#mirrorwritings

You stiffen. You dust off your clothes quickly and step out into the lantern-lit street and stop dead.

A man stands there.

Not just a man.

The tallest man you’ve ever seen: broad shoulders beneath worn armor, scarred forearms, hair tousled from the late-night wind. His presence is so solid, so warm, it fills the entire street before he even speaks.

From the stories, he must be the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius.

You do not let yourself panic. You also do not let him near your cats.

Before you can overthink it, you straighten up. “Grand Master. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

His expression brightens with amused surprise.

“No need to be so formal with me. Just Varka.” He crosses his arms loosely, a grin tugging at his mouth. “What’re you doing out here this late?”

Your spine stiffens instinctively. “Just… taking an evening walk. Mondstadt is the city of freedom, isn’t it?”

“Woah, easy there.” His grin widens, delighted rather than offended. “Just making conversation.”

You’re sure he means no harm, but the idea of him discovering your cats and forcing you to move them makes your stomach twist.

“I have insomnia,” you say quickly. “I wander around at night.”

He tilts his head, unconvinced and amused in equal measure.

“You know, you can’t fool me. Unless you’re hissing on a regular basis, you’ve got cats somewhere.”

“Hissing can be healthy,” you counter. “If used properly and without the intent to harm.”

Varka blinks. Then he laughs. A low, warm sound that does terrible things to your ability to think.

“…I see.” He studies you with a new kind of interest. “Didn’t expect that answer.”

You cross your arms. “With all due respect, don’t you have better things to do?”

He looks around the quiet street, then back at you. “Not really, no. Just came from Angel’s Share. Was heading to sleep.”

His expression softens, voice dropping into something warm and sincere.

“But I protect this city. Don’t like people wandering alone at night, no matter how safe it seems. Alright?”

“Mm.” You click your tongue. Then nod slowly. “I see what this is about now. Not chivalry… though it’s appreciated.”

You narrow your eyes. “You want to see the cats.”

Varka‘s grin breaks wide open. “Yeah. I do. Please?”

Somehow, it’s endearing. This mountain of a man asking like you’re the one granting him a favor.

“They’re a little feisty,” you warn.

“Even better.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “They’ll love me.”

“You’re not giving up, are you? There are cats everywhere. Why don’t you go admire someone else’s?”

He laughs, a sound that fills the alley. “You fuss over them so much. Now I want to meet them.”

A meow echoes from your shelter.

You sigh. “…Great. Now they noticed you. Your laughter’s too loud.”

“I’m a loud man.” He shrugs, still grinning. “But I can be very calm, if I need to be. People say I’ve got a soothing aura.”

“Uh-huh.”

He puts a hand to his chest in playful offense, then gives you a long, assessing look like he’s piecing something together.

“C’mon. I’ll behave.”

Against your better judgment—and because your cats already know he’s here—you lead him to the shelter.

“Cozy,” he mutters, crouching beside you. “Could use some work, though. I’ve got ideas.”

“You’re very invested,” you deadpan.

“Mhm.” He offers his hand to the ginger kitten, his voice going unexpectedly soft. “I always wanted to adopt cats.”

That… does something to you. “Are you always this chatty?”

“Yeah, usually.” He glances up at you, eyes warm. “Why? You like it?”

You look away. “We’ll see about that.”

But the truth is already obvious.

One of the cats crawls onto his arm and starts licking him. You choke on a laugh.

“Got names for them yet?” Varka asks.

“Kinda,” you say too quickly.

He smirks. “Thought so. C’mon. Tell me. I can keep a secret if it’s part of some sacred cat oath.”

“With the cats?”

“Yeah. You seem the type to talk to them constantly.” He watches the way your mouth twitches. “That’s a compliment.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course you have opinions about cat names.”

“Oh, I have more than opinions.” He leans in conspiratorially. “I have suggestions.”

Your heart does something unhelpful.

You gesture toward the black-and-white one curled in a box. “That’s Pepper.”

Varka hums, nodding as if evaluating the name on some internal scale of worthiness.

“Strong choice. Looks like a Pepper.”

The ginger one paws at his sleeve. “And that one’s Bristle.”

He grins. “Very accurate. Fiery little knight.”

You hesitate before adding, “The third one… doesn’t have a name yet.”

Varka’s head snaps up so fast it makes you blink. “No name?” he repeats, like you’ve just revealed a sacred vacancy.

He looks between you and the tiny grey kitten curled against your ankle. Then, softer, hopeful: “…Are you letting me?”

Your heart stutters. His voice dropped. Gentle in a way you didn’t expect from a man who looks like he could bench-press a beast.

You shrug, casual, though you definitely did this on purpose. “Maybe. If you don’t pick something ridiculous.”

He places a hand dramatically over his heart. “I take this honor very seriously.”

He studies the kitten with the focus of someone naming a knight, not a stray.

The kitten stretches, bonks its tiny head against his massive palm, and immediately begins purring.

Varka’s expression softens. Melts, even. “…Whisper,” he says.

You blink. “Whisper?”

He nods, suddenly shy in a way you wouldn’t have thought possible for a man this enormous.

“She’s quiet. Watches before she acts. Careful little thing.”

Your lips curve. “Whisper it is.”

If Varka were any happier, the street lamps would probably brighten in solidarity.

He clears his throat like he needs to steady himself. “So. You’re new to Mondstadt.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Everything about you says you’re not from around here.”

His eyes flick over your posture, your shoes, your careful way of speaking. He doesn’t judge, just notices.

You fall into an easy conversation for a while. You tell him about the cats, mostly, about where you‘re staying at the moment, and he listens and makes commentary. Gives you some info about the city, always with that grin.

Then he pauses, just looking at you. “You exploring? Passing through? Or planning to stay a while?”

You look down at the cats, then back at him. “Not sure yet. Maybe I’ll tell you next time.”

A slow, pleased smile spreads across his face. “Counting on it.”

He rises to his full height, the alley shrinking around him again. “You need a permanent place, though,” he says lightly. “Something safe. For the cats.”

His eyes catch yours. Warm. Intent. “I’ll keep an ear out.”

You open your mouth to protest—he’s the Grand Master, for Archon’s sake—but he’s already crouching again to give Whisper a final chin rub.

“Get home safe,” he says, stepping back. “And don’t wander alone at night, yeah?”

“Why?” you tease. “You going to scold me again?”

He grins. “No. I’ll just show up again.”

And with that, he disappears around the corner, leaving you in the alley with three cats, a racing heartbeat, and the distinct sense that Mondstadt just became more complicated than you planned.

— ✦ —

You don’t plan to run into him again.

And yet.

Three nights later, Varka appears with a basket slung under one arm.

“For the cats,” he says, like this is a completely normal thing for the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius to be doing at midnight.

The basket is full of fish.

Pepper takes one sniff and hisses with pure excitement.

Varka beams like he’s just negotiated a major treaty. “Knew she’d love it.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“Wanted to.” He crouches down, already offering Bristle a piece. “Besides, I was in the area.”

You raise an eyebrow. “At night. In this specific alley.”

“Patrol route,” he says, far too quickly.

You don’t believe him for a second.

(He comes back the next night too.)

It becomes a pattern.

Not every night—but often enough that the cats start looking for him. Often enough that you stop being surprised when his footsteps echo down the alley.

Often enough that you start… expecting it.

You call him “Varka” now without hesitation.

Not Grand Master. Not sir. Just… Varka.

He pretends it doesn’t affect him.

(It does.)

You notice the way his expression shifts every time you say it, something warm and pleased flickering across his face before he schools it back to neutral.

You notice, and you don’t stop saying it.

One evening, Whisper bypasses you entirely and scrambles straight up his arm to perch on his shoulder.

Varka goes very still, like he’s afraid to move and dislodge her.

“She picked her favorite,” he announces, voice soft with wonder.

“You bribed her,” you point out.

“Effective leadership.” He grins, then very carefully reaches up to scratch under her chin. Whisper purrs so loudly you can hear it from three feet away.

Something warm and unhelpful settles in your chest.

Days slip by like this. Quiet moments. Soft shifts.

By the second week, you’ve stopped pretending this isn’t happening.

“You know,” you mutter one evening, speaking more to Bristle than anyone, “he’s very persistent.”

Varka, who’s crouched two feet away coaxing Pepper out of a box, perks up immediately.

“See? I knew you made oaths with them.”

“Not oaths.”

“Guidelines, then. Sacred cat agreements.”

“Varka, stop listening to my private conversations.”

“Can’t.” He doesn’t even look sorry. “Too charming.”

You try to glare at him.

It doesn’t work.

(It never works.)

Sometimes you catch him watching you.

Not your face—your hands. The way you move around the cats. How gentle you are when Pepper gets skittish, how patient when Bristle refuses to settle, how soft your voice goes when Whisper curls into your lap.

Each time, his expression does something you don’t quite know how to name.

Soft. Like he’s cataloging every detail and filing it away somewhere important.

Once, you look up too quickly and catch him mid-stare.

He doesn’t look away.

Just smiles—small and wondering and entirely too warm—and says, “You’re good with them.”

“They’re cats,” you manage. “Not exactly difficult.”

“Still.” His voice drops, goes quieter. “It’s nice. Watching you care about something.”

You look away first.

One evening, the conversation shifts.

“How’s the apartment search going?” Varka asks while refilling Pepper’s water bowl.

“About as well as you’d expect.” You sigh. “Mondstadt’s apparently full.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Lot of people moving in lately. I’ve been asking around though—there might be something opening up soon.”

You blink. “You’ve been asking?”

“Told you I’d keep an ear out.” He glances over, slightly amused. “Though apparently I’ve asked enough people that rumors are starting. Kaeya asked if I was setting up a secret hide out.”

You snort. “What did you tell him?”

“That I’m helping a friend.” His eyes are warm. “He didn’t believe me for a second.”

“And what does he think?”

Varka’s ears go slightly pink. “Nothing worth repeating.”

One evening, when Varka shows up at the usual time, you’re hyperaware of every look, every smile, every time his hand lingers near yours.

“You alright?” he asks, noticing your distraction.

“Fine,” you lie. “Just… long day at work.”

You’d found a job at one of the shops. Nothing glamorous, but steady. Enough to pay for the temporary room and save a little. Enough to prove you could stay in Mondstadt if you wanted to.

If you wanted to.

You’re starting to think you do.

He doesn’t push. Just settles beside you, close enough that his warmth reaches you, and starts telling Pepper about his day like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

A shopkeeper stops you in the plaza one afternoon.

“Excuse me—are you the one the Grand Master’s been visiting every night?”

You choke on air.

Behind you, Varka—who’d been trailing at a polite distance like he just happened to be walking the same direction—immediately becomes very interested in a basket of apples.

“I don’t—we’re not—it’s just—” You flounder.

The shopkeeper grins knowingly. “He talks about you, you know. And the cats.”

“He what—”

“Good man.”

She’s gone before you can form a coherent response.

Varka is still examining apples with the focus of someone who absolutely heard every word and is choosing violence by pretending he didn’t.

“Varka.”

“Mm?”

“Did you tell half of Mondstadt about the cats?”

“Only the relevant half.” He finally looks at you, grin unrepentant. “They were curious why I kept disappearing at night.”

“And you thought the truth was a good idea?”

“Better than letting them think I was up to something suspicious.” He shifts the apple basket to one arm. “Besides. I’m proud of those cats. Why wouldn’t I talk about them?”

The way he says those cats does something to your chest you refuse to examine. Like they’re his too. Like he has any claim to them beyond showing up uninvited with fish.

You feel warm.

And then you notice something wrong.

He’s favoring his right shoulder.

It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t catch it. But you’ve been watching him for weeks now (not that you’d admit it), and you see the way he rolls it slightly when he thinks no one’s looking, the careful way he moves when reaching for things.

That evening, when he shows up at the alley, you’re ready.

“Here,” you say, holding out a small jar.

He blinks. “What’s this?”

“Salve. For your shoulder.”

Surprise flickers across his face before he schools it. “How did you—”

“You keep rolling it.” You shrug, trying to seem casual even though your heart is beating too fast. “Figured you pulled something during training or… whatever it is Grand Masters do.”

He stares at the jar like you’ve handed him something precious.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” You press it into his hand before you can overthink it. “But you’re always taking care of everyone else. Someone should take care of you too.”

The words hang in the air between you.

Varka goes very still, his fingers closing carefully around the jar.

When he looks up, something in his expression has shifted—softened and intensified at the same time.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You clear your throat, suddenly flustered. “It’s just salve. Don’t make it weird.”

His laugh is soft, a little rough. “Too late.”

He tucks the jar away and the way he looks at you makes your breath catch.

Like you’ve given him something he didn’t know he needed.

You mention, casually, that the nights are getting colder and the cats could use better blankets.

The next evening, Varka arrives carrying three.

Thick ones. Wool. Probably expensive.

“These were lying around in the storage,” he says, far too innocently.

You raise an eyebrow. “And they just let you take whatever you want from storage?”

“They will. I can be very convincing,” he says, completely sincere.

You don’t even argue. Just take the blankets and watch him arrange them carefully in the shelter, adjusting corners with the same focus he probably uses for military strategy.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” you say quietly.

“Worth it.” He doesn’t look up. “They need to be warm.”

A couple of weeks ago, you were hiding cats in an alley.

Now the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius is stealing blankets for them.

You’re not sure when your life became this strange.

(You’re not sure when you stopped minding.)

— ✦ —

One evening, the rain begins just as you’re finishing up with the cats. Soft at first, then steady enough that you glance up at the sky and sigh.

Varka, who’d shown up twenty minutes ago with “extra fish, just in case,” follows your gaze.

