#limerence!

The streets of Liyue Harbor were bathed in the warm glow of lanterns, their golden light reflecting off the tranquil waters below like scattered stars upon a dark canvas. The scent of freshly baked sweets wove through the air, carried by the gentle evening breeze, mingling with the laughter of festival-goers and the soft murmur of lovers exchanging gifts. The docks swayed ever so slightly beneath the weight of the celebrations, the rhythmic lull of waves beneath them a constant, steady heartbeat amidst the night’s revelry.

It was a day of romance, of indulgence, of promises both spoken and unspoken. Valentine’s Day had come to Liyue once more.

And Sylvie, as always, was in the thick of it all.

“Come on, Zhongli, live a little!” Their laughter rang out like a bell, bright and effervescent, as they tugged at his wrist, weaving through the bustling market stalls with the enthusiasm of someone experiencing it all for the first time. And in a way, they were—five hundred years away meant missing quite a lot of changes, and Sylvie had no intention of letting any more slip through their fingers. “You used to be the god of contracts, right? Let’s make a deal. If you try at least three sweets, I won’t drag you into anything too absurd today.”

Zhongli huffed, though his steps held no real resistance. He allowed himself to be pulled along with the ease of someone who had long since learned that fighting Sylvie’s whims was a losing battle. “That is a rather vague condition, Sylvie. I’d rather not find myself in a situation where I must clarify the definition of ‘absurd’ with you.”

Sylvie smirked, sharp and teasing, eyes glinting with mischief. “Alright, alright. Three sweets, and I won’t make you join a street performance.”

That gave him pause. A single brow rose, his lips pressing together in faint suspicion. “...Very well.”

The first treat was a candy, delicate and sweet, melting on the tongue like nostalgia itself. Zhongli hummed in quiet approval, his expression unreadable save for the faintest flicker of something distant in his gaze. Sylvie leaned in, grinning. “See? Not so bad, huh?”

His response was a simple nod, but the way he let the flavor linger, as if committing it to memory, did not go unnoticed.

The second was a mochi-like confection, soft and chewy, the kind that stuck to one’s teeth in the most infuriating way. Sylvie had chosen it on purpose, of course, and when Zhongli’s usually impeccable composure wavered for just a second too long—his jaw shifting ever so slightly as he tried to dislodge the stubborn treat—they nearly doubled over in laughter.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, reached for a handkerchief with practiced elegance, and shot them a look so dry it could have rivaled the deserts of Sumeru. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

Sylvie wiped at their eyes, still snickering. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

By the time they reached the third, Sylvie had decided to play fair, selecting something they were certain Zhongli would enjoy—a simple, well-balanced almond tofu, paired with a cup of warm tea. They found themselves at the harbor’s edge, where the distant hum of the festival softened into something gentler, the ripples of water catching the lanternlight in a dance of gold and crimson.

Sylvie stretched their arms behind their head, exhaling in satisfaction. “Not bad for a first Valentine’s together, huh?”

Zhongli glanced at them then, amber eyes reflecting not just the glow of the lanterns, but something softer—something warm, something knowing. “You say that as though we have not spent centuries together in one way or another.”

Sylvie turned to him fully, tilting their head. “Yeah, but this is different,” they pointed out. “Before, we were just two people who kept running into each other over and over, right? But now…” They faltered for a moment, the words catching somewhere between thought and voice, before shaking their head with a huff. “Now you’re stuck with me.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, setting his tea down with deliberate care. “A contract of the heart, then.”

“Oh, don’t you start getting poetic on me now,” Sylvie teased, though the flush at the tips of their ears betrayed their amusement. “I’d say something dramatic in return, but I think you already know, don’t you?”

Zhongli studied them for a long moment, the space between them narrowing, not in distance, but in something far less tangible. Then, with a gentleness that belied the weight of history between them, he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from their face.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I know.”

The world around them continued—lovers exchanging gifts, vendors calling out their wares, fireworks painting the sky with bursts of light—but for that brief, fleeting moment, it was just the two of them. Bound by time, by laughter, by something wordless and eternal.

And perhaps, just perhaps, by the promise of many more nights like this to come.

The tea set was pristine, delicate porcelain glazed in deep crimson and gold, untouched by the years of decay that clung to its owner. Niko—Coviello—poured with practiced grace, mechanical fingers steady despite the wear and tear on his body. The liquid swirled, releasing an aroma of jasmine and something darker, something Scaramouche couldn't quite name.

"You don't have to drink if you don't want to," Niko said, his voice as soft as ever, as if he was always speaking at a wake. "But I remember you enjoy tea. I thought it might be a comfort."

Scaramouche scoffed, arms crossed as he leaned back into the velvet chair. "You say that every time."

"And yet you always drink."

Clicking his tongue, Scaramouche grabbed the cup, bringing it to his lips with an exaggerated air of reluctance. It was good, infuriatingly so. The warmth seeped into him, loosening something in his chest he refused to acknowledge.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft clinking of porcelain and the hum of machinery embedded within Niko's frame. Scaramouche hated that sound—hated what it stood for. Hated that Niko had thrown away so much of himself in the pursuit of power, all for the sake of protecting others. And yet, here he was, playing host, comforting, nurturing, like it was second nature. Like he hadn't torn himself apart for it.

