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art from QuAn_ (pixiv), mm3_gnsn (twt/x), and hoyoverse.

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– You actually meet Cyno because you get lost.

– Not dramatically lost in any way that could provide you an excuse for being so. Just regular, embarrassing, I-was-definitely-paying-attention-except-apparently-I-wasn’t lost, somewhere between Gandharva Ville and a “shortcut” Tighnari had, with deeply misplaced confidence, assured you was simple.

– You’re going to have words with him later.

– For now, you’re standing at a fork that shouldn’t exist according to your mental map, squinting at both options with your hands on your hips, when a voice behind you says, “Negotiating with the road?”

– Under normal circumstances, a man materializing behind you in the middle of the forest would be deeply alarming. Under current circumstances, you’ve already spent your emotional budget on being annoyed at the terrain. So, you turn with remarkable calm and observe him leaning against a tree with his arms crossed.

– “I am,” you reply. “It’s not going well. The road is being unreasonable.”

– Somehow, that earns the faintest shift in his expression—a suggestion that a smile could happen under favorable conditions.

– He tilts his head toward one path. “Left.”

– “How do you know where I’m going?”

– “I don’t. But the right path leads to a Sumpter Beast breeding ground, and you don’t look prepared for that.”

– You glance down at yourself. He has a point.

– “Left it is. Thank you, mysterious forest man.”

– “General Mahamatra.”

– “…Left it is. Thank you, mysterious forest General Mahamatra man.”

– This time, the corner of his mouth twitches.

– He pushes off the tree. “I’ll escort you to the main road.”

– “Because I look that lost?”

– “Because there have been bandits in the area.”

– “Ah.” You nod solemnly. “So I look conveniently robbable.”

– “You said it, not me.”

– You laugh, and he falls into step beside you.

– Conversation continues smoothly after that. By the time the road opens up enough that Gandharva Ville is no longer in question, you’ve learned his name is Cyno, that he speaks with the gravity of someone giving sworn testimony, and that talking to him is oddly easy once you stop expecting him to be conventionally expressive.

– You part with a polite goodbye and the lingering sense that the encounter was stranger—and more pleasant—than it had any right to be. You only find out later, quite by accident, that your mysterious road-escort and Tighnari’s oldest friend are the same person.

– This comes up when you’re in Tighnari’s home a few days later, helping restock first-aid kits while also taking the opportunity to complain about his shortcut, which he maintains was perfectly valid.

– “In any case, you still made it back,” he finally sighs after failing to convince you that your navigational choices were your own responsibility.

– “Only thanks to some mysterious man in the forest named Cyno.”

– He pauses. “Cyno?”

– “You know him? He said he was the General Mahamatra, so I assumed that was either true or the most committed impersonation I’ve ever seen.”

– “Yup, that’s definitely Cyno.”

– “Small world.” You tuck bandages into a box. “He walked me all the way back to the main road.”

– “That’s odd—he was supposed to be leaving for the desert that afternoon,” Tighnari muses. “He must have turned around to accompany you.”

– “What? Why would he do that?”

– Tighnari squints at you. “I’ve learned not to speculate on his reasoning. It’s better for my health.”

– The second time you meet Cyno, it’s coincidentally at Tighnari’s. You’re halfway through the doorway with an unreasonable number of herb bundles in your arms when Tighnari says, with immediate disapproval, “I told you three.”

– “You said, and I quote, ‘Bring what you can carry,’” you rebut, balancing the teetering pile against your shoulder. “This is a failure of instruction clarity.”

– “This is a failure of restraint,” he corrects as you glance up and find Cyno leaning against the wall in almost the exact pose he’d had when you first met.

– You brighten immediately. “Mysterious forest General Mahamatra man!”

– He looks almost surprised to see you. “You know Tighnari.”

– “Apparently, you know Tighnari,” you counter.

– The herb bundles tilt ominously. Cyno is beside you before they can spill, lifting half the stack from your arms with practiced ease.

– You blink. “Oh. Thank you.”

– “Preventing avoidable disasters is part of my work.”

– “That sounds less impressive when the disasters are me getting lost or dropping medicinal plants.”

– “A disaster is measured by outcome, not dignity.”

– You stare at him for one beat, then laugh outright. And there it is again—that near-smile he seems to permit only under tightly regulated conditions.

– After that, the overlap in your lives becomes impossible to miss.

– You help Tighnari when his workload gets ridiculous, which is often. Cyno, of course, visits him regularly. So now there is a new and deeply unfortunate pattern in Tighnari’s life where he will look up from his work to find both of you in the same room, consequently suffering twice the usual number of puns.

– “Why did the scholar bring a ladder to the library?”

– You look up from your book. “Why?”

– “To reach a higher level of understanding.”

– You grin. “So the research had its ups and downs?”

– Cyno’s eyes sparkle. “But overall, it elevated the discussion.”

– Tighnari winces from the other side of the room. “I’m revoking your speaking privileges.”

– The thing about Cyno is that most people don’t really laugh with him. They brace for or tolerate his jokes with weary resignation. Tighnari, in particular, reacts to each pun like a fresh personal injury. You are the first person in a long time who hears his jokes and answers them in the same language.

– “That was well-constructed,” Cyno says to you approvingly, ignoring Tighnari.

– “Thank you. I believe in craftsmanship,” you quip.

– He looks absurdly pleased.

– This is, you realize, the key difference between you.

– Cyno treats comedy like architecture: deliberate, measured, built piece by piece. You treat it like weather: sometimes you summon it, but often you’re just in the right place when the air pressure shifts and something absurd blows through. Somehow, it works. He lays the foundation; you throw open the windows.

– By then, friendship has already happened without either of you formally acknowledging it. You start saving small stories for him: strange things you saw in the Bazaar, bizarre essay titles, Tighnari’s latest debate with some stubborn scholar. He shows up with things he thinks you might find interesting: an old text, an unusual trinket, an enormous beetle (which you politely ask him to remove from your immediate vicinity).

– It’s not long before you start landing on the same joke at the same time.

– Collei steps out of her room, smoothing her new tunic nervously. “How do I look?”

– You and Cyno answer simultaneously: “With your eyes.”

– Collei groans. Tighnari makes a sound like his soul just left his body.

– There’s a moment of recognition as you and Cyno turn toward each other. Oh. You, too.

– You break first, laughing helplessly. Cyno’s mouth curves upward after a moment, like he’s decided that if he’s already complicit, he might as well accept it.

– The escalation is, technically, Tighnari’s fault. He keeps inviting you both to the same things because, in his words, “I’m not reorganizing my life around your collective nonsense.”

– This proves to be a strategic error.

– Cyno delivers a structured joke. You riff on it. He refines the riff. You take the refinement somewhere unnecessary. What begins as a pun becomes a volley, then a construction so specific and self-referential that nobody else in the room can follow it anymore.

– “This is a new problem,” Tighnari tells Collei.

– “I think it’s kind of nice,” Collei says. “He seems happy.”

– Tighnari looks at Cyno, who is indeed more animated than usual, leaning forward slightly as you argue about whether camel caravans count as “sandwich delivery” in the desert because they transport goods between layers of sand.

– “That’s what concerns me,” Tighnari says.

– But the real proof of how close you’ve grown shows up in unspoken ways. You learn that he rereads the same book when he can’t sleep. That he sometimes rehearses jokes in his head before saying them aloud. That the burden of being General Mahamatra is not only the responsibility, but the isolation—the way people pull back when they understand what he represents.

– He learns that you are dependable in every serious matter and hopeless with personal clutter. That you love learning but hate the Akademiya’s tendency to treat knowledge like property. That you’re one of the few people he trusts to read the mood—yes, even he knows he doesn’t always get it right—and you help him without making him feel corrected.

– Most importantly, he learns that your humor is not, and has never been, a deflection; it’s a way of reaching sincerity without forcing anyone to sit exposed in it longer than they can bear. Maybe he understands this instinctively because beneath your different deliveries, the two of you are trying to do the same thing: make moments easier to hold.

– This, more than any joke, is why he trusts you.

– One evening, Cyno returns to Gandharva Ville long after sunset, with blood on his sleeves and a heaviness that has nothing to do with fatigue. You don’t comment on the stains or ask for details. Instead, you hand him water and say quietly, “Sit.”

– He does.

– “Want alone time or company?”

– “Company,” he admits.

– You sit beside him. Just that. After a while, you add quietly, “If you ever need to talk, I’ll listen. And if you don’t, I won’t force it into a lesson or a joke.”

– He looks at you for a long moment. “Thank you.”

