want to take a step back. His smirk was the kind that made you want to wipe it away, and the arrogance in his eyes grated on your nerves like sandpaper.

You clenched your jaw so hard it ached. Normally, when you handled matters for Diluc, people were easier to tolerate — respectful, even. This one was neither. A dull throb began to pulse at your temples.

“I was told I’d be speaking with Master Ragnvindr himself,” the merchant drawled, his words slurring just enough to betray his drink. “Not… whoever you are.”

Your gaze sharpened. “And yet, here I am. If you have business, speak it.”

He chuckled, the sound low and mocking. “You’ve got quite the tongue for someone in your position.”

You took a slow step forward, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. “And you’ve got quite the nerve for someone who wants to do business.”

The smirk faltered. Just slightly.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of more words. Instead, you turned on your heel, heading toward Angel’s Share with measured, deliberate steps.

But the merchant wasn’t having it. His boots scraped against the cobblestones as he closed the distance, the sour tang of rum clinging to the air between you.

“I wasn’t finished,” he barked, his voice carrying far enough for the nearby crowd to hear. “You will take me to Master Ragnvindr — now.”

You stopped mid-step, your jaw tightening until it ached. Slowly, you turned, meeting his gaze with a glare so sharp it could have cut through steel. The arrogance in his eyes wavered, his shoulders stiffening as if the weight of your stare pressed against his chest.

“I am quite certain Master Diluc is busy,” you said, your tone calm but edged with steel. “If you have business with him, you can send a letter to the winery.”

The merchant scoffed, taking a step forward as if to challenge you — but he froze when a shadow fell across the cobblestones.

“Is there a problem here?”

Diluc’s voice was low, even, but it carried the kind of authority that made the air feel heavier. He stood just behind you, his coat catching the faint breeze, crimson hair catching the light. His gaze was fixed on the merchant — steady, unblinking, and cold enough to make the man’s bravado crumble.

“M-Master Ragnvindr,” the merchant stammered, his earlier arrogance evaporating. “I was only—”

“Interrupting my associate,” Diluc cut in, his tone polite but laced with finality. “If you have business, you’ll address it properly. In writing. At the winery.”

The merchant swallowed hard, nodding quickly before retreating into the crowd, his steps uneven.

Diluc’s eyes lingered on him for a moment before shifting to you. “You handled that well,” he said quietly, his voice softening just enough for only you to hear.

You smirked faintly. “I was about to.”

“I know,” he replied, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “But I thought I’d save you the trouble.”

With that, he gestured toward Angel’s Share, falling into step beside you as the murmurs of the crowd faded behind. And you could only smile at him, it was always gonna be you and him against the world.

("I just wanna spend the night I just wanna drink you up Love, I do")

Neuvillette

He kept to himself — not out of coldness, but because solitude felt safer than the risk of burdening others with the weight he carried.

You, however, had an awful habit of noticing everything. Your quill never rested; every flicker of expression, every shift in tone, every pause between words — all of it found its way into your records.

As the Official Court Records Keeper, also known as the court reporter, you considered it your duty to preserve every detail of Fontaine’s trials. Each note you took was an important recording of the nation’s history, and more often than not, your meticulous transcripts became evidence in future cases.

Neuvillette didn’t quite know what to do with you. Demanding, strict, and unyielding in your pursuit of perfection, traits that often grated on others yet in the courtroom, they became your greatest strengths. Your records were so precise they could withstand the scrutiny of any judge, any advocate, any trial.

And yet, it seemed you would never let the poor man live in peace. Neuvillette had become your main subject of interest, your “most important recording,” as you once called him. You claimed it was for the sake of the archives, but he couldn’t understand your fixation — even if, in some quiet way, he found it flattering.

Still, he had to admit you were exceptional at your work. He often caught himself watching you in the steady rhythm of your quill, the faint rustle of parchment, the precise way you sealed each file with wax.

In those moments, he realized that while others might see you as demanding, he saw something else entirely: a devotion to truth so unwavering, it could outlast even the tides of Fontaine

On the other hand, even Neuvillette couldn’t deny that you were… difficult.

If someone dared to speak to you while you were working, you wouldn’t so much as glance in their direction. And if you weren’t busy? You’d simply turn on your heel and walk the other way, as if conversation itself were a nuisance.

Your excuse was always the same ‘I already knew enough about everyone, so why bother talking to them?’ But Neuvillette suspected otherwise. You weren’t disinterested. You were avoidant. And that, he realized, was something the two of you had in common.

Perhaps that was why it surprised him when you sought him out. More often than not, you ended up in his office. Sometimes under the pretense of work, other times for tea. He never quite knew how to refuse you, and perhaps he didn’t want to.

When you spoke your words carried a weight that made him pause, sometimes even hold his breath. You were peculiar in a way that defied easy explanation, peculiar enough, in fact, that the Melusines had taken a liking to you.

It was almost unsettling. Neuvillette found himself wondering when you had become so civil with anyone outside your beloved archives. He meant no insult, but for someone so openly disdainful of idle chatter, you seemed… unexpectedly willing to make exceptions.