“Come on.” He straightens, brushing cat fur off his pants. “Angel’s Share is right there. I’ll buy you a drink.”

It’s not a question.

But the way he looks at you makes it feel like one anyway.

You should say no.

You should go home, draw a line, remember that he’s the Grand Master and you’re just someone passing through Mondstadt with three stray cats and no permanent address.

But the rain is picking up, and he’s looking at you like spending more time together is something he actually wants, and—

“Alright,” you hear yourself say. “One drink.”

His smile could light up the whole plaza.

“One drink,” he agrees.

(You both know it won’t be just that.)

He’s already holding the door open for you, warm lamplight spilling out behind him.

Inside, the tavern is nearly empty.

Varka scans the room once, decides immediately, then places a guiding hand near your back. Not touching, but close enough you feel the warmth.

“Upstairs,” he says with a little grin. “Quieter there.”

You follow him up the wooden steps to a table overlooking the main floor.

He gestures for you to sit.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab the drinks.”

Before you can protest, he’s already gone.

A moment later, he returns with two glasses and sets one gently in front of you.

“It’s something light,” he says. “Figured you might want to keep a clear head.”

You blink. The consideration isn’t surprising coming from him, but it’s unfamiliar to you. And it warms something in your chest.

He settles into the seat across from you, forearms braced on the table. His size makes the corner nook feel smaller, more intimate.

“So,” Varka says, softer now. “Tell me why you came to Mondstadt.”

You take a slow breath. You hadn’t planned to tell him this. But something about the quiet space, the warm wood, the light on his face makes all speaking easier.

“I’m from Fontaine,” you begin. “Born there. Raised there. My family’s… well-off.”

Varka doesn’t react with judgment. He simply listens, steady and open. “But I never fit,” you continue. “All those expectations. Parties. Perfect etiquette. Being graceful and charming in all the ‘right’ circles. It felt like wearing someone else’s life.”

His brow softens.

“So,” you shrug, “I left. Traveled a while. Tried to figure out who I actually am without all the noise.”

“And that brought you here?” Varka asks quietly.

“Yeah. Mondstadt was meant to be temporary.” You look out the window, at the rain streaking down the glass. “But it feels easier to breathe here. More honest.”

When you look back, Varka is watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher. Gentle, contemplative, warmed by something he hasn’t named.

“Thinking about staying, then?” he asks, and there’s something careful in his voice. Like your answer matters more than he wants to admit.

“Maybe,” you say. “I’m not sure yet.”

His expression does something complicated. Hope and patience warring in his eyes.

“Actually,” he says, expression brightening slightly, “I might have a lead. One of the knights mentioned a place near the plaza. Landlord’s reasonable, apparently. Not confirmed yet, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll know more in a few days.”

Something in your chest eases. The uncertainty you’d been carrying about where you’d live, whether you’d have to leave Mondstadt, whether the cats would have a real home.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For caring about that. About… all of us.”

His expression softens. “Of course I care.”

The words settle between you, weighted with something neither of you quite names.

He takes a sip of his drink, and when he speaks again, his voice is thoughtful.

“You know,” he begins, “people like to pretend paths are straight lines. That you’re supposed to follow one clear direction, beginning to end.” He huffs a breath. “My life cured me of that notion eventually.”

“Oh?” you ask, leaning in.

“Yeah.” He taps a finger lightly on the table. “Spent years trying to become the hero. The symbol. The one who charges in first and gets all the glory.”

A soft laugh. “Turns out, that wasn’t me. Never was.”

You blink. “Really?”

“Really.” His voice goes low, almost thoughtful. “Glory’s loud. But real importance?” He shakes his head. “That’s quieter. More grounded. Protecting people. Showing up. Making a place safer. Kinder. That matters more to me than any legend.”

It matches him. Perfectly.

“So,” he finishes, tilting his head, “if you strayed from the path life laid out for you? Good. Sometimes the wandering is the only part that actually belongs to you.”

His gaze lingers a second too long. Your pulse trips.

You weren’t expecting this. Not from someone who looks like he could wrestle a Lawachurl and win. Not from the Grand Master who everyone in Mondstadt seems to revere.

But he’s looking at you like he understands exactly what it means to walk away from a destiny someone else chose. Like he’s done it himself.

“That’s…” You swallow. “That’s exactly it. I couldn’t have said it better.”

Something shifts in his expression. Warmth, recognition, something deeper.

“Then you’re on the right path,” he says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

The moment stretches between you.

You clear your throat, needing to lighten the weight before it pulls you under.

“You’re very philosophical for someone who was interrogating me about hissing before.”

He lets out an unrestrained laugh. Deep and warm.

“I stand by it,” Varka says. “Still a reasonable question.”

“It’s really not.”

He shifts closer. Not much, but enough that the warmth of him reaches across the table.

The conversation flows easily after that. Easier than it has any right to, considering you’ve known him less than a month.

You tell him about Fontaine. Not the practiced version you give strangers, but the truth: the suffocating expectations, the parties where you felt like someone on display, the moment you realized you’d rather have nothing than live someone else’s life.

He listens like every word matters. Asks questions that show he’s not just being polite—he actually wants to understand. “What was the moment you decided to leave?” “Did anyone try to stop you?” “Do you miss any of it?”

You find yourself answering things you normally wouldn’t. Remembering details you thought you’d buried.

When you pause, suddenly self-conscious about how much you’ve shared, he just refills your glass and says, “Go on. I’m listening.”

And he is. Completely. Like nothing else in the world exists except you and this conversation.

In return, he tells you stories.

About fights—though he never boasts, always deflects credit to others. About the knights and their various mishaps. About Mondstadt and why he loves it, why he stays, why protecting it matters more to him than any glory ever could.

You listen just as intently, asking your own questions, calling him out when he’s too modest, teasing him when he gets that fond look talking about “his” knights.

When he laughs—really laughs, not just that warm chuckle—you feel it in your chest. Like the sound is burrowing under your skin and making a home there.

The tavern empties around you.

Neither of you moves to leave.

At some point, his hand ends up near yours on the table. Not touching, but close. So close you’re hyperaware of the space between your fingers, the way the light catches on his skin, the fact that closing that distance would be so easy.

You don’t.

But you think about it.

And when you glance up, you find him watching you with an expression that suggests he’s thinking about it too.

“You’re different tonight,” he notes, voice dropping into something more intimate.

You arch a brow, trying to lighten the weight of the moment. “And you’re different when you’re not sniffing around alleys trying to find cats.”

“Cats were a welcome surprise,” he says, voice dropping. “But I’m not complaining about the company either.”

The air between you shifts.

He notices your sharp inhale, and his mouth curves. “Relax,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement. “I don’t bite.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lie.

“Sure you’re not.”

He holds your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between you.

Then he glances toward the window, where the rain has softened to a gentle mist.

“Rain’s letting up,” Varka says quietly, almost reluctant to break whatever this is. “Should probably check on the cats before it starts again.”

He stands, then pauses—hand extended, waiting.

You accept without thinking. His hand engulfs yours. Warm, steady, careful.

And the walk back feels different.

Closer. Quieter. Charged with something neither of you names.

He doesn’t let go of your hand until you reach the alley.

Even then, his fingers linger for just a moment. Warm and careful and entirely too aware of what they’re doing.

When he finally releases you, the absence feels louder than it should.

— ✦ —

The next few days blur together. Varka starts finding excuses to see you outside the evening cat visits.

“Was in the area,” he says, appearing while you’re buying vegetables.

You raise an eyebrow. “The headquarters is on the other side of the city.”

“Long patrol route,” he says, entirely shameless.

He carries your bags anyway.

One afternoon, you’re reading on a bench near the cathedral when a shadow falls across your book.

You look up.

Varka stands there, two cups of tea in hand. “Thought you might want one,” he says.

You blink. “How did you know I was here?”

“Lucky guess.” But his eyes are warm, pleased he found you.

You take the tea. Your fingers brush his.

He notices. You pretend not to.

But as he settles across from you, you can’t help noticing the way the afternoon light catches in his hair, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his hands dwarf the teacup.

He’s always been large—you knew that objectively.

But sitting here in the quiet cathedral square, watching him handle the delicate cup with surprising care, you realize he’s also just… handsome.

The thought arrives unbidden and unwelcome.

You take a sip of tea to hide your face.

The next day, Varka arrives looking harried, ink stains on his fingers.

“Rough day?” you ask.

He groans, settling beside you. “Paperwork. Mountains of it.”

He makes a face. “Tomorrow's going to be worse. I'll be drowning in papers until sunset. At least.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It is.” He watches Bristle chase a leaf with clear longing. “This is much better.”

The next afternoon, you find yourself standing outside the headquarters, a basket of lunch in hand and a half-formed plan in your head.

This is probably a terrible idea.

You walk in anyway.

The entrance hall is impressive. A few knights mill about, and you suddenly feel very out of place.

“Can I help you?”

You turn to find a woman. Blonde hair, gray-blue eyes, an air of competent professionalism that's somehow both intimidating and kind.

“I'm looking for Varka,” you say. “Is he... available?”

Her expression shifts—recognition.

“You're the one with the cats,” she says. It's not a question.

Your face heats. “I—yes. How did you—”

“He talks about you.” Her smile is gentle. “I'm Jean.”

“Oh." You're suddenly very aware that you're talking to someone important while holding a lunch basket like some kind of—

“He's in his office,” Jean continues. “He's been buried in paperwork since dawn and his mood is... not good.”

“Actually,” you say before you can lose your nerve, “I was wondering if I could borrow him. Just for a bit. He mentioned being swamped today, and I thought—” You gesture vaguely with the basket. “—maybe a break would help?”

Jean's expression does something complicated. Surprised, pleased, almost relieved.

“I think that's exactly what he needs.” She glances toward his office, then back to you. “Take as long as you want. I'll handle anything urgent.”

“Are you sure? I don't want to—”

“I'm sure,” Jean says, and there's genuine warmth in her voice now. “He needs this.”

You knock on the door.

“Come in,” comes a weary voice.

You push the door open to find Varka behind a desk absolutely buried in papers. He's bent over a document, quill in hand, and he doesn't look up.

“Jean, I promise I'm working on the—”

“Not Jean.”

His head snaps up.

For a second, he just stares. Surprise and confusion and then something that looks almost like relief flooding his expression.

“What are you doing here?"

“Rescuing you.” You hold up the basket. “You said you'd be drowning in paperwork. Thought you might need sustenance. And—” You glance at the mountain of documents. “—possibly a reason to stop before you go insane.”

Varka blinks. Then he laughs. Tired but genuine. “You have no idea how tempting that sounds.”

“Then come with me.”

“I can't just—” He gestures at the desk. “There's still so much—”

“Jean said she'd cover anything urgent.” You lean against the doorframe, giving him your best challenging look. “Come on, Grand Master. When was the last time you actually took a break?”

His jaw works.

“You're trouble,” he mutters, but he's already standing, and you see the grin he's trying to hide. He clearly welcomes the distraction.

“So I've been told.”

You lead him out of headquarters, through the plaza, and then—instead of stopping at the fountain or a bench—you head toward the city walls.

“Where are we going?” Varka asks, amused suspicion creeping into his voice.

“You'll see.”

When you reach the base of the wall, you set the basket down and start climbing.

“What are you—” Varka stops dead. “Are you climbing the city wall?”

“Yep!” You're already halfway up, using the handholds in the stone. It's not difficult. The walls are old, plenty of places to grip.

“That's not—you can't just—” He sounds somewhere between alarmed and baffled. “That's not allowed!”

“Says who?” you call down.

"Says the Grand Master!”

You pause, looking down at him with a grin. “Then I guess you'll have to come arrest me.”

His expression is torn between duty and disbelief and something that looks suspiciously like he's trying not to laugh.

“I told you I came to Mondstadt for freedom,” you point out, settling onto the top of the wall and letting your legs dangle. “Can't get more free than this.”

He stares up at you for a long moment.

Then, shaking his head with a laugh that sounds almost helpless, he follows.

He makes it look effortless, of course. One smooth motion and he's beside you, settling onto the wall with considerably more grace than you managed.

“You're going to give me a heart attack,” he says, but he's smiling now. Really smiling.

“Someone has to keep you on your toes.” You open the basket, handing him bread and cheese. “You were drowning in bureaucracy. Figured you needed reminding that there's a world outside that office.”

“By making me climb the city wall.”

“Exactly.”

He takes a bite, and for a moment you both just sit there, legs dangling over Mondstadt, the breeze carrying the scent of flowers from the meadow below.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I... needed this. More than I realized.”

“I know.” You bump your shoulder against his. “You get this look when you're buried in work.”

He glances over, something complicated in his expression. “You really do notice things, don't you?”

Before you can react, he reaches out and ruffles your hair. Playful, warm, entirely unexpected.

“Hey!” You swat at his hand, laughing.

“What?” His grin is unrepentant. “You caught me off-guard with the wall climbing. Fair's fair.”

“That's not—that's completely different!”

“Is it?” He's leaning closer now, eyes bright with mischief. “You surprised me. I surprised you. Seems even to me.”

Your heart is thumping in your chest.

You're very aware of how close he is. How his hand is still in your hair. How easy it would be to lean in, to close that distance, to—

He seems to realize the same thing.

His expression shifts, the playfulness fading into something more intense, more aware.

For a breathless moment, neither of you moves.

Then he clears his throat, hand dropping, putting a careful few inches between you.

“We should probably eat,” he says, voice slightly rougher than usual.

“Right. Yes. Food.”

But you're both very aware that something just shifted.

— ✦ —

Two days pass without seeing Varka.

It’s not unusual—he’s the Grand Master, he has responsibilities. But you’ve gotten used to his presence in the evenings, the sound of his footsteps in the alley, the way Whisper perks up when she hears him coming.