– “Of course.” Then, because gentleness is easier if it doesn’t stare at itself too long: “Though if you eventually want a joke, I do provide emotional support in several formats.”

– A breath leaves him that is almost, almost a laugh. “Noted.”

– Cyno is not oblivious. He notices patterns. He notices how often he ends up matching his steps to yours, how he slows without thinking when you’re distracted. He often finds himself asking, “Are you heading back?” instead of “Farewell.” He grows used to the sound of your voice fitting neatly into the spare spaces of his day.

– Even the children in Aaru Village assume you come as a set. They run up to both of you with things like, “I made a joke today!” Another asks Cyno to “teach me how make people laugh with the serious voice.”

– He raises an eyebrow at you. You crouch down. “Step one: believe in the joke completely. If you don’t believe in it, no one will.”

– Cyno considers this, then adds, “Step two: leave room before the punchline. Anticipation improves delivery.”

– The children absorb this like sacred instruction. You and Cyno spend a morning helping them invent jokes. None of them are structurally sound, but he insists that “creative expression should not be stifled in early development.” The children glow under his praise.

– That evening, the two of you sit watching the horizon burn itself slowly into dusk—you because you like watching the sky change, him because you’re there—and a thought surfaces.

– “Cyno.”

– “Yes?”

– “Do you know why I kept talking to you? After that first time on the path?”

– He looks over at you. “Because I gave you correct directions.”

– “No.” You pull your knees up, resting your chin on them. “Because you walked me all the way back even though you were heading somewhere else. And you never even mentioned it. I only found out because Tighnari told me.”

– His gaze slides back to a cloud dissolving into flames. “I didn’t do it to be mentioned,” he says.

– “Exactly.”

– “...That is why you kept talking to me?”

– “That, and the jokes.”

– A small smile pulls at his mouth. “I see.”

– The sky behind him is doing something absurd with color—gold bleeding into violet, the kind of sunset that feels too deliberate to be ordinary.

– “And you,” he adds at last, “You understand the joke, but you do not mistake it for the whole of me.”

– Both of you are quiet for a moment, taking in the marvel of the sky. Then you bump your shoulder lightly against his. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

– “I meant it,” he says. 

– “I know.”

– And somehow, that makes it better.

– After a moment, Cyno observes, with perfect seriousness, “For the record, your sense of direction is still poor.”

– You stare at him, then laugh. “There he is.”

– “I had to end this conversation in character.”

– “And people say comedy is dead.”

– This time, his chuckle is unmistakable. Above you, the sky finishes its display and settles into dark. Neither of you moves.

– There’s nowhere else either of you needs to be.

guardian of the rooftops

You always knew Liyue Harbor had secrets. Not the kind carved into stone or whispered in teahouses but the daily ones hidden in plain sight. In the way the wind brushed through the alleys at night. How the lanterns flickered even when there was no breeze. 

For you, the most persistent mystery was the figure on the rooftops.

A flash of teal and black. Gold eyes glinting beneath the moonlight. A lone silhouette, still as stone, always gone the moment you dared to blink.

Your friends insisted you were dreaming. “Too many late-night snacks,” they teased. But you knew you weren’t imagining things. So one evening, on a whim—and a gut feeling—you left an offering on your windowsill of almond tofu in a delicate porcelain dish and a note written in careful script:

If you're watching over us, thank you. The tofu’s for you—no pressure though. P.S. You kinda remind me of Santa Claus. (I read about him in a Mondstadt storybook. Rooftop vigilantes? Same vibe.)

You went to bed feeling a bit ridiculous.

The next morning, the almond tofu was gone. The note had been folded neatly in half.

You definitely weren’t imagining things.

ཐི⋆ཋྀ

It became a little ritual. Every few nights, you’d leave something small: candied fruits, a poem you wrote, once even a feather you found that reminded you of his sleek cloak. And always, something would change. A dish would be cleaned and set aside. A note returned with a single line in beautiful, sharp script. Once: It is delicate. I will keep it somewhere the wind won’t reach.

And then, one night, you couldn’t sleep. Hoping the stars might lull your thoughts into quiet, you climbed out onto your own rooftop with a blanket and a cup of tea.

You didn’t expect him to land silently behind you.

“You’re not Santa Claus,” you said before you could stop yourself.

“...Who?”

You turned and saw him up close for the first time—Xiao, the Vigilant Yaksha. His face was unreadable, but there was the tiniest crease between his brows. You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“There’s a story from Mondstadt,” you said. “About a guy who sneaks around rooftops delivering gifts. I thought maybe you were the Liyue version.”

He blinked. “I do not...deliver gifts.”

His voice was flat but not unfriendly. You couldn’t tell if he was confused or faintly offended. Maybe both.

You smiled anyway. “Well, he gets offerings, too. Milk and cookies. I figured if he gets snacks, so should you. Hence, the almond tofu. More culturally appropriate.”

There was a long pause. Then, very quietly, Xiao muttered, “Milk would have been strange.”

You snorted and tried to hide your grin behind your teacup. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you. For the tofu incident. And the rooftop lurking. It’s...comforting, in a weird way.”

He studied you. “You are not afraid?”

“Of the guy who’s been secretly watching over the city and taking my snacks? Not really.” You tilted your head. “Are you afraid of talking to the people who leave you presents?”

He didn’t answer. But slowly, almost hesitantly, he sat beside you, carefully leaving space between your shoulders. 

The night stretched wide around you, filled with stars and steam rising from your tea. Eventually, he spoke again.

“I’m not Santa Claus.”

You grinned into your tea. “No. But I think I like you better.”

To everyone who has sent in a writing request, please know that I’ve seen them all and am excitedly working on them! It’s harder than expected because I want to do justice to your imaginations, so I’m fighting lots of perfectionism … (ᵕ –ᗜ–)

Until I’ve completed the requests, any other fic I post is something I’ve already written and had in my drafts (like the Xiao Christmas special I’m about to post, which I wrote over the summer). Sorry to my askers—not trying to leave you all hanging TwT

Lastly, thank you all so much for your lovely comments on my posts and thoughts in my inbox ♡ You all are such a blessing and I’m so grateful to be able to share my writings with you!

genshin boys when you overwork yourself

1. He recognizes the signs because he’s lived them before. 

The shadows under your eyes, the way your breath shortens even when you’re still, the isolation you wrap around yourself in like armor—it’s all familiar to him. He’s seen it in his own reflection, long before he ever learned to name it. Only, your burden isn’t karmic debt, and that makes it worse in his eyes; you’re choosing to endure this, believing it’s the only way. He knows exactly where that belief leads.

2. At first, he keeps his distance.

You stay up through the night, candle flickering low, papers scattered across your table. He watches from the rooftop, arms crossed, silent as the stars above him. He tells himself it’s not his place, that mortals have their own ways of enduring—their own choices, their own suffering—but every time you skip a meal, every time you pull another sleepless night, that thread inside him coils tighter. It reminds him of a past he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

He gives in sooner than he expects.

3. He confronts you not with anger but with a plea.

“You’re hurting yourself.”

You wave it off. “It’s just a busy week.” 

His eyes narrow, frustration and something more fragile pooling behind them. “That’s what I told myself,” he says quietly. “And it didn’t save me.”

It’s then you understand: his worry isn’t about weakness. He’s worried because you’re repeating a pattern he barely survived.

4. He begins to linger, seen or unseen but always close.

Sometimes he leaves food. Sometimes his hand stops yours when you reach for your books after dark. 

If you protest, he shakes his head. “Even the strongest thread will fray. Even the strongest soul has limits.”

He says it less like a warning and more like a memory from someone who has broken before.

5. He finally tells you why.

One evening, after finding you asleep at your desk again, he confesses. “I bore my suffering in silence. I thought that made me strong. But it only made me disappear.”

He kneels beside you, not as the Conqueror of Demons, no mask—just Xiao. 

“You’re not meant to carry pain like this. Alone. Or at all.”

6. He doesn’t want to “fix” you. He just refuses to leave you alone in it.

Xiao knows better than to force healing. He doesn’t ask you to quit or abandon your goals. He just brings you water when your throat goes dry. He moves your hand away from the ink when sleep pulls you under.

And sometimes, when you finally take a break, he simply sits beside you in silence, offering his presence like a shield. Not to fight for you, but to fight with you. Sharing the weight so it doesn’t crush you.

7. When you ask why he’s so gentle, his answer is simple.

“Because I know what it feels like to believe suffering is your purpose.” He looks at you with ancient golden eyes, quiet and unflinching. “And I know how it feels to wish someone had stopped you.”