He would never complain about it. Somehow, despite his reclusive nature, he had grown used to your presence.

When there was a court hearing, his gaze sought yours first. When he walked the halls of the archive, he looked for signs of you. And when he sat alone in his office, his thoughts often drifted to you without permission.

It had gone so far that even the Melusines had begun asking for you, their innocent voices carrying a teasing lilt whenever they mentioned your name. 

When you smiled at him for the first time, perhaps in your entire life, he had been so struck by it that he retreated to his office for days. Fontaine’s citizens noted the unusually sunny weather during that time.

One afternoon, he returned to his desk to find a single sheet of parchment placed neatly atop his case files. It was nothing more than a correction to a court record, a minor detail he had overlooked. The handwriting was precise, elegant, and unmistakably yours.

Neuvillette read it once. Then again. And again.

It was absurd, he told himself, to linger on something so trivial. Yet his gaze kept returning to the graceful curve of each letter, the faint scent of ink still fresh on the page.

For the rest of the day, the parchment remained on his desk, untouched by the filing pile. 

~

Even now, long after that day, the parchment remained neatly tucked away in Neuvillette’s desk. On the longest days, when the hours stretched endlessly, his hand would drift to it — fingertips brushing the edge of the page as if the faint texture alone could steady him.

Life had shifted for you as well. You no longer buried yourself entirely in the archives; now, your breaks often led you to his office. Sometimes you’d sit quietly in the corner, reviewing documents while he worked. Other times, you’d simply watch the rain through the tall windows, the two of you sharing a silence that felt… comfortable.

No one commented on the familiarity between the Ludex and the Court Reporter. Perhaps it was because most people forgot you even existed outside the courtroom. You preferred it that way.

But not everyone had the sense to leave you alone.

A junior advocate intercepted you in the hallway, a stack of poorly organized case notes in her hands.

“Ah, perfect! You can help me sort these. You’re the record keeper, after all.”

You didn’t slow your pace. “Submit them properly. I’m not your assistant.”

She jogged to keep up. “It’ll only take a moment. You’re good at this sort of thing, aren’t you?”

You stopped abruptly, turning to face her. “I’m excellent at it. Which is why I don’t waste my time fixing other people’s incompetence.”

The advocate blinked, clearly taken aback. “That’s… unnecessarily harsh.”

“Yes I'm aware, you can file a complaint there,” you replied, already walking away.

It was then you noticed Neuvillette standing at the far end of the corridor, a file in hand, having witnessed the exchange. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze followed you until you disappeared into the archives.

You weren't the only one who noticed the Ludex, as the young advocate immediately turned to him.

“Sir Neuvillette!" I only meant to ask for help. I didn’t expect the Court reporter to—” She hesitated, searching for a polite word. “…dismiss me so sharply.”

Neuvillette didn’t look up from his papers. “You approached without following proper procedure.”

The advocate frowned. “Yes, but—”

Neuvillette continued, his tone calm but unyielding. “The court reporter is not here to make your tasks easier. But rather to ensure the accuracy of the court’s records — a responsibility fulfilled with unmatched precision.”

The advocate shifted again, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of the Ludex’s gaze. “I… suppose I didn’t think of it that way.”

“…But I assure you,” Neuvillette said, his voice even but carrying a quiet finality, “they are indispensable to the court’s integrity. You would do well to remember that.”

The advocate’s shoulders stiffened. She murmured something that might have been an apology before retreating, her footsteps fading into the echo of the corridor.

Neuvillette remained still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the far end of the hallway — the direction you had gone. His fingers tapped once against the file in his hand, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, before he turned and followed.

In the archives, the air was cooler, heavy with the scent of parchment and ink. You were already seated at your desk, quill moving in precise strokes, the faint scratch of ink the only sound.

Others might call you difficult. He called you dependable.

“I am much capable of speaking up for myself.” you replied softly, your quill still moving, though the strokes had slowed.

“I know,” he said, and the certainty in his tone made your hand falter for just a moment. “But I prefer they hear it from me.”

You glanced up, meeting his gaze. His expression was as composed as ever, but there was something in his eyes,  a quiet steadiness, a kind of watchfulness, that made your chest feel warm.

“And why is that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, the faint rustle of his robes brushing against the stillness of the archives. The scent of rain — subtle, clean — seemed to follow him, mingling with the ink and parchment.

“Because some voices,” he said, his tone low and deliberate, “should not have to defend themselves.”

Your quill stilled completely. The words hung between you, heavier than the scent of ink in the air, and you felt the weight of them settle somewhere deep inside you. Those were words you always longed to hear, and it seemed he saw you in the way you wanted to be seen.

No else would be able to see you in the way he saw you.

His hand rested lightly on your shoulder, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. 

“You always do that,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “You don’t have to.”

“Perhaps not,” he said, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth — so subtle you might have imagined it. “But I choose to.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was deliberate, weighted, and it lingered long after he finally stepped back, leaving the faint trace of his presence in the cool air of the archives.

("In a place that can make you change Fall in love again and again")