The cats notice his absence too. Bristle keeps looking toward the alley entrance. Pepper seems restless.

On the third evening, he finally appears.

And everything in you goes still.

He's different.

There's no blood, no visible damage. His armor is intact, his posture upright as ever. To anyone else, he'd look fine.

But you've spent weeks watching him. Learning the easy warmth of his presence, the way he fills a space with calm.

This isn't that.

This is contained. Tightly controlled. Like he's holding something back with sheer force of will.

The air around him feels heavy. Like the atmosphere before a storm, all potential energy and barely-leashed power.

The cats notice too. Pepper's ears flatten slightly. Bristle stops mid-exploration, watchful.

Only Whisper approaches, cautious but trusting.

“There you are,” you say, keeping your tone light despite the unease curling in your stomach. “Thought maybe you'd gotten bored of us.”

“Never.” His voice is normal. Warm. Steady. But when he crouches beside you to greet the cats, you see it.

The careful precision in every movement.

The tension in his shoulders.

The tightness around his eyes, around his mouth.

The way his hands are just slightly less gentle than usual. Not rough, but effortful.

This is what strength looks like when it's been tested. When it's held too much for too long and is barely holding together.

“Extended patrols,” he says, running his hand over Whisper's head. “Situation outside the city.”

“Everything okay?”

“All handled.” That practiced smile again. “We were victorious. No casualties.”

Most people would accept this. The mission succeeded, the Grand Master is fine, that’s all that matters.

You’re not most people.

You watch him settle beside you, the way he rolls his shoulder slightly when he thinks you’re not looking, the careful control in every movement.

“What’s it like?” you ask quietly.

He glances over. “What’s what like?”

“Leading people into danger. Fighting the way you do.”

Something flickers in his expression. Surprise, maybe, or something more guarded.

“Why?” He recovers with that easy grin. “Want to see me train sometime?”

The image arrives unbidden. Him in the training grounds, armor off, shirt clinging to his frame, that focused intensity you’ve glimpsed turned toward combat instead of cats—

Your face heats. “I—sure—but that’s not—” You catch yourself, narrow your eyes. “Hey. Don’t try to change the topic.”

His smile falters slightly. “Wasn’t trying to—”

“Yes, you were.” You turn to face him fully. “You do that. When something’s uncomfortable, you deflect with humor or change the subject. I’ve noticed.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far.

Then he exhales slowly, and something in his posture shifts. Not quite sagging, but releasing something he’s been holding.

“Nobody really asks that,” he says finally, voice quieter than usual. “About what it’s like. They ask if we won. If I’m injured. If the city’s safe. But not…” He gestures vaguely. “Not what it feels like.”

You wait, giving him space.

“It can be straining,” he admits. “Every decision could mean someone doesn’t come home. Every plan I make, I’m weighing lives. And when we win—when everyone makes it back—I’m supposed to celebrate. Be the confident leader who never doubted.”

He looks down at his hands. “But sometimes I’m just… tired.”

Your chest aches.

This man who carries so much, and nobody asks if he’s okay because he’s always okay, he has to be okay, he’s the Grand Master—

“Come on,” you say, standing abruptly.

He blinks up at you. “What?”

“We’re going for a walk.”

“It’s late—”

“I know what time it is.” You’re already gathering the cats’ leads.

“With the cats?”

All three cats immediately perk up, meowing and purring as if in agreement.

You give him a pointed look. “You have your answer.”

He stares at the cats, then at you, then back at the cats.

“Well,” he says, a hint of genuine amusement creeping into his voice, “my four companions have decided. Who am I to argue?”

The streets of Mondstadt are quiet at this hour, just the soft glow of lanterns and the distant sound of the tavern.

You walk side by side, the cats exploring ahead on their leads. Whisper stays close to Varka’s heels. Loyal little thing.

“Thank you,” he says after a while. “For asking. For… this.”

“You don’t have to thank me for basic decency.”

“Still.” He looks at you, something complicated in his expression.

You stop walking. The cats pause too, sensing the shift.

Before you can overthink it, you step closer and wrap your arms around him.

He goes rigid—just for a second—before his arms come up slowly. Carefully.

“You’re a good person, Varka,” you murmur against his chest. “Not just a good leader. You’re… genuinely good. Kind. Thoughtful. The kind of person who remembers which cat likes which blanket and asks the right questions and notices things without someone mentioning them.”

You feel him exhale, long and slow, some of the tension draining from his frame.

“The kind of person people look up to,” you continue, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “Not because you’re strong or victorious or never make mistakes. But because you care. That’s why they follow you. Why they trust you.”

His eyes are very bright in the lamplight. “I don’t…” His voice is rough. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

He laughs—surprised and a little unsteady. “You’re extraordinary, you know that?”

“Why, because I give hugs?”

“Because you see things.” His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “You ask the questions nobody else asks. You notice things nobody else notices.”

The moment feels suspended, fragile.

“I admire that about you,” you say quietly. “You’re good at helping people, but you’re also good at knowing people. Seeing what they need. Being what they need.”

You hesitate, then add, “I wasn’t always… good at that. Knowing who to trust. I got hurt once—someone I cared about got hurt because I trusted the wrong people. Made the wrong call.”

His expression shifts. Understanding, protectiveness, something deeper.

“It made me careful,” you continue. “Maybe too careful. But you…” You meet his eyes. “You’re not like them.”

“Hey,” he says softly, both hands framing your face now. “Whatever happened before—that wasn’t your fault. You can’t control what other people choose to do.”

“I know. But it still—”

Bristle headbutts his leg aggressively, meowing with impressive volume.

You both startle, then laugh.

“I think someone’s jealous of the attention,” Varka says, crouching to give Bristle the pets she’s demanding.

“Or hungry,” you point out.

“Always a possibility with this one.” But he’s smiling. Something warm and genuine and entirely for you.

Pepper joins in the demand for attention. Then Whisper. Within seconds you’re both surrounded by insistent cats.

“Alright, alright,” Varka concedes, standing. “My four companions have spoken again. We should head back.”

The walk back is lighter somehow. His shoulders aren’t quite so tense. Your own chest feels less tight.

When you reach the alley, he helps you settle the cats before turning to leave. “Varka?”

He looks back.

“I mean it. What I said. You’re… you’re really good. Don’t forget that.”

Something in his expression goes very soft. “Coming from you,” he says quietly, “that means more than you know.”

And then he’s gone, but the warmth in your chest stays.

Behind you, Whisper purrs contentedly. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.”

— ✦ —

The next evening, when Varka shows up at the usual time, you’re hyperaware of every look, every smile, every time his hand lingers near yours.

“You alright?” he asks, noticing your distraction.

“Fine,” you lie.

He doesn’t push. Just settles beside you, close enough that his warmth reaches you, and starts telling Pepper about his day like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You watch him. This enormous man baby-talking to a cat—and something in your chest aches.

Don’t, you tell yourself. Don’t get attached. You’re leaving eventually. This isn’t permanent.

But it’s getting harder to remember why you would do that.

Varka brings you a scarf one day after.

“Nights are getting colder,” he says, wrapping it around your neck before you can protest.

His fingers linger at your collar. You can feel his breath, warm against your temple.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You’re acutely aware of everything—the calluses on his fingertips, the warmth radiating from him, how close his mouth is to your forehead. How easy it would be to tilt your head up, to—

Then Bristle meows, breaking the spell, and you both step back too quickly.

“Thank you,” you manage.

“Anytime.” His voice is rougher than usual.

You don’t take the scarf off, even after he leaves.

It smells like him.

Two days later, you notice his gloves are worn through at the fingertips.

You don’t say anything. Just buy a new pair and leave them at the Knights of Favonius headquarters with a note:

For patrols. Don’t argue.

That evening, when he shows up at the alley, he’s wearing them. “You know,” Varka says, crouching beside you, flexing his fingers in the new gloves, “you’re making it very hard to be the one who takes care of you.”

“Good.” You don’t look at him. “You do too much for everyone else anyway.”

“And you don’t do enough for yourself.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

He laughs. Surprised and delighted and entirely too warm. “Fair point.”

When you finally glance over, he’s looking at the gloves like they’re armor blessed by the Archons.

“They fit perfectly,” he says quietly.

You watch his hands as he flexes his fingers again.

You’ve seen those hands gentle with kittens, steady when holding them, and suddenly you’re thinking about them in contexts you absolutely should not be thinking about.

“I know your size.” The words slip out before you can stop them.

His eyes snap to yours, something intense flickering in them. “Do you?”

“I pay attention,” you manage.

“Yeah,” he says softly, voice rough. “I’ve noticed.”

Neither of you looks away.

Pepper headbutts your leg, demanding food, and the moment shatters.

But Varka doesn’t take the gloves off for the rest of the night.

And you notice.

One evening, Varka arrives earlier than usual, and there’s something different in his expression.

“I found a place,” he says without preamble.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“An apartment. Two rooms, near the plaza. I talked to the landlord about the cats. He’s fine with it.”

Your heart does something complicated.

You’ve been looking for weeks. Every place either doesn’t allow animals, costs too much, or the landlords take one look at you—a newcomer with no references—and politely decline.

You were starting to think you’d be in that cramped temporary room forever.

“Is it… expensive?”

“Affordable.” He names a price that makes your shoulders drop with relief. “And the landlord’s flexible. As long as you take care of the place, he’s not picky.”

“Varka…” Your voice catches, but his gaze tells you that words aren't needed.

“Want to see it?” he asks gently. “No pressure. But I think you’d like it.”

The next day, he takes you to see it.

It’s perfect.

Small, yes. The floors creak and the kitchen is barely big enough for two people. But the windows are tall, the light is good, and when you mention the cats, Varka points to the corner near the hearth.

“Perfect spot for them,” he says. “Warm. Safe.”

You stand in the middle of the empty apartment and feel something shift in your chest.

A permanent place.

In Mondstadt.

“I’ll take it,” you hear yourself say.

Varka’s smile could light up the entire city.

“The place will be ready in about two weeks,” he says. “Landlord needs to do some minor repairs first—fix a few floorboards, check the window latches, that sort of thing. But it’s yours after that.”

Two weeks. A permanent place in two weeks.

It feels both impossibly far away and remarkably close.

“I’ll help you move,” Varka says, like it’s obvious. Like there was never any question.

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know.” His eyes are warm. “But I want to. Besides, those cats aren’t going to move themselves.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Pretty sure Bristle would try.”

“Exactly why you need supervision.” Varka’s grinning now. “Can’t have her directing the whole operation.”

“You know he likes you, right?” Sara asks one day when you’re picking up food.

“Who?”

She gives you a look. “The Grand Master. Varka. The man who rearranged his entire schedule to ‘accidentally’ run into you.”

“He hasn’t—we’re not—”

“He looks at you,” she interrupts gently, “like you’re the best thing that’s happened to Mondstadt in years.”

Your throat tightens.

“He’s just… kind. That’s how he is with everyone.”

“No,” she says simply. “It’s not.”

That night, Varka shows up early.

You’re still arranging the shelter when his footsteps echo down the alley.

“You’re here early,” you say, not looking up.

“Finished work early.” He crouches beside you. “Thought I’d help.”

You hand him a bowl of food without comment.

His fingers brush yours as he takes it.

This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately.

Neither do you.

When Varka arrives the next evening, you notice immediately.

The careful way he sits. The slight tightness around his eyes. The way he’s holding himself just a fraction too still.

“Long day?” you ask quietly.

“Just the usual.” But his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You don’t push. Just shift slightly closer, your shoulder brushing his.

It’s a small thing. Barely noticeable.

But you feel him exhale—long and slow—some of the tension leaving his frame.

His eyes drop to where you’re touching, then to your face. The look there is complicated. Warm and wanting and carefully controlled.

“This helps,” Varka says, voice rougher than usual.

You’re suddenly very aware of the warmth of him, the solid presence at your side, the fact that you’re close enough to feel his breathing.

“What does?”

“This. Being here. With you.”

Your heart stumbles.

He’s not looking at you—he’s watching Whisper play with a piece of string—but his voice is too honest, too open.

“Here it’s just quiet. Just the cats. Just us. That's enough.”

He finally looks at you.

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but sit there with your shoulder pressed to his, feeling the warmth of him, the weight of what he’s not quite saying.

“You don’t have to be ‘on’ all the time,” you say softly. “Not with me.”

Something in his expression cracks open.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I keep coming back.”

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he adds after a moment.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

About how I’m falling for you.

“Nothing important,” you say instead.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, he asks: “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

You finally look at him.

“Of course,” you lie, panic taking over.

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows it’s not true.

But he doesn’t push.

He never pushes.

Two days later, the rain comes.

Heavy and cold and relentless.

You stay with the cats longer than you should, making sure their shelter is secure, that they’re warm and dry.

By the time you finish, you’re soaked through.

Varka didn’t come tonight. Some emergency at the headquarters, probably.

You tell yourself you’re not disappointed.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. Less complicated, less dangerous, less likely to end with your heart in pieces when you eventually leave Mondstadt.

You tell yourself a lot of things as you walk home in the rain, shivering, already feeling the first warning signs of a fever settling into your bones.

— ✦ —

The next morning, Whisper doesn’t come out of the shelter. When you coax her into your hands, her tiny body feels too warm, her breathing small and uneven.

Your stomach drops.

You bundle her gently into your cloak and go looking for help.

But halfway across the square, the world swims.

You blink hard, but the plaza keeps tilting.

When did the sun get so bright? When did your legs get so heavy?

Right. You didn’t sleep much. Didn’t eat much. Didn’t think about the rain soaking you through last night, or how your throat’s been raw since morning, or how you can’t seem to get warm no matter how many layers you put on.