1. He catches on fast, but he doesn’t let you know at first.

Hello Anon! Apologies for the delayed reply ߹𖥦߹ Thank you so much for reading and supporting, and I’m so glad you enjoyed the overhearing fic—I had a ton of fun with the premise. I’m actually planning to include Aether in a new headcanon post that will probably be out in a couple weeks, but if you have any Aether-specific requests, I would love to hear your thoughts!

do cry over spilled wine

It all started with a toast.

You weren’t even sure who made it—some high-ranking Sumeru scholar with too many syllables in their title and not enough sense in their drink—but they raised a glass of sparkling violet wine, called it “an experimental blend of clarity and insight,” and passed it to the man standing next to you.

Kaeya sniffed it once. “Smells expensive,” he said. Then, with his usual flair for bad decisions, he knocked it back in one go.

You frowned. “Wait, didn’t they say that was alchemically enhanced?”

He licked his lips, blinking slowly. “Hm. Tastes like crushed berries, ruined secrets, and maybe—oh no.”

“What?”

He gripped your sleeve like a man standing at the edge of a cliff. “I think I just drank a truth serum.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I think I feel…sincere.” He touched his chest, aghast. “This is awful. My thoughts are coming out of my mouth without permission.”

“…Are you sure it’s not just the wine?”

Kaeya looked you dead in the eye and whispered, “I’ve been wearing the same underwear for three days straight.”

“Alright,” you muttered, grabbing his arm. “We are leaving right now.”

You had exactly ten minutes of grace before the wine kicked in fully. Ten minutes where Kaeya grew increasingly chatty, then concerningly self-aware, then completely unfiltered.

“Did you know I once fell in love with someone because they pronounced ‘Anemo’ with the wrong emphasis?”

You blinked. “Wait—”

“That was Rosaria,” he added, too quickly. “It lasted twenty minutes. I got over it when she corrected herself.”

“Oh.”

“I did fall in love with someone else, though,” he said casually.

You nearly tripped. “Wait, who—?”

“Hold on, I’m busy monologuing.”

He climbed onto a table. 

You had to physically wrestle a wine list out of Kaeya’s hands after he began dramatically dictating his will to a startled Fontaine ambassador while using a cocktail umbrella as a pen.

“I hereby leave my collection of eyepatches to anyone who has ever flirted with me out of genuine interest and not political curiosity,” he declared.

The ambassador blinked. “Does anyone qualify for that?”

Kaeya sighed, hand over his heart. “Tragically, no.”

“Get down,” you hissed, yanking at his coat.

“In a minute! I’m trying to make peace with my legacy.”

“You’re going to make peace with the floor if you don’t get down.”

Somewhere between your third apology to the event organizers and Kaeya attempting to challenge a Fontanian diplomat to a fencing match with breadsticks, the compliments started.

“You’re kind, you know.”

You froze. “…I’m sorry?”

“You act like you’re not,” Kaeya continued earnestly, “but you remember everyone’s birthdays. You carry extra gloves in winter. You gave your dinner to that stray cat last week and lied about it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”

You flushed. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything.” His voice dropped, softer now. “I remember how you looked the day we met. I remember the first time you laughed at one of my jokes. I remember the way you hold your breath when you’re trying not to cry.”

You swallowed.

“I remember wishing you’d look at me the way you look at him,” Kaeya added, and then promptly hiccuped and ruined the moment.

“Okay,” you said weakly, steering him toward a chair. “Time for water.”

You got him back to his room—eventually. It took two guards, one very concerned maid, and a bribe involving three coupons for free tavern drinks.

He was quieter now. He wasn’t passed out, but he lay still in a way that felt unusual for him. You sat beside the bed as he curled under the blanket, looking strangely small in all that silk and charm.

“I think,” he said softly, “that I keep talking because I’m scared of silence.”

You didn’t respond.

“I think if I stop talking,” Kaeya whispered, “I’ll say something real.”

He turned his head to face you, his eye a little glassy.

“I think I already did.”

Eventually, his breathing evened out, and you thought he had fallen asleep. By the time you were sure, the sky outside had shifted to the pale gray of very early morning. You slipped out quietly, the air damp and cool against your face in the half-asleep city, and made your way to the apothecary.

You returned with water, headache tonics, and a plan to pretend none of it had ever happened. Kaeya, however, was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands pressed to his face.

“I remember everything,” he said through his fingers.

You stopped. “Oh.”

“I challenged an ambassador to a fencing match. With breadsticks.”

You nodded gently. “You did.”

“I made a very convincing legal will using a cocktail umbrella.”

“Two drafts, actually.”

“I”—he swallowed—“I told you things I wasn’t supposed to.”

You met his eyes. “You did.”

“I meant them,” he said quietly.

You were quiet.

“Did you…hate it?”

You looked at him. “No,” you said. “I didn’t.”

Kaeya let out a long breath, covering his face with one hand. “I made a fool of myself.”

“Honestly? You made a very sincere fool of yourself.”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “And you stayed? After that?”

“You said I was kind.”

“I was under the influence of weaponized emotional honesty,” he muttered. “It doesn’t count.”

You handed him the water. “It counts to me.”

There was a long pause. 

“I wasn’t joking,” he said finally.

“I didn’t think you were.”

Silence settled over the room again. Then, Kaeya exhaled, his shoulders dropping as if some invisible weight had lifted. “…So what now?”

You smiled faintly. “Now, you drink your water. And later, we figure out if you're still brave without the wine.”

He gazed at you for a moment. Then—soft, tired, and real—Kaeya smiled.

“I might need you to stick around,” he said.

You sat beside him. “I already am.”

Footnotes in the Margins

Footnotes in the Margins ¹𝄒 ²𝄒 ³

The library was unusually quiet today. Not that it was ever particularly rowdy, but even the usual rustling of pages and soft footsteps seemed to have melted into stillness. You appreciated it. The silence gave you space to breathe, to think…and to procrastinate on your own research by aimlessly browsing the back shelves. 

That was when you found it. Tucked between two thick volumes on pre-Celestial syntax theory, halfway down a shelf no one touched unless they were actively trying to disprove ancient grammar, there it sat. It looked unremarkable at first glance: well-bound, neatly shelved, and oppressively academic, like any other book from the House of Daena. You might’ve passed it by if you had still been a starry-eyed newcomer who still believed research came from passion, not from studying. But you, who had combed through thousands of library books during your time at the Akademiya, noticed two things immediately. There was no classification number on the spine, and it bore the telltale kind of wear that came from being read and reread, not skimmed for citations but thoroughly studied.

You pulled it out. The title was something dry: Epistemic Constructs in Rational Thought. It hadn’t even been shelved correctly, you noted before you opened the cover and caught the unmistakable offense. Annotations, dozens of them cleanly written in the margins and between lines, sometimes replacing whole arguments with alternative ones. Entire paragraphs scrawled in the margins in meticulous, slanted handwriting. You frowned. No scholar would dare mark up a library book like this. Then again, this didn’t appear to be a library book.

The realization arrived quickly. The handwriting was familiar—not by sheer coincidence, but because you’d seen it before. Briefly, on shared reports, with sharp, efficient strokes. On the occasional joint paper. In the corner of a board scrawled with citations and deadlines. It was unmistakable.

Alhaitham.

The Acting Grand Sage had a distinct way of annotating, bordering on clinical precision. His notes weren’t chaotic; they were surgical, detached, but oddly revealing. They questioned premises and tore apart analogies. 

You’d seen him with personal copies of texts like this before—making quiet observations in the corners, dissecting arguments, crossing out entire sections with a single dismissive line—but the commentary within this book was different. It wasn’t just theory or academic musings or counterarguments. No, you realized as you kept reading, it was personal.

You paused, fingers hovering over a line heavily underlined in graphite.

You blinked. Your heart skipped as you turned the page.

It wasn’t a confession, not explicitly; he hadn’t written your name. But everything pointed to you: your habits, your voice, that one argument you’d had with him last week in the lecture hall—the one he claimed was ‘logically inconsistent’ and you insisted was ‘emotionally necessary.’ In frustration, you’d invoked an analogy about symbolic walks beneath moonlit trees, a reference you were still mortified to have made. Yet here it was, inked in his hand. He had written about it.

You should’ve closed the book, placed it back, and pretended you never saw it. But your fingers kept turning the pages, kept uncovering pieces of him he would never show so easily: quiet sarcasm tucked between philosophical theories, flashes of wit that softened the sharpness of his logic.