The weight of it was unbearable.

"Stop it."

Niko’s movements stilled. He tilted his head, his expression unreadable yet hauntingly gentle. "Stop what?"

"This." Scaramouche gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding into his tone. "Stop putting all this pressure on yourself. You take care of everyone else—these brats, the elderly, even those walking disasters you call coworkers. And me."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "I never asked you to. I don’t need you to. Let me take the charge for once, for fuck’s sake."

For the first time in their long, strange acquaintance, Niko didn't have an immediate reply. His lips parted, then closed, as if he were searching for words that refused to come. His fingers twitched, gripping the edges of his sleeves. And then—

A tear fell.

Scaramouche's breath hitched.

Niko’s eyes widened in muted surprise, as if even he hadn’t realized it. His hands moved in frantic repetition, swiping at his face over and over again, as though he could undo it, erase the evidence. His voice wavered, cracking with something raw.

"I—I didn’t mean to—"

Scaramouche clicked his tongue, reaching out before he could stop himself. His fingers caught Niko’s wrist mid-motion, halting his trembling hands.

"Don’t," he muttered. "Don’t wipe them away. Just let it be."

A silence heavier than any before settled between them. Niko stared at him, unreadable yet vulnerable in a way Scaramouche had never seen before. It felt like looking into a mirror warped by time—two people who had broken themselves apart for different reasons, unable to stop, unable to turn back.

And in that moment, Scaramouche understood what Niko had been trying to do all along. Why he kept reaching out, why he spoke in that maddeningly soft tone, why he never stopped. Because he knew. He had always known.

Scaramouche let out a sharp exhale, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Don’t get used to this, Coviello."

Niko laughed, a quiet, breathy thing, and for once, it didn't sound like mourning.

"I won’t," he lied.

Your pointe shoes glide soundlessly across the polished stage floor, the fabric of your tutu rustling with each movement. The Opera Epiclese is as grand as ever tonight, its velvet-draped balconies packed with Fontaine’s elite. You can feel the weight of their gazes, but your focus is trained elsewhere—on the man seated in the Duke’s personal box.

Wriothesley.

You’ve never spoken more than a few words to him. You know him through association—passing greetings at formal events, the occasional fleeting glance when your schedules overlapped. The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide and a ballerina from the Opera Epiclese could hardly be considered close. And yet… there’s something about the way his cool eyes follow your every step, the way he leans forward slightly as if he’s committing every movement to memory, that makes your heart race.

“Are you even listening to me?” Sigewinne’s voice chimes in your ear, snapping you from your thoughts.

The performance is over, and you’re backstage, still catching your breath as the cheers and applause echo through the opera house. Sigewinne, ever the mischievous meddler, is watching you with barely concealed amusement.

“I was just saying,” she continues, tapping a finger against her chin, “that someone seemed very interested in your performance tonight.”

Your face warms immediately. “Sigewinne—”

She only giggles. “Oh, don’t be shy! I’m just saying, wouldn’t it be nice to have a chat with a certain someone after your show?”

You hesitate. You aren’t sure what to make of Wriothesley’s presence at your performances. He isn’t exactly the type to frequent the Opera Epiclese, yet he’s been in attendance more than once. But approaching him? That’s an entirely different matter.

“I don’t think he’d be interested in—”

“Oh, please.” Sigewinne waves off your words. “He thinks you’re amazing. He talks about your performances whenever he visits.”

You blink. “He does?”

“Yep!” She rocks back on her heels, positively beaming. “He’s just too much of a broody ice block to say anything directly.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. You sneak a glance past the curtains, where Wriothesley still lingers in his box. He hasn’t left yet. He’s speaking with a few high-ranking officials, but you notice his gaze flickering toward the stage every so often, as if he’s waiting for something.

Sigewinne follows your gaze, her expression turning positively devious. “You know,” she says, ever so casually, “I could go ask him to come backstage.”

Your breath catches. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely would.” She’s already stepping away, hands clasped behind her back like an innocent bystander. “Unless, of course, you go talk to him first?”

You want to protest, to tell her to drop it, but the truth is… you kind of want to. You’ve always admired him from afar, wondering what kind of man lies beneath that composed exterior. And if what Sigewinne says is true, maybe—just maybe—he’s been wondering the same about you.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you step forward, weaving through the halls of the opera house until you reach the private entrance to the Duke’s box. Your heart hammers as you approach, each step feeling impossibly loud in your ears.

The door opens before you can knock.

Wriothesley stands there, surprised but composed. “Oh.” A pause. “I was just about to look for you.”

Your stomach flips. “You were?”

His lips twitch in something that might be amusement—or maybe something softer. “Sigewinne said it would be rude if I left without congratulating you personally.”

You exhale a breathless laugh. “She’s very persistent.”

“That she is.” His gaze lingers on you, steady and unreadable. Then, softer, “You were incredible tonight.”

The warmth in his voice takes you by surprise. You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, you see not the untouchable Duke, but the man who’s been watching, waiting, just as uncertain as you are.

Maybe Sigewinne was right to meddle, after all.