You take another step—

And sway.

A large hand steadies your shoulder instantly.

“Easy,” comes a familiar voice. “You okay?”

You look up.

Of course he’s here.

Varka is always exactly where he shouldn’t be, and exactly where you need him.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

His eyes flick down to Whisper, then to your unsteady posture.

“You’re not,” he says quietly.

“I’m just tired.”

“And feverish.” His gaze sharpens. “And trying to walk across the plaza with a sick kitten instead of asking for help.”

Your jaw tenses. “Whisper needs a healer. That’s all.”

“So do you.”

You stiffen, ready to protest, but your legs choose that moment to wobble again.

His hands catch your elbows, steady and warm. Stronger than they have any right to be.

“Sit,” he says gently but firmly. “Now. Before you fall.”

You bristle, instinctively defensive. “I don’t need—”

“Yes.” His voice is low, steady, and utterly unmovable. “You do.”

Your breath stutters. He lowers you onto a bench against the fountain wall. Carefully, like you’ll topple if he moves too fast.

Then he crouches, eye-level now, looking between you and the trembling kitten in your arms.

“What happened?”

“Whisper’s… warm. She’s not eating. And I—” Your voice cracks. “I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

His expression is impossible to read. Something between soft worry and something deeper, tighter.

“You don’t bother me,” he says quietly. “Not ever.”

Your breath catches.

He stands, shrugs off his cloak, and drapes it around your shoulders before you can stop him.

The weight of it settles over you, still warm from his body. Too intimate. Too caring. Too much like something you don’t deserve.

“Varka—”

“You’re shivering,” he says. “Let me help.”

You look down at Whisper again, guilt and fear twisting in your chest.

“I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve—”

“No.” His voice is suddenly firm, almost rough. “Stop that.”

You blink up at him.

“This isn’t your fault,” he continues. “Animals get sick. Weather changes. You’re doing everything right.”

You swallow hard.

He meets your eyes, steady and unflinching.

“And you don’t have to do it alone.”

You look away, throat tight. “I don’t want to rely on you for everything.”

His jaw flexes. Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, yes, but underneath it, something that looks almost like hurt.

“I don’t want you relying on me for everything,” he says slowly, voice tight with something he’s trying to control. “But I do want you to let me help when you’re sick and trying to carry a sick kitten across the plaza alone because you’re too stubborn to ask.”

He takes a breath, steadying himself. “I want to be here for this. Don’t you get that?”

Your breath hitches.

There it is—the edge of frustration.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

He exhales sharply, like the words hit him somewhere deep.

“You’re not,” he says, voice low and earnest. “Not to me.”

Before you can reply, Whisper stirs weakly.

Varka straightens immediately. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get both of you taken care of.”

And when you hesitate—because of course you hesitate, because accepting help feels like admitting defeat, like proving you can’t do this alone—

He waits. Hand extended. Patient. Unmovable.

Like he’ll stand there all day if that’s what it takes.

Whisper mewls softly in your arms, and the sound breaks something in you.

You take his hand.

His fingers close around yours, and he pulls you to your feet gently.

“There,” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You don’t answer.

Can’t.

Because his hand is still holding yours, and you’re wearing his cloak that smells like him, and Whisper is tucked against your chest, and Varka is looking at you like—

Like you matter.

Like this matters.

And you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend it doesn’t.

— ✦ —

The next days pass in a blur of recovery and quiet anticipation.

Whisper bounces back quickly. Within days she’s climbing and exploring like nothing happened.

You take longer, but Varka checks on you daily. Brings soup. Insists you rest. Threatens to carry you back to bed when he catches you trying to organize your belongings too early.

“The apartment isn’t going anywhere,” he says firmly. “Neither am I.”

You stop arguing after that.

By the time moving day arrives, you’re mostly recovered and entirely out of excuses to avoid the flutter of nerves in your chest.

This is really happening.

A permanent place. In Mondstadt.

With Varka helping you settle into it.

You’re halfway through carrying a box up the stairs when Varka appears in the doorway, arms already reaching.

“I can carry my own things,” you protest.

“I know.” He takes the box anyway. “But I’m here, so you don’t have to.”

By the time the sun sets, your belongings are inside and Varka is helping arrange furniture like he’s done this a hundred times.

“The desk should go near the window,” he suggests. “Better light for reading.”

You both move to shift it, and suddenly you’re in close quarters. His arm brushing yours, his chest nearly against your back as you navigate the narrow space.

He smells like wind and leather and something warmer you can’t name.

“Careful,” he murmurs, hand steadying your waist as you nearly trip.

The touch is brief, practical, completely innocent.

Your heart races anyway.

You blink. “How did you know I like to read by windows?”

He pauses, a slight flush creeping up his neck. “You always sit by them. In the tavern, the plaza, the cathedral steps…”

He’s been noticing. Cataloging. Remembering.

“Varka,” you say quietly.

He looks up from the table he’s positioning.

“Thank you. For… all of this. The place, the help, just…” You gesture vaguely. “Everything.”

Something softens in his expression. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I want to.”

The air between you thickens.

He’s standing in your home. Your space. Somewhere private and personal and entirely yours.

Except you invited him in, and he came, and now he’s here, in your kitchen, with dust on his shirt and warmth in his eyes, and it feels significant in a way you can’t quite name.

“The cats should go here,” Varka says finally, breaking the moment. He gestures to the corner near the hearth. “Warm. Out of the way. Safe.”

Of course he’s thought about the cats.

You help him arrange blankets, set up bowls, create a little sanctuary in the corner.

When you’re done, Pepper immediately claims the softest blanket. Whisper curls beside her. Bristle explores every inch, sniffing and investigating with her usual boldness.

“They like it,” Varka says, satisfaction clear in his voice.

“They do.”

You both watch them for a moment. This small family you’ve built, this strange little life that somehow includes him now.

“I should go,” he says, though he doesn’t move. “Let you settle in.”

“You could stay,” you hear yourself say. Then, realizing how that sounds: “For tea. I mean. If you want.”

His smile is soft and entirely too warm. “I’d like that.”

You make tea in your new kitchen while he sits at your new table, and it feels domestic and comfortable and terrifying all at once. You talk for a while. And it's nice.

“First night in a new place is always strange,” he says eventually. “If you need anything—”

“I know where to find you.”

His eyes hold yours. “Yeah. You do.”

He stands, reluctant to leave. “I’ve got to meet some of the knights at Angel’s Share—strategy discussion that’ll probably run late. But I’ll be nearby if—” He stops himself, looking almost embarrassed. “Well. You know where I am.”

“Angel’s Share is close,” you point out, smiling despite yourself. “I think I can manage.”

“And if anything—”

“Varka.” You give him a look. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

He nods, though he still doesn’t look entirely convinced.

When he finally leaves, the apartment feels bigger and emptier than it should.

— ✦ —

You spend the rest of the evening unpacking.

Arranging books. Hanging clothes. Trying to make this new space feel like home.

The cats explore cautiously. Pepper claiming the warmest corner, Whisper investigating every shadow, Bristle poking her nose into cabinets and crevices with her usual boldness.

In the end, you’re exhausted but satisfied. The apartment is still mostly bare, but it’s yours. The cats have food and water and soft places to sleep. The windows overlook the plaza where lanterns are just beginning to glow.

It’s perfect.

You settle the cats for the night—fresh water, blankets arranged just so. Bristle purrs when you scratch behind her ears, and Whisper is already curled up contentedly.

“First night in our new home,” you murmur to them. “No more cramped rooms. No more hiding.”

They seem satisfied.

You leave a window cracked for fresh air—just a few inches, secured with the latch Varka checked earlier—and finally let yourself relax.

You’d just finished changing into sleep clothes when you hear it.

A door creaking somewhere.

A gust of wind stronger than it should be.

And the bell around Bristle’s neck jingles once—

Then silence.

Your heart lurches.

“Bristle?” you call, searching the corners. “Come here!”

Nothing.

The window curtain flutters, and dread slides cold down your spine.

You rush outside barefoot, scanning the street.

“Bristle?!”

Your voice cracks.

And then, footsteps.

Heavy ones, too familiar now.

Varka rounds the corner quickly, expression alert, still carrying the faint warmth of the tavern on him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Bristle—she’s gone—the window—” You can’t form full sentences. Can’t breathe properly. “I have to find her—she could be anywhere—”

You try to move past him.

He catches your arm. Not roughly, but firm.

“Stop. Just—stop for a minute and—”

“I don’t have a minute!” You pull free, voice breaking. “She’s out there, alone, she doesn’t know this area, what if she’s scared, what if something—”

“I know.” His voice is steady but strained. “I know you’re scared, but you can’t just—”

“Can’t what?” You spin on him, panic making you sharp. “Look for her? What am I supposed to do, just wait? Just stand here while she’s—”

“You’re barefoot,” he interrupts, voice harder now. “You ran out here without shoes, without a coat, without thinking—”

“Of course I didn‘t think!” The words tear out of you. “I heard the bell and she was gone and I just—I can’t—”

Your voice cracks completely.

Varka’s jaw tightens, something flashing in his eyes. Frustration, fear, something barely controlled.

“You think I don’t understand that?” His voice is low, rough at the edges in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I’m not terrified right now too?”

You blink at him, startled.

“She’s—” He stops, takes a breath that sounds like it costs him. “She’s my cat too. I know that’s not—I don’t have any claim, but I—”

He drags a hand through his hair, and you realize his hands are shaking slightly.

“I’m scared too,” he says, quieter now but no less intense. “But you can’t just run into the night alone. What if you’d gone outside the city walls?”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t you?” His voice sharpens again. “If you thought she’d gone that way? If someone said they saw a cat near Wolvendom, or the Whispering Woods—would you have stopped at the gates?”

The answer must show on your face because something in his expression cracks.

“Exactly,” he breathes. “You would’ve run straight into hilichurl territory, or worse, and you wouldn’t have thought twice because you were scared and—”

He stops himself, jaw working. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

The world goes very quiet.

“What?” you whisper.

He’s not looking at you now. His hands are clenched at his sides, and when he speaks his voice is rough with something that sounds like desperation.

“You don’t get it,” Varka says. “Every time you’re in danger, every time you run off alone, every time you refuse to let me help because you don’t want to be a ‘burden’—”

He finally looks at you, and the expression in his eyes stops your breath.

“You—this—you are important to me. And watching you throw yourself into danger—”

He cuts himself off, breathing hard.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything he just said and everything he didn’t.

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

“Varka,” you breathe.

He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s trying to regain control.

When he opens them again, some of the intensity has banked. Not gone, but carefully contained.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to—” He shakes his head.

“I'm sorry too,” you murmur. “For worrying you.”

“Let’s just find her. Together. Please.”

This time when he offers his hand, you take it.

He’s right. You’re shaking, you’re barefoot, you can barely think straight.

And because somewhere in the last two minutes, everything changed.

His hand is warm and steady around yours, and he squeezes once before releasing it.

“Gates first,” Varka says, voice back to that calm competence. “She’s bold. She’ll move toward open space when stressed.”

You stare at him. “How do you know that?”

He glances sideways, a ghost of that crooked smile. “I pay attention. Especially to the things you love.”

The words hit you square in the chest.

You almost stumble.

Then—

A faint jingle in the distance.

Varka freezes.

“There.”

He points toward the grass beyond the outer wall—moonlight catching a tiny silhouette near a cluster of crates.

“Bristle!” you gasp, sprinting.

But she darts away, spooked by movement.

You stumble—

And Varka is instantly at your side, steadying your elbow.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Let me.”

He kneels slowly, lowering his massive frame with surprising gentleness.

“Hey, little knight,” he says softly, hand extended. “Come here.”

His warm and soothing voice works instantly.

Bristle creeps forward, sniffing his fingers, then headbutts his palm with a tiny mew.

The sound you make is half-laugh, half-sob.

Varka scoops her up with one careful hand and stands, turning to you. “Here,” he says softly, offering her.

You take Bristle, holding her against your chest like something precious. She purrs immediately, the sound vibrating through you, and your eyes sting with relief.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Don’t.” Varka's voice is rough. “Don’t thank me for—” He stops himself, jaw tight.

You look up at him.

He’s still too close. Close enough that you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing hasn’t quite evened out, the careful control he’s barely maintaining.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he says quietly. “Either of you.”

Bristle purrs louder.

You can’t speak.

Can’t move.

Can’t do anything but stand there with your cat between you and Varka looking at you like—

Like he’s been holding back for weeks and his control is hanging by a thread.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

Your breath catches audibly.

He notices—of course he notices—and something in his expression shifts. Darkens. Wants.

He takes a half-step closer.

Your back hits the wall behind you, and somewhere in your brain you register that he’s backed you up without you even realizing, that he’s close enough now you can feel the heat of him, that his hand is braced on the wall beside your head and—

“Varka,” you breathe.

He stops.

Freezes completely, his eyes searching yours.

His eyes go dark. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with devastating gentleness.

Bristle meows between you, squirming.

The moment shatters.

Varka pulls back sharply, breathing hard, and you both stare at each other.

“We should,” he starts, voice rough. Clears his throat. “Get you home. Both of you.”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He doesn’t touch you on the walk back.

Doesn’t need to.

The tension walks between you like a living thing, crackling and charged and waiting.

— ✦ —

Back inside, you set Bristle down carefully. She immediately darts to her blanket corner, curling up like nothing happened.

You exhale shakily, adrenaline still coursing through you.

Varka moves to the window—the one she escaped through—and checks the latch.

“It wasn’t secured properly,” he says quietly, testing it. “The wood’s warped here. I can fix it tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He says it simply, not looking at you. “I don’t want this happening again.”