The book felt heavy in your hands. You’d always assumed Alhaitham thought of you as a minor annoyance, an occasionally tolerable colleague, perhaps. But this…this was something else. A mind unraveling in silence. A heart he wasn’t even sure he had, quietly finding its shape in your shadow. You turned one last page, and tucked near the end, almost as an afterthought:

The pen stroke faltered at the end of the sentence, as if he hadn’t been sure whether to finish it. You glanced up instinctively, half-expecting to see him watching nearby, but the library was quiet. Earlier, you had seen him, just briefly, as you passed the main aisle. He’d been skimming titles near the central atrium, his expression unreadable as always. You hadn’t said anything, and neither had he. It hadn’t seemed strange at the time.

But now you wondered if he’d been looking for something.

You closed the book slowly, fingertips lingering on the margin where his thoughts had trailed off. The next move, you realized, might no longer be his to make.

____________

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎¹ Margins of Response

You didn’t return the book; you took it home instead. It wasn’t out of carelessness, nor was it simple curiosity. It was something quieter—a kind of reverence. You handled it the way one would a fragile secret: gently, almost afraid it might change if you looked at it for too long. His notes replayed in your mind without resolution. 

You should’ve said something right away, should’ve brought the book back to him and asked, Why did you write about me like that? But you couldn’t; not yet. Not when the words were still sinking in, threading themselves into your understanding of him like ink into parchment. Instead, you reached for a pen.

Your handwriting was different than his: softer, rounder, and less sure. But you found a space at the bottom of one of his entries—a sliver of margin he’d left untouched—and you wrote.

Another page:

You left your thoughts like that, scattered in quiet response to his own. It was a conversation held in ink rather than air, a thread running parallel to his own, neither correcting nor contradicting but merely coexisting. 

Finally, on the back page, just beneath his last uncertain line, you responded,

The next day, you returned the book to its shelf, placing it exactly where you had found it: same position, same angle. You waited.

It didn’t take long; he came looking for it that same afternoon. You weren’t surprised. You watched from the upper floor of the library, heart in your throat, as Alhaitham pulled the book from its place and turned it over in his hands. His expression didn’t change much—he was always hard to read—but there was a slight pause, a subtle stillness in his fingers as he opened to one of the pages you’d touched. He read your words slowly. He lingered. Then, deliberately, he closed the book and looked up past the balcony right at you.

The silence stretched between you. Neither of you moved. The distance between the floors, the books, and the postulates you’d both tried so hard to keep private all narrowed in that one moment. And then he did something you’d never seen him do before: he smiled. Barely, but it was real.

____________

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎² In Quiet Spaces

You didn’t expect him to follow you, but when the day wound down and the House of Daena began to empty, you caught a glimpse of muted green and silver trailing your footsteps. You stepped into the records alcove. The walls were lined with silent tomes, and the low golden lamps cast shadows too soft for confrontation. Still, you knew he was there and waited without turning around. He didn’t speak for a while, but when he did, it was quieter than usual, almost careful. 

“I was aware my copy of Epistemic Constructs in Rational Thought was missing,” he said. “I wasn’t aware it had been read.”

You turned, arms folded; it wasn’t a defensive gesture, just a way to anchor yourself. “You left it in the Akademiya library. That doesn’t exactly scream classified information.”

“That would be a fair argument,” he nodded once, eyes flicking down, “but there’s a discrepancy in the situation. I never brought it to the House of Daena. An assistant must have mistaken it for my reference texts and returned it with the others. It wasn’t meant for anyone else’s eyes. Not intentionally.”

You tilted your head. “Not even mine?”

His gaze held yours. “Especially not yours.”

Silence again.

“I wasn’t sure what to say,” you murmured finally. “So I wrote back.”

He exhaled faintly, as if suppressing a laugh. “Yes. I read your notes. You were more gracious than I deserved.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Gracious? I called you out.”

“You did,” he agreed. “But you did it with…understanding. That’s rarer than you think.”

There was something new in his tone. Vulnerability wasn’t quite the word for it, but perhaps sincerity was, and his was unfiltered, for once, not sifted through theory or logic.

“I thought I could out-reason the feeling,” he admitted, “dissect it until it disappeared. But it didn’t. It just evolved.”

You stepped a little closer. “Do you really think it makes you weaker?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then, with a strange, almost wry curve of his lips, he admitted, “I think it makes me uncomfortable. But perhaps that’s not the same thing.”

You smiled. “It isn’t.”

The moment stretched between you, still delicate and undefined, but something had shifted. A line had been crossed. It wasn’t a confession, not quite, but it was an acknowledgment. Alhaitham looked at you then, more fully than before. Not as if you were a variable to analyze—just as you.

“I don’t want this to stay in the margins,” he said, voice steady.

You blinked.

He looked faintly amused by your expression, if only barely. “If you’re willing,” he added, “I’d prefer we discuss it elsewhere. More directly.”

You managed a half-smile. “Someplace quiet, not performative.”

His eyes softened. “Agreed. No symbolic walks beneath moonlit trees.”

“No symbolic walks beneath moonlit trees,” you echoed solemnly.

A pause. Then—to your surprise—he laughed. It was just a breath of it, low and short, but undeniably real. It caught you off guard and warmed something in your chest.

“Tea,” he suggested after a moment. “In my study. Less metaphor, more clarity.”

____________

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎³ Between the Lines

His study was exactly how you imagined it: tidy, quiet, with lamplight filtering through half-shut windows. Books lined the walls, orderly, color-coded, each spine carefully bent and memorized. A single chair faced his desk. Another, which had been previously tucked to the side, had been pulled forward for you.

He gestured for you to sit, then poured tea—one of those delicate, floral kinds from Port Ormos that no one expected him to keep stocked. You didn’t ask why because the scent alone softened the expectant silence. Finally, he sat opposite you, elbows resting lightly on the desk. For once, there were no books between you. No inked margins to hide behind.

“I reread what I wrote,” he said after a moment. “With your annotations in mind.”

You watched steam curl from your cup. “And?”

“It was a flawed method of processing,” he said simply. “Too detached. I tried to contain something that didn’t want to be dissected.”

You glanced at him. “Affection?”

He met your eyes. “You.”

The air hung still between you.

“I told myself it was temporary,” he continued, his voice low and even, “that proximity would pass. I believed you’d fade into the background like most things do eventually, but the opposite happened. The more I noticed you, the more I wanted to.”

“And now?” you asked, your voice quiet.

He hesitated. “I don’t have a hypothesis for this,” he said finally. “But I don’t think I want one.”

You smiled, just a little. “That’s surprisingly unscientific of you.”

“Terrifying, really,” he deadpanned. His voice softened. “But not unwelcome.”

He looked at you then and it wasn’t an answer so much as an invitation. You reached for your cup, fingers brushing the porcelain. The tea had cooled slightly, but the warmth lingered.

“I liked reading your thoughts,” you said softly. “Even the over-analyzed ones.”

He tilted his head. “Even the one where I compared you to a disruptive variable?”

You chuckle. “Especially that one.”

Another silence followed, but this time, it felt earned. When you finally stood to leave, he walked you to the door. You paused there—half in shadow, half in lamp-glow—not looking back.

“I’m not expecting anything,” you said. “Just…don’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

Behind you, Alhaitham stood still for a moment. Then, calmly, he replied, “I wouldn’t have invited you here if I planned to ignore it.”

You turned to face him. He wasn’t smiling—he rarely did—but something in his posture had softened. He wasn’t guarding the space between you anymore. He wasn’t calculating how much of himself he could afford to show.

“I don’t know what this becomes,” he admitted. “But I don’t think it needs a name yet.”

You nodded. “No. Just…don’t overthink it.”

“That may be difficult.”

You huffed a laugh. “I know.”

You reached for the door and pushed it open, then hesitated. 

“I’m not just a margin note,” you added softly.

“I know.” His voice was steady. Quiet. Certain.

You smiled and stepped into the hallway. Next time, there wouldn’t be footnotes. The book, the annotations, the unsaid thoughts—they were behind you both now. Ahead lay something unmarked, unwritten, and entirely yours.

Hi Anon! To be honest, I’m quite behind in the Archon Quests so I don’t know the Natlan characters nearly as well...but if given the opportunity I’d love to write for them, which includes our sweet gardener boi :)

hoyoverse masterlist (ongoing!)

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Genshin Impact

✦ — MULTIPLE 👥

「 genshin boys snowball fight with you 」

「 genshin boys overhear you talking to yourself 」

「 genshin boys reach for the same item as you 」

「 genshin boys when you overwork yourself 」

✦ — KAEYA ALBERICH 🍷❄️

✦ — DILUC RAGNVINDR 🔥🦉

✦ — TARTAGLIA 🧣🌊

✦ — XIAO 🍃🏮

✦ — ALHAITHAM 🌿📜 

✦ — CYNO ⚡️⚖️ 

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Honkai Star Rail

✦ — AVENTURINE 🦚🎲

Hi anon, thank you for reaching out and being my first ask, woohoo!

Great timing for your question—my requests are currently open, and I’m actually about to update this blog with a pinned “about” post, which features an info section on requests :) Excited to see what you have in mind!

genshin boys reach for the same item as you (part 2)

The prize is ridiculous—nearly the size of a small child and shaped like a giant, sparkly Onikabuto with a smug little face. You spot it at a summer festival in Inazuma City, sitting on the highest shelf of a street vendor’s prize rack. It’s the sort of thing no reasonable person actually needs…which means you want it instantly.

You step up to the counter and reach for it just as a much larger hand—warm, calloused, and tanned from the sun—knocks against yours.

“Whoa-ho-ho. Hey there, festival rookie,” a voice says, full of cocky amusement. “That there’s my Onikabro. Been keepin’ my eye on him all evening, bonding from afar. You can’t just swoop in and steal a man’s destiny like that.”

You turn your head and find yourself looking up—way up—into the grinning face of a horned man with wild white hair and an energy that practically vibrates in the air.

“Your destiny is a plush beetle?” you ask dryly.

He gasps like you’ve insulted his entire bloodline. “Not just a plush beetle! That’s the Shiny Supreme Super Onikabro. And he’s been calling to me—‘Itto, my dude, win me, take me home, we’ll eat sweet sakura mochi together.’ You know, stuff like that.”

You raise a brow in challenge. “Funny, he’s been whispering the same thing to me. How about we see who actually wins him?”

His grin widens. “Ooh, I like you. You’ve got guts. Alright, lil’ challenger, we’ll make it a ring toss showdown. First to five rings takes Onikabro home. Loser…” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a playful drawl. “…has to buy the winner dango milk.”

The match draws a small crowd, mostly thanks to his running commentary about how you’re “surprisingly scrappy” and “not bad for a newbie,” which makes you throw even harder just to make him eat his words.

When you land your fifth ring before he can get his fourth, he goes completely still. “No way... No. Way.”

You take the beetle from the vendor and hug it to your chest. “Looks like you’re buying the dango milk.”

He recovers quickly, flashing a grin. “Alright, alright, you win this time, lil’ beetle champ. But next festival? I’m winning you—uh, I mean, winning against you. Yeah.”

You smirk and walk away with your prize, feeling his eyes on your back. Something tells you this won’t be the last time you cross paths…or the last time he tries to rope you into another “totally fair” competition.

You had never been to Angel’s Share before. The tavern’s glow was always something you passed by from the street—too loud, too crowded, too full of people who seem to belong. But today had been unbearable, and against your better judgment, you push open the door and step inside.

The noise of conversation presses in, the air thick with alcohol and laughter. You slump onto a stool at the bar, keeping your head low, and order the first drink that comes to mind. The glass sits mostly untouched in front of you as you stare down into it, hoping the warmth of the tavern will dull the day. It doesn’t. Instead, your vision blurs, and you realize with horror that tears threaten to spill over. You try to blink them away, pressing your lips tight. You are a stranger here. No one will care, but no one should see.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a plain wooden box of tissues sitting at the far edge of the counter, the kind kept there for careless wine spills. You reach for it quickly, desperate to hide the crack in your composure. At the same moment, a gloved hand slides it toward you.

You freeze, your fingers brushing the edge of the box just as his do, warm fabric against your skin for the briefest instant.

The bartender clears his throat quietly and lets go first. “Here,” he says, low-voiced, as if speaking too loudly might draw more attention than you want.

You mutter a thank you, pressing a tissue to your eyes. The silence that follows isn’t the oppressive kind anymore but something gentler. Still, it unsettles you how steady his gaze feels even when you refuse to meet it.

“Rough day?” he asks finally.

You give a watery laugh. “Something like that.”

He nods once, as if that answer is enough. Then, in his hesitant way, he reaches behind the counter. A moment later, a small plate of pastries appears in front of you. “On the house. It…helps sometimes.”

You look up, startled. There is no trace of teasing in his expression, only a quiet sincerity that somehow makes your throat ache more than before. And for the first time all day, you feel a little less alone.

It’s the last packet of flowering true indigo seeds in the Grand Bazaar’s apothecary stall, destined to unfurl into delicate, spindly stems crowned with clusters of dusky pink blossoms that thrive in dappled forest shade and enrich the soil. You’ve been hunting for them for weeks. Your fingers brush the paper just as another hand reaches in.

“Ah, pardon me,” a man says, voice even but polite. “I’ve been looking for these for a specific restoration plot in Avidya Forest.”

You look up and immediately recognize his uniform, the Forest Watcher insignia at his shoulder, the green scent of rain-damp foliage that clings to him. “You’re a Forest Watcher.”

His ears twitch, and he inclines his head. “Tighnari. And yes.”

You hesitate only a second before sliding your hand back. “Then you should have them. You’re out there taking care of the forest every day, making sure it even has plants like these. I can wait.”

His hazel eyes soften in clear surprise. “That’s…rare. Most people would argue their case. Especially if they’ve been looking as long as you have, judging from the way you lit up when you saw them.”

You laugh faintly. “I just figure you’ll make better use of them. I care about nature, but you’re actually protecting it.”

He takes the packet, then sets it back on the stall counter. “Then I’ll propose something better. There’s a small grove near Gandharva Ville where these seeds will do the most good, but I can spare a section for cultivation training. If you want to help plant them, you’ll get more than you would from a garden plot here in the city.”

Your eyebrows rise. “You’d let me help?”

“Only if you listen to instructions,” he says, but the edge of his mouth tilts upward. “And if you can handle the trek. It’s humid, there are fungi everywhere, and I might quiz you on leaf identification along the way.”

You smile. “Sounds fair.”

He pays for the seeds, tucking them into a pouch at his waist. “Meet me at the eastern bridge to Gandharva Ville tomorrow morning. We’ll see if you still think so then.”

You walk away feeling oddly light, already wondering what other rare plants might grow in that grove and what it might be like to see the forest through his eyes.

You’re killing time in a small tea house on the quieter side of Liyue Harbor, savoring a cup of jasmine tea and watching the harbor cranes swing against the setting sun. At the next table, a man in civilian clothes lounges with an easy posture, idly tapping his fingers against his porcelain cup. His reddish hair catches the light, and though he is dressed simply, there is a strange sharpness to the way his gaze tracks people coming and going.

You don’t have long to wonder about him before the front doors bang open. Four Treasure Hoarders storm in, weapons drawn. 

“Empty your tills and hand over the lockbox,” one snarls at the shop owner. “Now.”

The room tenses. You scan the room for something—anything—you can use to defend yourself and maybe help the poor owner. Your eyes fall on a sturdy wooden serving tray leaning against the counter.

You lunge for it at the exact same moment the redhead does. Your fingers collide, the wood trapped between you. He looks at you with a flash of surprise that quickly melts into a crooked grin.

“Oh? Didn’t think anyone else here was about to join the fun.” Before you can answer, he pushes the tray into your hands. “You take this. I’m better up close.”

The Hoarders are already moving. You swing the tray at the nearest one, smacking his weapon clean from his grip. The redhead—who clearly hadn’t been bluffing—is suddenly a blur of motion, driving an elbow into another’s stomach and sweeping his legs out from under him. One lunges at you from the side, but the redhead intercepts, twisting the attacker’s arm until he drops his blade. The last one tries to make a break for it, but a well-aimed kick from your newfound battle companion sends him sprawling.

When the dust settles, the four groan on the floor. The tea house owner peeks out from behind the counter, wide-eyed. The redhead saunters up to you, brushing a fleck of dust off his sleeve. 

“You fight well. Not bad for a first-time tag team.” His tone is light, but there’s appraisal in his eyes.

You smile faintly. “Thanks for the assist. Though I’m starting to think you didn’t actually need me.”

He chuckles. “Maybe. But it was more fun this way.”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small calling card, sliding it across the table to you. The name reads simply: Tartaglia.

“Next time you see trouble,” he says with a wink, “save me a seat at your table.”