You watch him work. Those large, careful hands adjusting the mechanism, making sure it’s tight. Making sure you’re safe. Making sure the cats are safe.

Something in your chest cracks. “Varka,” you say softly.

He glances over his shoulder.

You’re closer than you meant to be. Close enough to see his pupils dilate slightly, to see his breath catch.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For… everything. For coming when I was panicking, for knowing where to look, for—”

Your voice breaks.

His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t thank me like I did something extraordinary.” He turns fully to face you now, and the intensity in his eyes stops your breath. “Like I wouldn’t drop everything the second you needed me. Like I haven’t been—”

He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair.

The space between you feels electric.

“Been what?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long moment. “Completely gone for you. For weeks now. Maybe longer.”

The world tilts.

“Varka—”

He takes a step back, trying to create distance.

Your hand shoots out, catching his wrist.

He freezes.

You’re both staring at where you’re touching him—your fingers wrapped around his wrist, feeling his pulse thundering beneath your touch.

When you look up, his eyes are dark. Wanting. Barely controlled.

His breathing goes ragged.

Your hand slides from his wrist up his forearm, and you feel him shudder. “I’m asking you to stop being patient. Stop being chivalrous. Stop—”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Because Varka moves.

His hands find your waist and he walks you backward until your back meets the wall.

His forehead drops to yours, breath coming hard.

“Last chance,” he rasps. “Tell me to stop and I will. But if you don’t—”

You fist your hands in his shirt and pull.

“Don’t stop.”

The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and surrender.

Then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is everything you didn’t know you were starving for. Heat and hunger and weeks of carefully restrained wanting finally unleashed. His lips are firm, demanding, devastating in their intensity.

When you gasp against his mouth, he makes a sound low in his throat and deepens the kiss with an urgency that steals the air from your lungs.

You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders.

He groans into your mouth—a low, rough sound that vibrates through your whole body—and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth claims yours with growing hunger.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer like you’ve been waiting for this just as desperately.

The sound he makes is somewhere between surprise and surrender.

His grip tightens.

You arch into him and he responds immediately. His hand sliding from your waist to your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left. Until you can feel every inch of him.

Like he’s trying very hard not to lose himself completely.

Like he might anyway.

His other hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth claims yours with growing hunger. The contrast—that rough desperation tempered by such careful tenderness—makes you dizzy.

Heat. Everywhere. The solid wall of his chest against yours, the strength in his arms, the way he’s surrounding you completely and it should feel overwhelming but instead feels like safety, like home, like finally.

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, you’re both gasping for air.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Can’t seem to.

His forehead drops to yours, breath ragged and hot against your lips. One hand is still fisted in your shirt. The other cradles your face like you’re something precious.

“You really are like a cat,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

Your breath hitches. “What?”

His lips brush your jaw. Barely a kiss, more like a promise. “Wary.” Another brush, just below your ear. “Careful.” His mouth finds the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “Slow to trust.”

You shiver, fingers digging into his shoulders.

His hand slides up your spine, fingers spreading wide across your back, holding you steady.

“But once you decide to let someone in—” His voice drops, goes rougher, and his mouth is so close to your throat you can feel every word against your skin. “—you give everything.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can only feel the heat of his mouth on your throat, the careful restraint in his touch, the way he’s holding you like you’re precious and desired all at once.

“Varka,” you manage, and his name sounds like a plea.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and what you see in his eyes makes your heart stop.

Want. Yes. Need, definitely. But also something deeper. Something that looks like awe, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like he’s terrified and elated in equal measure.

“I need—” His voice cracks. “Tell me you want this. Not just tonight. Not just because we were scared and—”

You cup his face in both hands, cutting him off. “I want this,” you say firmly, clearly. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since—” You swallow. “Since the Angel‘s Share. Maybe before.”

The sound he makes is somewhere between relief and reverence.

“Thank Barbatos,” he breathes.

And then he’s kissing you again. Slower this time but no less intense. Thorough and deep and claiming, like he’s memorizing every response, cataloging every sound you make, learning exactly how to take you apart with just his mouth.

His tongue sweeps against yours and your knees actually buckle. He catches you immediately, arm banding around your waist, holding you up, holding you close.

The kiss goes molten.

Heat pools low in your belly. Your fingers find his hair, tugging, and he groans into your mouth. A deep, pleased sound that vibrates through your whole body.

He kisses like he does everything else. With complete focus, total commitment, like you’re the only thing that matters in the entire world.

When you finally break apart this time, you’re both trembling, flushed, breathing hard.

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, trying to steady himself.

You can feel his heart thundering against your palm where it rests on his chest.

“I should—” His voice is wrecked. “I should probably go. Before I—”

Before he what? Loses control completely? Forgets to be careful? Stops being the gentleman he’s trying very hard to be right now?

“Don’t.” Your hands tighten on his shirt. “Stay.”

His eyes snap open, dark and searching and full of want barely held in check.

“You sure?”

“Not for—” You flush. “I mean, just—stay. Please. I don’t want you to leave yet.”

Relief and something warmer floods his expression.

“Alright,” he murmurs. He presses a kiss to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. Small, tender touches that feel like promises. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

He doesn’t let go. Just holds you against him, one hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing gradually evens out.

“You know,” you murmur against his chest, “I think you’ve officially adopted the cats now.”

You feel his laugh rumble through him. “Yeah?”

“Mm. You named one. You helped move them. You ran through Mondstadt at night to find one.” You pull back enough to meet his eyes. “They’re yours too now.”

His expression does something complicated. Soft and pleased and almost shy.

“When did that happen?” he asks quietly.

“Probably the moment you found us in that alley,” you admit. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

His smile is devastating. “Best thing I ever found.”

“The cats?”

“You.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “The cats are a bonus.”

You laugh, and he kisses you again. Soft and sweet and full of promise.

When he finally, reluctantly pulls away, his hand lingers on your face.

“I should let you sleep,” he says, though he doesn’t sound like he wants to leave.

“Will you come back tomorrow?”

“Try to stop me.” He presses one more kiss to your forehead. “Sleep well. All four of you.”

You watch him leave, and when the door closes behind him, you touch your lips.

They’re still tingling.

Behind you, Bristle meows softly.

You turn to find all three cats watching you from their corner—Whisper’s eyes half-closed, Pepper already asleep, Bristle looking distinctly unimpressed with the delay in her post-adventure pets.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter, moving to join them.

But you’re smiling.

And when you fall asleep that night, it’s with the memory of his hands in your hair, his voice in your ear, and the absolute certainty that everything just changed.

You’ve found home.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)

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 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. :)

Before the Relationship

Varka is a gentleman.

A gentleman who goes dangerously still the first time he really notices your chest.

It happens when you lean forward to point at something—innocent, thoughtless—and your shirt shifts.

He stops mid-sentence.

Frozen.

Jaw locked. Breath held. Eyes flicking down for a fraction of a second before he wrenches them back up with a look that screams:

“Don't. Be. An. Animal.”

(He's barely holding it together.)

His stance shifts. Weight rolling back, shoulders squaring. Hands flex once at his sides before he crosses his arms, biceps straining.

He's not adjusting himself.

He can't adjust himself in public.

So he just stands there, trying to will his body into submission through sheer mental fortitude.

It's not working.

When you lean closer to show him something, completely oblivious?

His throat works. Adam's apple bobbing.

“Uh-huh,” he manages, voice rougher than it was three seconds ago. “Yeah. I see."

He doesn't see anything except the neckline of your shirt and the way fabric clings when you move and the effort it's taking not to look, not to think about—

He clears his throat. Hard.

“I should—uh—patrol. Right. Patrol.”

You blink up at him. "Now? It's barely evening.”

“Yep. Important. Very important.” He's already backing away, movements just slightly too careful. “See you tomorrow.”

He leaves before you can ask questions.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Early Relationship

The first time you hug him—really hug him, full-body, arms around his neck—your chest presses against his sternum.

And Varka stops breathing.

His hands hover for a split second before settling on your back.

Then you shift slightly, getting comfortable, and—

His fingers twitch.

Slide lower.

Just to your waist. Still appropriate. Still safe.

But his thumb brushes the small of your back in a way that feels almost unconscious, and his breath comes out shaky against your hair.

“You okay?” you murmur.

“Mhm.” It's not convincing.

When you pull back, his pupils are blown wide, and there's a tightness in his expression that has nothing to do with discomfort and everything to do with restraint.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dropped an octave, rougher than you've ever heard it. "You keep doing that and I won't be responsible for what happens.”

Your breath catches. “What happens?”

His jaw works. Eyes dark and wanting and barely controlled.

“Ask me when I'm allowed to show you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Established Relationship

Varka doesn't just like your chest.

He's obsessed. Doesn't matter the size. He wants his hands on you, wants his mouth on you, wants to bury his face between your breasts and forget the world exists.

The first time you're alone together, really alone, his control shatters.

His hands are big and warm and callused, and they cup your breasts like he's holding something he's been starving for.

He exhales hard through his teeth.

There's urgency in the way he touches you. Palms sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing over the soft curve, fingers squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

“Varka—”

“Say my name again." It's not a request.

His mouth finds the swell of your breast, and he groans. Deep, guttural, the sound vibrating against your skin.

Your back arches involuntarily, pressing more of yourself into his mouth, and the sensation makes you gasp his name.

He kisses you there like he's trying to memorize the taste. Tongue dragging slow and deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make you lean into him.

“Perfect,” he mutters against you, breath hot. “You're so perfect.”

His hands are everywhere. Cupping, kneading, lifting so he can take you into his mouth with a hunger that borders on feral.

When you whimper?

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild.

Your chest is heaving, skin flushed, and the way he's looking at you—like you're everything—makes heat pool low in your belly.

“That's it,” he mutters. “Let me hear you.”

And when you arch into his touch, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer?

He loses it completely.

Hands tightening on your waist, mouth working over you with single-minded intensity, groaning your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Mine,” he mutters against your skin. “All mine.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When You're On Top

When you straddle him, Varka tries—he really does—to keep his hands on your hips.

Appropriate. Respectful.

He lasts approximately five seconds.

His gaze is locked on your chest. Watching the way you move, the way gravity does things to his self-control.

His grip on your hips tightens.

Then his hands start sliding up.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's testing to see if you'll stop him.

You don't.

His palms cup your breasts, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

The heat of his hands sinks into your skin, calloused palms rough against softness, and the contrast makes you shiver.

His thumbs brush over sensitive peaks and you feel it everywhere. Spine arching, breath catching, thighs tightening around his hips.

“Damn, look at you…” His voice is gravel and want. “Riding me like this, letting me touch you—"

You lean forward, and his brain short-circuits.

“Fuck—”

The word punches out of him as your chest fills his vision, and his hands fly up to grab your waist like he needs the anchor.

“Do that again,” he demands, voice raw.

You do.

He groans, and his hips buck up involuntarily.

When you cup his face and press it between your breasts?

His hands lock around your back, pulling you down, and he buries himself there.

Breathing hard, groaning, mouthing at your skin like he can’t help himself.

“Killing me,” he mutters, muffled and desperate. “You're killing me.”

You feel him hard and aching beneath you, and the knowledge that you've reduced this mountain of a man to trembling need makes heat coil low in your belly.

“Varka—”

“Don't stop.” It's almost a plea. “Don't stop.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When He Takes Control

When Varka pins you beneath him, there's nothing tentative about it.

He's all solid muscle and controlled strength. One hand beside your head, the other sliding up your side, fingers spanning your ribs easily.

He's so much bigger than you, and the way he uses that size to cage you in, to surround you completely, makes something primal coil tight in your core.

His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, working lower with kisses that are wet and hungry and claiming.

When he reaches your chest, he doesn't ask permission anymore.

He takes.

Palms cupping you, lifting, squeezing as his mouth closes over one breast through your shirt.

You gasp, arching, and he growls in approval.

“That's it,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to yank your shirt up and out of his way. “Let me see you.”

And when there's nothing between you and him?

He devours you. Mouth hot and demanding, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out.

His hand works the other breast. Rough, possessive, perfectly calibrated to the edge of too much.

“Been thinking about this,” he groans against you. “Can't stop thinking about you. How you taste. How you sound when I—”

He sucks hard, and you keen.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Like that. Just like that.”

His hips press against yours, and you feel exactly how affected he is. Hard and straining and barely restrained.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, pulling back to look at you. Eyes wild, pupils blown, chest heaving.

“You," you manage. “I want you.”

His expression goes wild.

“You have me,” he rasps. “Every part of me.”

And then his mouth is on you again, and he's touching you like he's trying to prove it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Public Teasing

Varka knows exactly what he's doing.

You're in the plaza, surrounded by people, and his hand settles casually on your back.

Except it's not casual.

It's deliberate.

His palm slides up your spine, thumb brushing the side of your ribs. Just barely grazing the curve of your breast.

No one else notices.

You notice.

Your breath hitches, and you feel him lean closer, mouth at your ear.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice low. “Keep making those sounds and I won't be able to stop myself.”

“We're in public,” you manage.

“Yeah, I know.” His hand presses firmer, thumb stroking once. “Doesn't change what I want to do right now.”

Heat floods your face…and lower.

“Varka—”

“Walk with me.”

It's not a suggestion.

His hand drops to your wrist, and he guides you through the city with the easy confidence of a man who knows exactly where he's going.

Behind the tavern. Into the shadowed alcove where barrels are stacked and no one ever looks.

The second you're out of sight, his control snaps.

He backs you against the wall, hands bracketing your head, mouth crashing onto yours with hunger that's been simmering all evening.

His knee slides between your thighs, and when you gasp, he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Tongue claiming, teeth nipping, consuming.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard.