The garden lanterns glow warm against the evening, casting shifting shadows over the polished stones of the Inazuman noble’s estate. Guests stand in neat clusters, voices low and careful. Every laugh is measured, every smile calculated. You aren’t here for the wine or the polite conversation; you are here to listen. Rumors say negotiations between several noble houses have soured, and something is about to give.

The sharp chime of porcelain breaking cuts through the air. Several guests turn in time to see the host’s wife gasp, one hand rising to her elaborate coiffure. A delicate hairpin—a slim, antique piece inlaid with mother-of-pearl cranes—has tumbled loose, glinting as it spins across the stone. You step forward instinctively, only to realize someone else has moved at the exact same moment. Your hands reach the hairpin together. His touch is cool and precise, withdrawing just enough to let you grasp it first.

But the instant your fingers close around it, you feel something wrong: a sliver of metal beneath the decorative head, sharper than it should be. It is a narrow blade, spring-loaded into place, with the faintest trace of an oily sheen along its edge. Not a hairpin—a weapon.

Your eyes flick to the man beside you. His expression is unreadable, but the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth suggests amusement, or perhaps warning. Without a word, he extends his hand. You hesitate before placing the hairpin into his palm. His fingers close over it smoothly, concealing the dangerous edge from view.

“I’ll see it returned to the lady,” he says in a voice pitched but carrying the weight of one accustomed to obedience. Then, with a polite bow, he slips back toward the host’s wife.

You expect him to hand it over immediately. Instead, you notice, just barely, that he palms the hairpin into the wide sleeve of his kimono before producing a different, harmless ornament from somewhere else and presenting that to her instead. Her relieved smile suggests she has no idea.

The rest of the evening passes in a haze of cautious conversation, but when you glance toward him again, he is gone. It isn’t until you are leaving that you find him waiting at the outer gate, hands folded loosely behind his back.

“I suspect,” he says lightly, “that someone as observant as you won’t be able to resist wondering why the host’s wife was wearing an assassin’s blade in her hair.”

You open your mouth, but he steps closer, lowering his voice until only you can hear. 

“If you’d like an answer,” he says, “come to the Kamisato estate tomorrow at noon. If not…” He steps back, the faintest ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Then I’ll assume our paths will simply cross again…in less favorable circumstances.”

And with that, he turns and vanishes into the night, leaving you with a choice and the unsettling certainty that you’ve already made it.

You slip quietly through the towering shelves of the House of Daena, hand trailing a row of paper spines with a purpose not entirely scholarly; today, you weren’t hunting knowledge but a book thick enough to press a handful of blossoms you’d collected earlier on your morning walk. Nothing fancy—just a practical volume you could carry back to your desk without attracting attention. At last, you spot it. A slender, unassuming book, tucked neatly among tomes of far heavier consequence. Your fingers graze the spine just as another hand closes over it from the other side. You glance sideways. 

Tall. Sharp eyes. Slate-green hair catching the light from the library’s stained-glass windows. His Akademiya uniform is immaculate, and something about his composed presence makes him stand out even here. 

For one fleeting moment, your brain rehearses the polite, academic response: Oh, you can have it. You hadn’t needed this book specifically, after all. But then the stranger tilts his head, assessing you with the faintly dismissive air of a scribe cataloguing a particularly unremarkable footnote, and states, “I’ll be needing that.”

Any civilized instinct you had vanishes. You tighten your grip on the spine. “I got here first.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, almost imperceptible. The silence stretches, charged, his eyes locking with yours in a quiet battle of wills until, at last, you relent with a huff. 

“Fine, take it. See if I care.”

He slips the book free with disarming ease. “Wise choice,” he murmurs, not smug so much as matter-of-fact.

You’d just managed to convince yourself to brush it off and search for another suitable book when his gaze snags on the flowers peeking from your satchel. One blossom slips loose, tumbling soundlessly to the floor. His brow creases. 

“Botanical specimens. You intended to compare them against the taxonomy in this volume?”

You stoop quickly, plucking the flower back into your palm. “Not exactly.” Then, because honesty had always been your downfall: “I was going to press them with it.”

The effect of your admission is immediate. His composure cracks for a single, glorious second, eyes widening, mouth parting as though you had announced an intent to burn the Akademiya’s archives for kindling. Shock, disbelief, and something that might even be personal offense wage battle across his face.

“You…were going to use an Akademiya manuscript as a botanical press?” His voice, usually so steady, pitches upward. “Do you even realize—”  He cuts himself off, drawing in a slow breath as though the act of restraint costs him dearly.

The corner of your mouth twitches. “What? It’s heavy. Flat. Reliable.”

He blinks at you like he’s visibly recalibrating his entire worldview. For someone so famously composed, the disbelief written across his features is nothing short of priceless, and for reasons he probably doesn’t care to examine, he’s just a little intrigued.

It rains the way only Fontaine can: fine mist one moment, sudden downpour the next, the whole city glistening as if it has been dipped in glass. You are not sure why the weather turns so suddenly; the sky was clear just an hour ago.

You duck into a small, book-lined shop, shaking water from your coat. The place smells faintly of ink and salt air, and at the very back, tucked high on a shelf, is exactly what you are looking for: a rare, illustrated compilation of Fontaine’s aquatic folklore. You reach up just as another hand—graceful, long-fingered, and gloved—extends from beside you. Your eyes follow the sleeve of his dark coat up to a tall man with silver hair that catches the lamplight like rainwater. His gaze lowers to you, unreadable but courteous.

“Ah,” he says softly, as if the word is an exhale. “It seems we have similar tastes.”

“Looks like it,” you reply, fingers still touching the book’s spine. “First come, first served?”

His lips curve in the faintest ghost of a smile. “Ordinarily, perhaps. But this particular volume is not for casual reading.”

You tilt your head. “You think I’m a casual reader?”

“Only that most people,” he says with deliberate slowness, “don’t seek out myths of the sea unless they’re…invested.” His eyes flick toward the rain-smeared window. “Or, unless they understand the weight of what’s in them.”

Without thinking, you remark, “Sometimes the rain feels like it’s crying for you.” It isn’t something you mean to speak aloud—just a passing thought you’ve had on days like this, when the downpour seemed almost sentient.

His gaze widens, the faintest ripple of surprise breaking through his composure.

You let go of the book, curiosity outweighing your claim. “Did I get it wrong?”

“...No,” he says at last, his voice quieter now. “It’s not often I hear someone phrase it that way.”

When you step back, he takes the volume, but after a moment’s thought, opens it to a page adorned with a watercolor of a great dragon weeping over an endless ocean.

“This one,” he says quietly, as if speaking of something personal, “tells of a guardian who watched over the waters for centuries, unseen and unthanked. The people forgot his name. They say when he mourned, the skies mourned with him, and the rain fell until his sorrow eased.”

A soft, almost imperceptible note of sadness lingers in his voice. Outside, the rain continues, steady and unrelenting.

He glances at you. “If you’re willing to walk with me to the Court when the weather calms, we can read the rest together. I believe the discussion will be enlightening.”

Something tells you this won’t be a quick exchange of trivia over tea. It will be the kind of conversation that stays with you, the kind that might explain, one day, why the rain sometimes feels like it is falling for someone.

The busy chatter of Ritou’s morning market fades beneath the thud of something hitting the cobblestones. A cream paper envelope sealed in red wax skids to a halt between your boots. You bend at the same time as a stranger on your right, nearly knocking foreheads. He catches himself with a grin, quick as a fox.

“After you,” he says, though his gaze is already dissecting the envelope.

You pick it up, turning it in your hands. Thick paper, expensive; no address, no name, just an embossed Windwheel emblem in one corner.

“Not Inazuman,” you murmur.

“Foreign import,” he agrees instantly. “Probably Mondstadt. But see the faint smudge of salt on the wax? It’s been carried by sea recently.”

You nod. “And the faint citrus scent means it spent some time in a crate with fruit, probably to mask whatever else was in the shipment. Which suggests…”

“The sender wanted it to pass customs without inspection,” he finishes, his brows rising slightly.

The merchant who had dropped it is now halfway down the pier, walking with a subtle limp.

“Right shoe sole is worn more than the left,” you note aloud, “and the knees of his trousers are dusty. Either he kneels a lot, or—”

“—he’s been prying open crates,” your new associate supplies. “The ink on his fingers wasn’t from bookkeeping, then.”

You hand him the envelope, but instead of pocketing it, he tilts his head at you. “You’re good at this.”

“And you’re wasting time,” you return, already stepping toward the pier.

His grin widens as he follows. “What’s your name, partner?”

You don't answer—partly because you aren’t sure why you're getting involved, and partly because you enjoy the spark of curiosity that flickers in his eyes when you keep him guessing.

genshin boys reach for the same item as you (part 1)

You browse the merchant booths in the small village just outside Sumeru City, the air fragrant with spices and ink. Vendors display everything from hand-copied manuscripts to experimental powders in glass jars. One table in particular catches your eye, presenting a sealed container of dark blue liquid labeled as a “rare stimulant derived from desert flora, guaranteed to increase mental acuity.” It’s expensive, yes, but you’ve never seen anything like it. You reach for the jar, fingers skimming the cool glass, but another hand lands on the lid at the same time.

You startle, looking up to meet the piercing gaze of a man in a black cloak and golden headpiece. The sheer severity of his stare makes your pulse trip; it feels less like a coincidence and more like he’s caught you in the middle of a crime.

“You’re under arre—” he begins, voice low and final.

Then he pauses. Blinks once. His gaze flicks to the vendor, then back to you, registering in a fraction of a second that you are merely…shopping.

“…Never mind,” he says. “You’re not the suspect.”

The silence that follows is thick and awkward, your hand still hovering over the jar, his still inches away.

“That’s good…?” you venture, unsure if you’ve just narrowly avoided incarceration or a lecture.

He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, his fingers close around the jar with clinical precision. “This is evidence. The seller is distributing diluted tinctures stolen from a restricted research project.”

The vendor sputters. “Evidence? You have no right—”

That’s when the man produces an official seal from inside his cloak and delivers the words with cool finality, “General Mahamatra. You are under disciplinary review for unlawful possession of Akademiya property.”

The color drains from the vendor’s face. He bolts.

Cyno doesn’t even flinch; he just presses the jar into your hands, surprising you. “Hold this.” Then, he’s gone in a blur of white and gold, chasing the man into the street.

You stand there, dumbfounded, jar cradled awkwardly, trying to reconcile the fact that two minutes ago you were shopping and now you’re holding contraband evidence for the Akademiya’s most intimidating law enforcer. When he returns, dragging the subdued vendor by the collar, he reclaims the jar without hesitation.

“Thanks for keeping it safe,” he says. He studies you for a beat, expression unreadable. “You stayed calm; I’m impressed. Most people would find the whole situation rather…jar-ring.” 

It takes a moment for your brain to process his words. Did the General Mahamatra just make a pun? You blink, caught between disbelief and amusement. “Oh, um…quite pun-derful of you to notice,” you reply, your voice carefully polite.

Cyno’s lip twitches, just the faintest hint of a smile. Without another word, he turns sharply and disappears down the street.

You can hardly believe it when the next time you run into him, he’s across the table at a TCG gathering, fanning a hand of Genius Invocation cards. “Your move,” he says, eyes unreadable, but there’s a spark of mischief there that hints this second meeting may not have been a coincidence.

The ballroom is too warm, too loud, and too full of people smiling at each other with their teeth and not their eyes. You’ve lasted an hour longer than you meant to, and the glass in your hand has been empty for twenty minutes. That is your excuse, anyway, as you slip toward the long table glittering with bottles of Mondstadt’s finest vintages.

You keep your gaze low and shoulders angled away from the crowd, moving with the sort of careful ease that makes you nearly invisible. If you time it right, you can snag a bottle, slip out a side door, and no one will be the wiser. Your fingers curl around the cool glass neck of a Dawn Winery vintage, only to be met by someone else’s hand. You blink, startled, and look up.

The man across from you wears a half-lidded smile that seems too amused for the situation. “Well,” he drawls, thumb still resting on the bottle, covering your own, “I can’t decide if this is luck or tragedy. I come here to steal a drink, and find someone attempting the same crime.”

You arch a brow, not pulling your hand back. “Steal? It’s not stealing if it’s freely provided.”

“Mm. True. But…” His smile sharpens. “It’s not exactly encouraged to smuggle the whole bottle, is it?”

The implication makes you flush, mostly because he’s right. “Maybe I was planning to share,” you counter quickly.

“Oh?” His head tilts, and for a heartbeat, the noise of the ballroom dims around you, his attention drawing you in like a tide. “In that case, I’d be terribly rude to deny such a generous offer. Shall we call it a conspiracy, then?”

You hesitate, weighing whether to release the bottle or wait for him to. But then, almost without thinking, you both lift it at the same time—two culprits caught in the same scheme. His gloved hand lingers a moment longer on yours, then slides away, leaving a chill in its absence.

“You don’t enjoy parties either, then?” you ask, because somehow it seems better than silence.

He lets out a smooth chuckle. “Let’s just say I prefer my evenings quieter. Fewer masks, fewer lies. Unless I’m the one telling them, of course.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, half amused, half wary. “And who exactly are you?”

He dips his head in a mock bow, eye glittering like starlight off wine. “Kaeya Alberich, at your service. And you are…?”

You give your name, and for reasons you can’t quite place, he repeats it softly, as though tasting it alongside the wine you now both hold custody of.

“Then it seems,” Kaeya says, taking a step back toward the nearest balcony, “that we have a drink to share. Unless you’d rather go back to mingling with the delightful guests inside?”

The distant murmur of forced laughter and tedious speeches echoes behind you. You don’t need long to decide.

The Windblume Festival turns Mondstadt into a swirl of music, petals, and too many people for the streets to comfortably hold. Vendors call out over one another, ribbons stream from poles, and the air smells of cider and roasting chestnuts. You are admiring a stall of delicate windwheel asters when a flash of red darts into your peripheral vision—a small girl, all energy and excitement, tugging at the sleeve of a blond man.

“Albedo! Dodoco says this one’s perfect for making a big kaboom!” the girl chirps.

Your head turns automatically at the words big kaboom. You catch sight of a handmade plush in her hands: a round, cutesy thing with painted ears and a stitched smile. And sparks. Your stomach drops. Is that a bomb? 

You’re still trying to discreetly look without looking when the toy slips from her fingers, bounces once on the cobblestones, and rolls toward a crowd of festival-goers.

“Bomb—!” The warning tears out of you as you lunge forward, instincts overruling everything. From the corner of your eye, you see the blond man react at the exact same moment, his gloved hand shooting out toward the object.

Your fingers brush it first, curling protectively around the strange, sparking toy as you draw your body around it to shield the crowd behind you. The world narrows to the weight in your hands and the quick, sharp sound of someone’s boots hitting stone beside you.

A gloved hand presses against your back. An urgent, low voice. “Give it to me.”

You twist slightly, meeting pale teal eyes that are far calmer than the situation warrants. His focus isn’t on you, but on the dangerous sphere you are shielding. You relinquish it.

The man—Albedo, apparently—places his palm over the surface, muttering something under his breath. Golden alchemical light swirls, and in a blink, the sphere melts into the soft white bloom of a Cecilia.

“...There,” he says simply, straightening.

You sit up, breathing hard. “Was that—”

“Yes,” Albedo interrupts gently. “And next time, please don’t throw yourself on an active explosive. That was reckless.” His brows draw together, a mixture of puzzled scolding and something almost like respect. “Effective, but reckless.”

You blink at him. “You’re welcome?”

Albedo turns to the child. “Klee,” he says mildly, though the undertone makes her shoulders hunch. “What did I tell you about bringing…those out in public?”

Klee shuffles. “Not to…unless you’re watching…but you were watching!”

You can’t help but let out a faint laugh, even as adrenaline still thrums through you.

Albedo fixes her with another measured look. “Even so, you must be more careful. Jumpy Dumpty is not a toy to bring to a crowded festival. You could have put this kind stranger in real danger.”

Klee’s head droops as she turns to you. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to scare anyone. I just wanted Jumpy Dumpty to see the Windblumes.” Her eyes suddenly brighten, and she tugs at your sleeve. “Can I make it up to you? We can all go together! I’ll be super careful!”

Albedo opens his mouth to protest, but you see the faintest hint of resignation—and maybe willingness—in his expression.

Which is how you end up walking through the Windblume Festival flanked by a sheepish Spark Knight and a quietly watchful Chief Alchemist, the three of you sharing candied apples under a shower of petals.

It’s drizzling lightly in Ritou, the kind of soft rain that turns every lantern’s glow into a watercolor blur. You pause beneath the eaves of a small vendor’s stall, hand hovering over the last paper-bound anthology of old Inazuman travel poems. Just as your fingers graze the cover, another hand arrives beside yours.

Instinct pulls your gaze sideways. The stranger beside you smells faintly of salt and pine, a trace of open sea clinging to him even here in the crowded harbor. He tilts his head, gaze flicking from the book to your face, then upward, as though listening to the rhythm of rain sliding from the eaves.