“Tell me I can touch you,” he demands, voice wrecked. Forehead pressed to yours, hands trembling where they frame your face.

“Please—”

That's all he needs.

His hands slide down, cupping your breasts through your clothes, and he groans like he's been holding back for hours.

“Need you.” His mouth finds your neck, biting gently. “Need to feel you. Taste you. Make you forget your own name.”

His hands work you through fabric. Squeezing, kneading, thumbs circling until you're arching into him, whimpering.

“That's it,” he mutters against your throat. “Let me hear you. No one can hear us here. Just you and me.”

When his mouth closes over your breast through your shirt, you nearly sob.

The wet heat of his mouth soaks through fabric, and your hands fly to his hair, gripping hard enough that he moans against you. The vibration makes you whimper, and he answers by sucking harder, teeth grazing even through the barrier.

“Ohh,” you breathe, and he makes a sound that's pure satisfaction.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and starving.

“If we weren't in public,” he says, “I'd have you bare and under me already.”

Your knees nearly give out.

“Varka—”

“Soon,” he promises, voice rough. “Soon I'm taking you home and I'm not letting you leave my bed until you can't remember anything but my name.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

BONUS: The Moment He Breaks

It's late evening. You're in your apartment, comfortable and unguarded, adjusting your shirt.

Varka's sitting at your table, supposedly reviewing some report.

He's not reading. He's watching you.

The fabric shifts as you move, and his jaw tightens.

You bend slightly to pick something up, and your neckline dips.

The sound he makes is quiet, but you hear it.

A rough exhale.

You straighten, turning to look at him.

He's staring. Not even pretending otherwise.

“Varka?” Your voice is soft. “You okay?”

He blinks, seeming to surface from wherever his thoughts had gone. “Trying to be,” he mutters.

There's tension radiating off him.

He stands slowly, and there's something predatory in the movement.

He crosses to you in three strides.

Stops just close enough that you can feel his body heat.

His hand rises—hesitates at your waist—then settles there.

“You got no idea,” he says, voice low and strained, “what you do to me.”

You lean into his touch, emboldened by the way his breath catches. “Show me.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then something in his expression cracks.

“You're sure?” His voice is barely controlled. “Because if I start, I'm not stopping until—”

“I'm sure.”

The last thread snaps.

He pulls you against him, and you feel exactly how much he's been holding back. Hard and wanting and barely restrained.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, hands sliding up your sides with hunger.

“Please,” he breathes against your neck. “Let me touch you. I've been going insane.”

“Yes—”

His hands cup your breasts before you finish the word.

The groan he makes is obscene.

“Finally—”

He's desperate.

Palms kneading, thumbs circling over sensitive peaks through your shirt, and when you gasp his name he loses it.

Yanks your shirt up without finesse, and the moment there's nothing between his hands and your skin, he makes a sound like he's been starving.

His mouth finds your breast, and the heat of it makes you cry out.

He groans in response, tongue circling, sucking, devouring while his hand works the other. Pinching gently, rolling, driving you insane.

“Varka—oh—”

“Say it again,” he demands against your skin.

“Varka—”

“Louder.”

“Varka—”

He pulls you down onto the floor and settles over you with single-minded intent.

His weight pins you, one knee pressing between your thighs, hands bracketing your head. You can feel all of him. The solid muscle of his chest, the heat radiating off him, the evidence of exactly how much he wants you pressing insistent against your hip.

“Been thinking about this,” he mutters, mouth trailing down your sternum. “Every time you move. Every time you lean close. Wanted my mouth on you. My hands. Wanted to make you fall apart.”

He's kissing everywhere—your breasts, your ribs, the soft skin of your stomach—like he's trying to worship every inch.

His hand slides up your thigh, grip firm and possessive, and when he settles his weight between your legs you feel the full reality of what you've done to him. All that controlled strength, all that barely-leashed want, focused entirely on you.

“Tell me you want this,” he demands, voice rough. Not asking permission—he already has it—but needing to hear you say it.

“I want you,” you breathe. “All of you.”

His eyes go molten.

“Then hold on to me,” he warns. “Because I'm not stopping until you're shaking.”

And then he shows you exactly what that means.

You nearly choke on your beverage.

He’s completely unbothered, that easy confidence radiating from him. “A few, I think. Two or three at least. Maybe four.” He glances up, and there’s that warm gleam in his eyes. “What do you think?”

“Varka—”

“I’d be a good father.” Just certainty. “And you’d be incredible. I’ve seen how you are with the younger knights. Patient. Kind.” His smile widens. “Beautiful.”

“Are you trying to charm me into this?”

“Is it working?”

(It is.)

Or he’d bring it up in public, completely shameless:

“We should start trying for children soon,” he says conversationally as you pass the fountain.

Several people turn to stare.

You flush. “Varka—”

“What? I’m being practical.” But there’s mischief in his expression now, the way he leans down to murmur in your ear: “Unless you’d prefer I convince you in private?”

Your face burns hotter, and you smack his arm.

He catches your wrist, grinning. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

His laugh rumbles through you, warm and delighted. “Tonight, then.”

━━━━━

Showing His Desire

When you’re intimate, Varka makes his intentions very clear.

His hands map every inch of you, like he’s already imagining the changes to come. When he pulls you against him—your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist—he buries his face in your neck and breathes.

“You’d be so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, hands sliding down to your hips. “Carrying our child.”

His thumbs trace slow circles there, possessive and worshipful at once.

His lips trace your shoulder, your neck, the shell of your ear. Each kiss deliberate.

“I think about it all the time.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “You, round with my child. Knowing I put them there.”

His hands tighten on your waist as he turns you to face him, eyes dark and intense.

“Let me,” he breathes, already backing you toward the bed. “Let me give you everything.”

And when his hands slide under your clothes, when his mouth claims yours with desperate certainty, when he touches you like you’re the most precious thing in the world—

You understand exactly how wild the idea drives him.

━━━━━

When You Tell Him

When you tell him you’re pregnant, Varka is thrilled.

You barely get the words out before he’s lifting you off your feet—hands secure at your waist, spinning you once with a whoop of joy—before setting you down with sudden carefulness. Already protective.

“Really?” His hands frame your face, eyes searching yours. When you nod, his grin could light all of Mondstadt.

━━━━━

During the Pregnancy

He tells everyone.

The knights get daily updates. “The baby kicked today.” “She’s craving grapes lately.” “Did you know babies can hear voices in the womb? I’ve been reading to them.”

Jean looks exhausted by week three.

But Varka doesn’t care. He’s proud. His family is growing, and the world should know.

Grape cravings become his personal mission. He brings baskets from Dawn Winery. You find them waiting on the table, the counter, once even on your pillow with a note: For you and little one.

He feeds them to you sometimes. Sitting together in the evening, his hand gentle as he brings one to your lips. You bite down, and his thumb brushes your mouth, lingering.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, eyes warm.

Then he leans in and kisses you.

“Very sweet,” Varka says against your mouth, and you feel his smile.

He watches you constantly. Making sure you’re comfortable, that you’re eating enough, that you’re not overexerting yourself. His protectiveness cranks up tenfold, but it’s never smothering.

When you catch him staring, he never looks away.

“Can’t help it,” he says simply. His hand settles on your growing belly. Protective. “You’re beautiful like this.”

Whenever he gets the chance, he cups your face and kisses you. “You’re both perfect.”

━━━━━

The First Child

When your daughter arrives, Varka looks at her like she’s made of starlight.

“Hello, little one,” he murmurs, this mountain of a man cradling this tiny person with infinite gentleness. “I’m your father.”

She wraps her tiny hand around his finger, and something in his expression just melts.

From that moment, he’s gone.

Mornings become his favorite. You wake to find him already awake, your daughter cradled against his bare chest as he talks to her softly.

“Your mother is the strongest person I know,” he’s saying, voice low and warm. “You’ll see. She’s brilliant and kind and far too good for me, but somehow she chose me anyway.”

He glances over, catches you watching. He smiles.

“Morning, love.” He shifts carefully, making room for you against his side. “She was fussing. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You settle against him, and he wraps his free arm around you, pulling you close.

Evenings are for sharing everything:

“She smiled at me today,” Varka announces as you’re preparing for bed. “A real smile. I’m certain of it.”

You laugh softly. “You said that yesterday.”

“This time was different.” He’s already pulling you into bed, arranging you against him with easy familiarity. “She definitely recognized me. And she made this little sound—”

He demonstrates, some soft coo that makes you muffle your laughter in his chest.

“Laugh all you want,” he says, grinning. “I’m right. Our daughter is brilliant.”

Varka carries your daughter everywhere on his shoulders. This enormous knight with this tiny girl perched above the world, her hands tangled in his hair as she shrieks with delight.

He makes her flower crowns (surprisingly deft fingers weaving cecilias and windwheel asters). She wears them like a princess, and he looks at her like she is one.

“Grand Master,” one of the knights says carefully, “there’s a meeting—”

“She wanted to see the ducks,” Varka interrupts cheerfully, not even slowing down. “The meeting can wait.”

(The meeting waits.)

Somehow, having a family makes Varka better at his job.

He’s more focused, more efficient. He delegates more easily, trusts his knights more completely. Not because he cares less about Mondstadt—but because he has even more reason to protect it now.

“Happy at home means clear-headed at work,” he explains when Jean asks how he’s managing everything. “My family gives me purpose. Makes everything else easier.”

━━━━━

The Second Child

When your daughter is about two, Varka brings it up again.

You’re settling into bed when his arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you against him. His lips find your neck, that familiar warmth spreading through you.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he murmurs between kisses. “Watching you with her… you’re such a wonderful mother.”

His hands slide over your waist, your hips, reverently possessive.

“And you look so beautiful. Every day.” His voice drops. “I keep thinking we could do this again.”

You turn in his arms, finding his eyes dark and intent.

“Let’s have another one,” he says simply. Seriously. “Yeah?”

And when you smile, when you pull him down for a kiss—

His joy is palpable.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Two Daughters

Your daughters are different in temperament but equally adored.

Varka indulges them in everything. You find him crammed into a chair far too small for him, pinky raised as he pretends to sip from a tiny cup.

“More tea, Papa?”

“Please,” he rumbles, holding out the cup. “Can’t say no to tea this good.”

He participates fully. Genuine enjoyment. When they want to play knights, he’s the dragon. When they want to braid his hair, he sits perfectly still for an hour.

When they start dancing—spinning in circles, giggling, completely off-rhythm—he joins them without hesitation. Big, clumsy twirls that make them shriek with laughter. He doesn’t care how ridiculous he looks. He’s having fun.

Then he spots you watching from the doorway.

“Oh no you don’t,” he says, grinning as he reaches for you. “You’re dancing too.”

Before you can protest, you’re pulled into the chaos. One daughter clinging to your hand, the other to his, all of you spinning in a messy circle while they laugh so hard they can barely stand.

Varka’s eyes meet yours over their heads, warm and bright and full of joy.

This, his expression says. This is everything.

When they fight over the same toy, he sits down between them with infinite patience.

“You both want the wooden horse?” He looks between them seriously. “Then you’ll have to share. Take turns. That’s what family does. We look out for each other.”

He shows them how, guiding their little hands, praising when they manage it.

━━━━━

At the Knights of Favonius Headquarters

Varka brings your children to work sometimes, unable to help himself. They’re endlessly curious, asking questions about everything.

“Papa, why do you have a sword?”

“To protect people,” he explains, kneeling down to their level. “When someone’s in trouble, we help them. That’s what knights do.”

“Can we have swords?”

His laugh booms. “Wooden ones, for now.”

And then they have wooden swords, and they’re “fighting” him with all their might while he pretends to be gravely wounded, falling dramatically to the ground.

You watch from the doorway, shaking your head fondly.

He catches your eye, and that grin tells you everything: I love this. I love them. I love you.

Then he’s on his feet, crossing to you in three long strides. His kiss is firm and sure and entirely unapologetic, even with the knights watching, even with your daughters giggling and running circles around you both.

“Mama! Papa is kissing again!”

“That’s because I love your mother,” he announces proudly, arm still around your waist. He looks at you then, and the heat in his gaze makes your breath catch even surrounded by giggling children and watching knights.

“Very, very much,” he adds, quieter, just for you.

━━━━━

The Third Child

When the third arrives—a boy this time—Varka is just as besotted.

“Three,” he marvels, holding his son with practiced ease. “We have three.”

He looks at you with such devotion it makes your chest tight.

“You’ve given me everything.”

━━━━━

Teaching Equality

As they grow, Varka treats all three the same. Fighting lessons for all. Chores for all. Expectations for all.

“Doesn’t matter if you’re a boy or a girl,” he says, steady and sure. “What matters is you’re kind. You help people who need it. And you look out for each other.”

He teaches them to fight with equal rigor. His son doesn’t get special treatment, his daughters don’t get coddled.

“You’re all strong,” he says. “And I’ll teach you to protect yourselves. And anyone who needs your help.”

━━━━━

Bedtime with Three

Getting three children to bed should be chaos.

Somehow, with Varka, it’s not.

He’s got your son tucked in the crook of one arm, already drowsy. Your middle daughter is wrapped around his leg, refusing to let go. Your eldest is perched on his shoulders, playing with his hair.

“Alright,” he announces. “Story time. Everyone to bed.”

“But Papa—”

“No buts.” His tone is firm but warm. “You all need sleep. Growing takes energy.”

He settles onto the floor of the nursery, and they immediately pile onto him. Your son curled against his chest, your daughters tucked under each arm.

You lean against the doorframe, watching.

His voice rumbles through the quiet room as he tells them a story. Something about a knight and a dragon and three brave children. His hands stroke their hair, patient as they interrupt with questions, indulgent when they argue about plot details.

One by one, they drift off.

He waits until all three are deeply asleep before carefully, carefully extracting himself. He tucks each one in, pressing kisses to their foreheads.

When he finally makes it to the door, he finds you watching with undisguised affection.

“What?” he asks softly, pulling you against him.

“You’re really good at this.”

His smile is tired but content. “Got a lot of practice.” He pauses. “And a lot of motivation.”

He kisses you. Slow and thorough and full of promise.

“Come to bed,” he murmurs against your lips. “Before they wake up.”

“Impatient?”

“Absolutely.” He’s grinning. “They get you all day. I want you all night.”

━━━━━

Taking Care of You

“Alright,” Varka announces one morning, herding all three children toward the door. “Your mother has been taking care of everyone all week. Today, we’re taking care of her.”

“Where are we going?” your son asks.

“Wherever she wants.” Varka glances at you with that warm smile. “Within reason.”

You laugh. “I want to sit. And eat something I didn’t have to cook.”

“Done.” He’s already moving, children in tow. “Good Hunter it is. Then the meadows. Then home for quiet time while Mama rests.”

He orchestrates the whole day, keeping the children entertained, fed, and happy while making sure you don’t lift a finger.

That night, after they’re all asleep, he finds you in bed.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say softly.

“‘Course I did.” His arm comes around you immediately, pulling you into his chest as he kisses your temple. “You give everything to them. To me. Let me give back.”

His hands are already working the tension from your shoulders, and you melt into him.

“I love you,” he says. “More every day.”

━━━━━

Understanding Their Differences

But he’s also fascinated by their individual perspectives.

He’ll sit with his daughters as they play, asking questions. “Why does the doll need a sword?” “What are you building?” Really listening to their answers.

With his son, same curiosity. “What’s your favorite story?” “Why did you choose that color?”

He wants to understand each of them completely. To know how they think, what they love, what they fear.

“They’re all so different,” Varka tells you one night, wonder in his voice. “Three people we made. Three entire people with their own minds and hearts.”

His arm tightens around you.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For all of this.”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

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

You show up at Knight of Favonius Headquarters on a Tuesday afternoon with a mission.

The knight at the entrance recognizes you. You’ve been here enough that no one questions it anymore.

You knock twice and push the door open.

Varka looks up from his paperwork, and his expression immediately softens.

“Hey.” He sets down his pen. “This is a surprise.”

“Good surprise?”

“Always.” His eyes are warm. “What brings you by?”

“Thought I’d visit.” You close the door behind you and move toward his desk. “See how you’re doing.”

“Drowning in requisition forms.” He gestures at the disaster. “Riveting stuff.”

You pick up one of the papers and read it with genuine interest. “New training dummies?”

“Jean says we go through them too fast.”

“Mm.” You set it down carefully and look at him with those eyes that always seem softer than they should be. “You work too hard.”

“Someone has to.”

“I know.” And you do know. You always understand. That’s part of what gets to him. “But maybe you could take a break?”

His mouth quirks. “Are you suggesting I neglect my duties?”

“Just for a little while.”

There’s something in your voice. Something quiet but deliberate.

Varka watches you slide off the desk, watches you cross to his chair.

Then you’re climbing into his lap.

His brain short-circuits.

His hands come up to your waist automatically, steadying you. He stares at you.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hey.” His voice comes out rough. “This is unexpected.”

“Is it okay?”

“It’s—” He swallows. "Yeah. It’s very okay.”

You smile. That soft smile that he loves. Then you lean in and kiss him.

Your mouth opens against his immediately, tongue sliding against his, hands fisting in his shirt like you can’t get close enough fast enough.

The sound he makes is somewhere between surprise and desperation.

His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you against him as he kisses you back with matching intensity.

When you finally break apart, his eyes are dark.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” you admit.

“Have you?”

“All day.” Your fingers trace his collar. “Couldn’t stop.”

Something in his chest tightens.

Because you don’t usually say things like this. Don’t usually initiate. You’re always responsive...but this?

This is different.

“What were you thinking about?” His voice is lower now.

You don’t answer with words.

You just kiss him again, deeper this time, your hands sliding into his hair.

He feels his control start to crack.

“You’re full of surprises today,” he manages when you pull back.

“Am I?”

“Very much.” His hands slide up your back. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I just wanted to see you.”

The sweet directness combined with where you are, what you’re doing... it undoes him.

“Just wanted to see me,” he repeats. “So you climbed into my lap?”

“Seemed like the best way.”

Varka laughs. Breathless and slightly wrecked. “Huh. Can’t argue with that logic.”

You kiss him again. And again.

“That’s what you were thinking about?” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough.

“Among other things.” You’re flushed now. But your eyes are direct. “Can I stay?”

“Sure. You can stay as long as you want.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “Uh...but you need to know...if you keep kissing me like that, I’m not going to be good.”

“I don't want you to be good.” Your voice is still soft. “I came here hoping you wouldn’t be.”

Something in him snaps.

His hand slides into your hair and he pulls you back into a kiss that’s all heat and hunger and the control he’s been desperately clinging to finally breaking.

You make a soft sound against his mouth, and it goes straight through him.

When you shift in his lap deliberately, he groans.

He stands in one smooth motion—arms banding around you, lifting you like you weigh nothing—and sets you on his desk.

You gasp softly.

He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, hands finding the fastenings of your shirt. He opens it slowly and slides it off your shoulders.

He pulls back to look at you.

You’re flushed, eyes bright, still that sweetness in your expression but underneath—

Heat. Want. A boldness that takes his breath away.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs.

You duck your head slightly. Shy. Even now.

That contrast—bold enough to climb into his lap, sweet enough to blush when he compliments you—

It’s going to kill him.

“Look at me.”

You do.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Varka says quietly. “Walking in here all sweet and innocent and then—”

“I’m not that innocent.”

“I’m starting to realize that.”

He kisses you again, his hands exploring your skin with clear appreciation.

When his mouth finds your breast, you make a soft sound that goes straight through him.

You’re trying not to squirm. He can see the impatience. The want.

“Varka—”

“I know." His voice is muffled against your skin. “I've got you.”

He works you thoroughly, mouth and hands learning what makes you gasp, what makes those soft sounds turn desperate.

Your fingers tighten in his hair and he groans against you.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs between kisses. “Feel so good.”

His hands slide down to your pants. “These need to go.”

“Okay.”

Such simple agreement. Such trust.

He works them off carefully, then stands back to look at you.

You’re on his desk. Flushed and breathing hard. Looking at him with those eyes that are somehow both innocent and knowing.

“Varka—” Your voice cracks slightly. “Please.”

“Please what, sweetheart?”

“Touch me. I need—”

Varka kisses you before you can finish.

“Lie back.”

You do without hesitation.

The sight of you—all soft curves and flushed skin and those eyes still watching him with that combination of sweetness and heat—

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “You’re perfect.”

He kisses down your body, taking his time despite the urgency thrumming through him. Throat. Collarbone. Sternum. When he reaches your breasts, he pauses.

Varka looks up at you with something almost playful in his expression.

Then his mouth closes over you and you have to bite back a sound.

He’s thorough. One hand cups you while his mouth works, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip. When you arch into him, he makes a pleased sound that vibrates through you.

“Varka—”

“I know.” His voice is muffled. “Just let me—”

He switches sides, giving equal attention, and your hands find his hair, gripping, trying to ground yourself.

Then he’s moving lower, kissing down your stomach, your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh—

You realize what he’s about to do the exact moment he drops to his knees.

“Oh—”

“Relax.” His hands slide up your thighs, spreading you open. “I’ve got you.”

Then his mouth is on you and thinking becomes impossible.

Varka groans against you. The taste of you, the sounds you’re making, the way your thighs tremble against his shoulders—

He works you with focused intensity. Tongue and lips and the barest hint of teeth.

“There,” you breathe. “Oh—there—”

He focuses there. Relentless.

Your hips start moving, seeking more.

His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady when you try to squirm, and when you try to muffle your sounds he pulls back just enough to growl:

“Don’t. Want to hear you.”

Then he dives back in with renewed focus.

Your hands find his hair again, gripping, and the pleased sound he makes sends vibrations straight through your core.

He shifts—pulling one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up more, changing the angle—and it’s so much better it’s almost too much.

“Varka—oh—”

“That’s it.” His voice is rough. "Take what you need.”

His tongue does something absolutely devastating and your back arches off the desk.

He slides one hand up your body and finds your breast. Teases.

The other grips your hip, holding you steady as he devours you.

He’s thorough and clearly enjoying himself. You can feel him smile against you when you make a particularly desperate sound, can feel the satisfied hum when you tug his hair.

“Please—”

“What do you need?” He doesn’t stop, just adjusts his rhythm slightly. “Tell me.”

“Don’t stop—don’t—”

“Not stopping.” His hands tighten on your thighs. “Not until you come for me.”

When you finally let go—let yourself make those sounds without holding back—

He’s never heard anything better.

Your thighs start trembling. Your breathing gets faster.

“Varka—I’m—”

“I know. Let go.”

You’re so close. Right there. About to—

There’s a knock at the door.

“Varka?” Jean’s voice, muffled through the wood. “Are you in there? I need to discuss the—”

“Yes!”

Varka’s voice comes out strangled—responding to something you’d gasped, not Jean’s question.

Both of you freeze.

Oh no.

There’s a pause.

Then the door handle starts to turn.

“Oh shit—”

Varka moves instantly.

His coat flies over you, covers you completely.

“Just a second!” he calls, voice remarkably steady considering his lips are still wet and his hair is completely wrecked.

You clutch the coat to yourself, heart hammering.

The door opens.

Jean steps in, already mid-sentence. “Grand Master, I need your signature on the requisition forms for—”

She stops and takes in the scene.

The air in the room thick and charged.

Jean’s expression doesn’t change.

She blinks once. “I see you’re… occupied.”

“Jean—” Varka starts.

“The requisition forms can wait.” Her voice is perfectly professional, like she’s discussing inventory and not walking in on her superior obviously in the middle of something. “I’ll come back later.”

She leaves. The door clicks shut.

Silence follows.

Then you start laughing.

Varka drops his face into his hands.

“She definitely knows,” you manage between giggles.

“Everyone’s going to know.” He sounds equal parts mortified and resigned.

“You threw your coat at me.”

“I was trying to preserve your dignity!”

“My dignity left the building when you got on your knees, Varka.”

He turns to look at you, and despite the mortification, his mouth twitches. “…Fair point.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, just looking at each other.

Then you start laughing again and he joins in.

“Well,” he says eventually, running a hand through his hair. “I should probably start locking the door.”

“Probably a good idea.”

He crosses to the door and locks it. The click echoes.

He turns back.

You’re still on his desk, his coat draped around your shoulders, looking at him with those eyes that are somehow both innocent and knowing.

“Now,” he says, voice low as he walks back to you. “Where were we?”

“You were on your knees.”

Sweet voice. Bold words.

That contrast is going to destroy him every single time.

“Want me to get back down there?”

“I—” You hesitate. “Maybe somewhere more comfortable first?”

He follows your gaze to the couch. “Yeah.”

He scoops you up and carries you across the office.

You make a soft sound of surprise, arms wrapping around his neck.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

That trust makes his chest tight.

He sets you down on the couch gently and follows you down.

Your hands find his face. “You’re amazing.”

“You’re the amazing one.” He kisses your forehead. Your nose. Your mouth. “Coming here. Climbing into my lap. Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me as much as I want you.”

“I do.” Your honesty undoes him. “So much.”

He groans. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m trying to take my time. Be good to you.”

“You are good to me.” Your fingers trace his jaw. “But I don’t need slow right now. I just need you.”

That does it.

He kisses you hard.

When he pulls back, you’re both breathing hard.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

“You. Inside me. Please."

Hearing you say it—soft and sweet and desperate—

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Alright. Yeah.”

He works his pants open. You help, fumbling slightly, still that combination of eager and uncertain that makes him crazy.

When he finally pushes inside you, you both go still.

“Okay?” His voice is strained.

“Yes. More. Please—”

He starts to move. Slow at first, watching your face.

He thinks you’re beautiful like this. Flushed and gasping and holding onto him like he's everything.

“Faster,” you breathe.

“You sure?”

“Please—"

He gives you what you want. Picks up the pace. Drives deeper.

You cry out—soft and sweet and desperate—and it’s the best sound he's ever heard.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Let me hear you.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders. “Varka—oh—”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

He shifts the angle, hits that spot inside you that makes you gasp.

“There?” he asks.

“There—please—don’t stop—”

He doesn't.

Instead, he drives into you steadily, relentlessly, chasing both your pleasure and his.

You’re close. He can tell from the way you’re clenching around him, the way your sounds are getting higher.

“Come for me,” he murmurs. “Want to feel you.”

“I’m—oh—Varka—”

You shatter, crying out his name, clenching around him so tight he nearly loses it.

He holds on. Keeps moving. Drawing it out until you're trembling and gasping beneath him.

Then and only then does he let go, buries himself deep and comes with your name on his lips.

After, you’re both boneless, tangled together on the couch. Breathing hard. Completely wrecked.

“Wow,” you breathe.

Varka chuckles and presses his face into your neck. “Yeah. Wow.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then: “People are definitely going to start talking now.”

“Oh, absolutely.” He lifts his head to look at you. “Worth it though.”

“Yeah?” You're smiling.

“Completely.” He kisses you gently. “You’re worth everything.”

Your eyes go bright.

“I love you,” you say quietly.

“I love you too." He pulls you closer. “So much.”

You settle against his chest with a contented sigh.

“We should probably get dressed,” you murmur eventually.

“Probably.”

Neither of you moves.

“In a minute,” he says.

“In a minute,” you agree.

The paperwork can definitely wait.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

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

“No, I’m not.” But your words slur slightly, and you blink hard to focus.

“Mm-hmm.” He shifts, making himself more comfortable against the log. “C’mere. At least make yourself comfortable if you’re gonna pass out on me.”

“I'm not going to—”

But you’re already leaning into him, already letting your eyes close. Just for a moment.

Just for a moment turns into more.

You don’t remember falling asleep on his shoulder.

You do remember telling him, “I can stay up with you,” and him smiling like he knew better. That fond, knowing look that said he’d let you try anyway, even though you both knew how this would end.

Now you’re half-draped across him, cheek pressed against his chest. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, steady and slow.

There’s still metal beneath the fabric of his coat, but it’s cushioned and you’ve molded yourself to him—tucked under his arm, your legs curled up on the log, his warmth seeping into you.

His hand rests on your shoulder, broad and solid, thumb tracing absent patterns even while you sleep.

He shifts slightly, and you feel him working at something. A quiet clink of metal.

You blink up at him sleepily. “What are you doing?”

“Armor,” he murmurs, setting it aside. His bare hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “Can’t hold you properly with all this on.”

Your heart does something complicated.

“You don’t have to—” you start, but he’s already reaching for the buckles at his shoulder.

“Want to,” Varka says simply. The pauldron comes off, then the other.

You hear him working at buckles, the quiet sound of metal being set aside. Then stillness.

When he draws you back against him, there’s far less armor between you. Just warmth and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

“Better?” he asks, voice a low rumble you feel through your whole body.

You nod against him, your hand resting lightly on his chest. You can smell him. Feel the solid strength of him beneath your cheek, the way his chest expands with each breath.

You’re surrounded by him, and it feels like the safest place in the world.

“You could’ve woken me…”

“Mm. Could’ve," he agrees, tucking the fur cloak around your shoulders more securely. “Didn’t want to. You looked peaceful.”

“I was supposed to keep you company.”

“You are keeping me company." His arm wraps around you fully now. “This is good company."

You huff a quiet laugh. “Sleeping on you is good company?”

“Best kind.” His other hand strokes your hair. Big, gentle passes that make your eyelids grow heavy again. “Means you trust me enough to rest.”

You make a soft sound and shift closer. Your face presses into the curve of his neck, seeking more warmth, more of him. Your breath is warm against his throat, and he makes a low sound.

Your hand slides from his chest to curl loosely in his shirt, and you’re practically trying to burrow into him now.

Varka goes very still. You feel him take a slow, deliberate breath.

“Comfortable?” His voice is lower than before, with something warm threading through it. Almost amused. “Or are you planning to climb inside my coat entirely?”

You mumble something incomprehensible against his throat, and he huffs a quiet laugh.

“That’s what I thought.” His hand resumes stroking your hair, but there’s a slight pause before it does. Like he had to remind himself to move. “Can’t say I mind, though.”

His other arm tightens around you, drawing you even closer. You feel surrounded by him now. The solid wall of his chest, his arms caging you in gentle security, his warmth soaking into every part of you that touches him.

You sigh and nuzzle even closer.

This time, Varka doesn’t tease.

His hand stills in your hair for just a moment. You feel him exhale quietly, something shifting in the way he holds you.

When he speaks again, his voice has gone quieter. Rougher. “Yeah,” he says. “This is good.”

The camp is so quiet. Just the fire, his breathing, the distant sound of night birds. The world feels very far away.

“Varka?” you murmur.

“Mm?”

“Thank you. For this.”

You feel more than hear his quiet laugh, a rumble in his chest. “For letting you use me as a pillow?”

“For making me feel safe.”

His hand stills in your hair for just a moment, then continues, softer than before.

“Always,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Long as I’m breathing, you're safe.”

Your breath evens out, matching his rhythm without thinking. The warmth of him soaks into your bones.

You feel safe. Protected. Held.

The arm around you tightens fractionally.

You feel him lean down, press a slow kiss into your hairline. His lips linger there, warm and tender.

And just before you slip under completely, you hear him murmur, so quiet you almost miss it:

“Wish I could hold you like this every night.”

You’re too far gone to form words. But your hand slides up from his chest to curl around his neck, and your fingers find the hair at his nape, holding on. Your leg hooks over his thigh. You shift fully into him, tucking yourself as close as physically possible, like you’re trying to merge into his warmth.

You feel the way his breath stutters. The way his whole body goes taut for just a moment.

Then his arms wrap around you completely—one hand splaying wide across your back, the other cradling your head—and he huffs a soft laugh against your hair. Quiet and wondering.

“Yeah,” Varka murmurs, and his voice is rough with something that sounds like awe. “Me too.”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. :) I hope you enjoyed it. My Varka brainrot remains strong. He pushes all my buttons, but at this point I’ve accepted my fate. He fuels my creativity, so I’ll take it. 💙

He starts seeking you out actively, always with that easy smile of his.

The first time it happens, he just stands there, arms crossed, and studies you with open intent.

You flush immediately, not used to this level of attention from anyone, let alone him.

If he’s surprised by your shyness, he doesn’t show it. Instead, his smile gets bigger, turns into a broad, satisfied grin.

“You know,” he says, voice warm and easy, “seeing you smile like that? Makes my whole day.”

You stare at him. Surely you must have misheard. Because this isn’t his usual way of grounding someone or putting them at ease. This is something else entirely.

“Um. Thank you?” Your voice comes out higher than intended.

You clear your throat, biting your lip to stop yourself from giggling nervously. Your face heats and you look away, but your lips twitch traitorously.

Varka notices immediately. Of course he does. “See? Even better when it’s because of me.”

His hand comes up to your shoulder, and he gently turns you back to face him. You feel the warmth of his palm, the gentle pressure of his fingers.

“No need to hide that face from me.”

He watches your reaction—the way your eyes widen, the way you can’t quite meet his gaze—and his grin broadens like he’s won something.

Then he just… wishes you a nice day and walks off, leaving you standing there trying to remember how thoughts work.

Two days later, there’s a knock on your door.

You open it, pulling your morning robe tighter around yourself. When you see Varka standing there, relaxed and far too awake for this hour, you almost shut the door again out of sheer panic.

“Morning,” he says, voice warm and steady. “Bad time?”

Your throat feels dry. “No. Not at all. Do you want to come in?”

He considers it for a moment, eyes flicking past you into your quarters, then shakes his head with a slight smile. “Maybe another time. Just wanted to give you this.”

He hands you your favorite beverage and a pastry you’ve never tried before.

You stare at him, then at the offerings, trying to process this.

“Try it now,” Varka says. “Or it won’t taste as good later.”

Before you can respond, his hand comes up. Fingers touch your temple as he brushes a strand of hair from your forehead. “Though I’d bet you’re sweeter.”

Your mouth opens. No sound comes out.

He just chuckles and excuses himself, leaving you standing in the doorway holding pastries and completely forgetting how to breathe.

You’re still standing there a full minute after he’s gone, trying to remember how your brain is supposed to work.

A whole week passes like this.

He finds excuses to talk to you. Small things. Asking about your day, commenting on something you said in passing, appearing wherever you happen to be.

And in the middle of perfectly normal conversation, he slips in compliments that leave you flustered and speechless.

Of course you know he’s flirting with you. He’s making it very obvious at this point. Doesn’t even try to hide how much he’s enjoying it. Or how much he enjoys your reactions.

After three weeks of this back-and-forth where he talks easily and you always end up grinning and blushing and utterly lost for words, he tries a different approach.

Or that’s what you gather, at least.

He’s not just being direct with his words anymore. Now his touches are anything but accidental.

One afternoon, he finds you glaring at shattered vases on the ground, your body tense with frustration. You sense him before you see him. His presence somehow both grounding and unnerving at once.

Varka looks at you, reading your mood in an instant. “Need a hug?”

You blink at him. Then a grin tugs at your lips despite yourself. “Yeah. Sure.”

His arms come around you immediately—one wrapping low around your waist, the other sliding up between your shoulder blades—and he pulls you against his chest without hesitation.

You’re surrounded by warmth, the faint scent of leather and wind and something distinctly him. Your face presses against his chest and you feel how broad he is, how easily he envelops you.

You feel the solid strength of him, the way his chest rises and falls with each slow breath. One hand starts drawing soothing patterns along your spine. The other stays firm at the small of your back, anchoring you.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and lean into him.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“Seems I’m doing something right here,” he murmurs eventually, voice rumbling through his chest. “You’re already calmer.”

You feel the low vibration of his chuckle. “Might have to make this a regular thing. Feels right, holding you.”

You clear your throat, face still pressed against his chest. “I trust you,” you mumble quietly. Then, even quieter: “And you always calm me.”

His hand stills for just a second before resuming its soothing motions. “Good to know,” he says softly, and you hear the smile in his voice.

After that, Varka touches you more often.

Taking your hand without preamble, his thumb stroking slow circles over your knuckles.

Brushing your shoulders and arms whenever he gets the chance.

The hugs become a regular occurrence. Every time you meet, he embraces you immediately, only letting you go when you’ve long lost your composure and any sense of time.

You should probably tell him to stop.

You don’t.

One evening, you’re gathered at the Flagship with others after a strategic meeting. The atmosphere is lively—people chattering, laughing, the warm hum of conversation filling the space.

Varka mingles easily, like he always does, making sure everyone feels comfortable and included.

Much later, he spots you sitting at a table and makes his way over. He slides onto the bench beside you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He settles right beside you, not leaving any polite distance, just pressing close. His thigh is solid against yours, the heat of him seeping through the fabric.

Your shoulder barely reaches his upper arm, and you’re acutely aware of how much bigger he is, how his presence seems to surround you even sitting down.

Your whole body tingles where you touch. You can feel his warmth all along your side, feel the way he shifts slightly to get more comfortable—which only presses him closer.

“You good?” His voice is low, close to your ear. You feel his breath against your skin and your pulse jumps.

You nod slightly. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Sure?” There’s amusement threading through his tone. “You seem a little tense. No need to be nervous around me.”

And now you hear the grin in his voice.

“Varka,” you say, trying for stern and failing completely. “Stop it.”

“Mm?” He shifts even closer, and now you’re pressed against him from shoulder to knee. “Stop what, exactly?”

“You know what.”

“Do I?” The grin in his voice is unmistakable. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

You turn your head to glare at him. A mistake, because now his face is suddenly very close. Close enough to see the amusement dancing in his eyes, the pleased curve of his mouth.

“The…” You gesture vaguely. “All of this.”

“Oh.” He nods seriously, like you’ve just told him something very important. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll stop.”

He doesn’t move an inch.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not going to stop.”

“No,” he admits cheerfully.

At that moment, the table becomes more crowded. Others joining, pulling up chairs, filling the space with noise and laughter.

It’s nice.

You get absorbed in the conversation, laughing at jokes, feeling at ease.

Every so often, Varka leans down and murmurs things only you can hear.

“I like it when you laugh like that.”

“You’re beautiful when you smile.”

“This is my favorite sound.”

The words settle into you like warmth, making your face heat and your heart stutter.

Later, when you’ve finally relaxed enough to lean into him, his hand finds your thigh.

The warmth of his palm settles there, just above your knee. Casual. Easy. Like it belongs there.

You go very still.

His eyes find yours immediately, a silent question in them: Is this okay?

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can feel it. You answer by touching his hand. Just a light brush of your fingers against his knuckles.

The moment you start to pull back, his other hand covers yours. Broad and warm, gentle but firm, keeping your fingers there against his skin.

Your breath catches.

Varka doesn’t look away. Just holds your gaze as his thumb begins moving. Slow, deliberate circles on your thigh. The pressure is light, soothing, nothing inappropriate.

But you feel it everywhere.

Every slow sweep of his thumb, every place his fingers rest, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric.

You’re hyperaware of everything.

The weight of his hand. The controlled strength in those fingers. The way he’s watching you, reading every reaction, that pleased little smile tugging at his mouth because he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Someone across the table says something funny and everyone laughs.

You manage to smile, even laugh a little, but your focus is splintered. Half of you is in the conversation, the other half is completely consumed by the steady movement of his thumb against your leg.

Your breathing becomes uneven. Your thoughts scatter. Someone asks if you’re okay and you manage to say “Yeah, sure” even though your voice sounds strange to your own ears.

Varka chuckles quietly beside you. Low and pleased and entirely too satisfied with himself.

You glare at him, but you can’t hide your smile. “Stop it,” you say again, and he only hums. A sound that probably means Yeah, okay but actually means Absolutely not.

He doesn’t stop the whole evening. His hand stays exactly where it is. Warm and steady and maddening.

Later that night, when the Flagship is almost empty and most people have gone, Varka clears his throat. He sounds suddenly less confident than before. Almost uncertain.

“Thank you,” you say before you can overthink it.

He looks at you, waiting.

“For…” You stop, because you don’t quite know what you want to say.

For making you laugh? For the attention? For making you feel seen?

“For being you,” you settle on finally.

“Ditto,” he says immediately, voice soft and sincere.

Then he offers you his arm.

Somehow you end up going for a walk in the night. Through quiet streets, under lamplight, neither of you in any hurry.

After a while, he stops.

He turns to face you, and before you can say anything, he presses a kiss to your forehead.

He notices your nervousness. Of course he does. He always notices.

So you take a deep breath and reach for his hand.

Varka hums approvingly, fingers curling around yours, but he doesn’t tease this time. Doesn’t say anything at all.

But as you walk together, his hand warm in yours, you feel it anyway.

Everything he’s been telling you all this time.

You make me happy. Let me make you happy too.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

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