“My apologies,” he says with the faintest bow, voice quiet enough that it feels private despite the bustle of the street. “It seems our paths converge.”

You retract your hand, unsure if he’s claiming the book or inviting you to take it. “It’s the last copy,” you explain. “I’ve been looking for this one.”

“Ah,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the cover with reverence. “I’ve been looking for this one, too—on behalf of a friend who misses these words.”

For a moment, you’re both silent, the rain filling the space between your choices.

Then, he smiles—fleetingly, like a gust carrying petals past—and offers, “Perhaps we could read it together. My ship departs for Liyue in two days. Until then, we may both be travelers in these verses.”

The proposal feels improbable yet unshakably right. He makes the purchase, then presses the anthology into your hands with a smile soft as the mist around you. You cradle it carefully as you step aside with him to let others pass.

That’s how you find yourself, later that evening, sitting with Kazuha under the overhang of a tea house, the rain still falling in silver threads while he reads the first poem aloud. By the time you reach the final page, you realize that though the poems are short, and your acquaintance briefer still, both have carried you farther than you expected.

The busy chatter of Ritou’s morning market fades beneath the thud of something hitting the cobblestones. A cream paper envelope sealed in red wax skids to a halt between your boots. You bend at the same time as a stranger on your right, nearly knocking foreheads. He catches himself with a grin, quick as a fox.

“After you,” he bows.

You pick up the envelope, turning it over. “Addressed to…no one?”

“Mm. Interesting, isn’t it?” His eyes—green, bright, and uncomfortably observant—flick over it once, and you can almost hear gears turning. “No return name, either. Only a Sumeru merchant’s mark in the corner.”

The merchant in question had already vanished into the crowd.

You pass the envelope toward him, but his fingers don’t take it right away. “The wax is still soft,” he murmurs, “meaning it was sealed minutes ago. Which means they didn’t plan to send it through the official post. More of a…hand-delivered sort of message.”

You tilt your head. “A love letter?”

“A threat,” he corrects cheerfully. “The merchant’s boots are polished—expensive habit. But his sleeves are ink-stained, which means he wrote this himself on the go, instead of paying a scribe, and didn’t have time to clean himself off. And when he passed the dock guards, he didn’t meet their eyes.”

“You got all that from a quick glance?”

He finally accepts the envelope, slipping it into his coat. “Well, no. The boot polish and the sleeves told me. His refusal to meet the guards’ eyes was just confirmation.”

“And you’re…?”

“Kazuha told me to say I’m Shikanoin Heizou, but personally, I think ‘genius detective’ has a nicer ring to it. Want to help me deliver this letter to the intended recipient? I promise it’ll be more interesting than your errands.”

You glance at the market. The morning is still young; the crowd swirls with the promise of unknown stories to be revealed.

You find yourself smiling. “All right, Detective. Lead the way.”

The bazaar had been nearly picked clean under the weight of the noon sun. You squint at a certain vendor’s stall, spotting the very last parasol tucked to the side—light, elegant, and exactly what you need to avoid melting on the walk home. You reach for it, only to have your fingers collide with someone else’s.

The stranger next to you is small but sharp-edged, dressed in blue with a wide, absurdly oversized hat that casts such a deep shadow you can’t even see his whole expression. But you feel the glare when his hand tightens around the handle.

“Tch. Figures someone else would try to snatch it.”

You blink, then slowly release your grip. “Oh, sorry. You can have it.”

His eyes narrow as though you’ve just insulted him. “That’s it? You give up that easily?”

“I mean, it seems like you got here first.”

He makes a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Pathetic. If you wanted it, you should’ve fought harder for it.”

That pricks your pride. You cross your arms, raising a brow at him. “Big words coming from someone already wearing a hat that’s basically an umbrella.”

His shoulders stiffen. Slowly, he turns his head toward you, and though the brim casts most of his face in shadow, you see the twitch in his jaw. “Excuse me?”

You gesture at the massive thing shading him like a portable pavilion. “Seriously, with a hat like that, why do you even need a parasol?”

For a second, he looks like he might actually bite you. Then he yanks the parasol closer with a sharp tug. “I don’t. But if you think that means you’re getting it, you’re even dumber than you look.”

You snort, more amused than offended. “So you don’t need it, but you don’t want me to have it either? That’s childish.”

His eyes flash, but he doesn’t respond, turning on his heel and stalking off, parasol in hand like it’s a prize he’s won.

Still, a couple hours later, when you step out of another shop, you nearly trip over something propped against the wall by your feet—the parasol. There isn’t any explanation; it’s just been left there, waiting. But when you glance down the street, you swear you see the brim of that ridiculous hat vanish around the corner, like he’s been watching to make sure you find it.

You hadn’t expected the lanterns to sell out so early. The vendor at the harbor stall is already packing up when you spot it—a single, small Mingxiao Lantern tucked beneath the counter. The vendor hesitates when you ask for it. “I was going to save that one for…” His gaze flits to the side.

You follow it, and that’s when another hand reaches for the lantern at the same time as yours. Gloved fingers brush against yours, cool despite the humid evening air. The man in front of you isn’t dressed like anyone you’ve seen in the harbor before: sleeveless white shirt, jade armpiece, and a mask at his waist. His golden eyes fix on you, unblinking.

“I need that,” he says simply, voice low and certain.

You don’t let go. “So do I.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then, faintly, he adds, “It’s…for someone.” His gaze slides away, as if the words have been pulled out against his will.

Something about his tone—the tightness in it, the way “someone” sounds like they aren’t here anymore—makes your grip soften, though you don’t release it yet. “Is it for a promise, or a memory?” you ask quietly.

His eyes snap back to yours, startled. “You ask too much of a stranger.”

“You’re the one trying to take my lantern,” you point out, feeling a little too childish in your defense.

A faint, almost imperceptible curve touches the corner of his mouth, then vanishes. “Fine. Keep it. I’ll…find another way.”

You frown. “Or,” you offer before you can think better of it, “we could light it together.”

That earns you a long, assessing silence. Then he steps aside, not in agreement exactly, but in something close to it.

In the end, you both kneel by the pier, the warm glow of the lantern lighting his profile. He doesn’t speak until it lifts into the night, drifting toward the mountains.

“For a soul who can no longer see it,” he murmurs, not quite to you, but not to himself, either.

By the time you turn, he is gone, leaving only the rippling water and the faint trace of sandalwood on the breeze. He hasn’t told you his name, and you don’t know where you’ll find him again. Still, you have the feeling this won’t be the last time you see him.

Operation: Steal Her Heart

You were blending in perfectly. Your posture was casual, garments slightly frayed from continual wear as you appraised the produce at the market stall. You selected an apple and held it up to inspect it. You were, in your entire essence, completely discreet amidst the other shoppers in Liyue Harbor. 

Then Tartaglia looked up from across the street, caught your eyes, and winked. You dropped the apple. It rolled into a storm drain. Your career might have gone with it.

There are three overarching rules in covert surveillance, as drilled into you by Mondstadt’s Intelligence Division: stay quiet, stay unnoticed, and never—never—let your target know you exist. Unfortunately, no one warned you that your assignment, Tartaglia, eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers, would not only catch you in the act within three hours but also decide to turn the entire mission into a personal game. You should have aborted the operation the moment he winked at you. Instead, you doubled down, which was exactly what he wanted.

The next day, you were seated at a quiet teahouse in Liyue Harbor, inconspicuously sipping chrysanthemum tea and pretending to read a merchant bulletin. The door slammed open, and in walked Childe with all the subtlety of a treasure hoarder raid.

“Can I get your most incriminating-looking tea?” he announced to the baffled waitress. “Something dark, ominous. Preferably with secrets.”

You nearly spat out your drink.

He took the seat directly across from you and offered you no words but a slow, obnoxious sip and a smile that said, I know. Then, he got up and left, leaving a single sugar cube behind like some kind of post-espionage calling card. 

By day three, he began carrying around a leather-bound journal with TOP SECRET scribbled across the front in red ink. Every hour or so, he’d stop in full view of you, pull it out with theatrical flair, scribble something furiously, and then glance around to make sure no one was watching him. Except you. Always you.

Once, you caught a glimpse of a page:

You considered reporting that part to headquarters but figured it would only get you reassigned out of embarrassment.

And then, just when you thought he might grow bored, he escalated.

First came the fake intel. You found the torn-up note behind the blacksmith, where he knew you always checked for drops:

You came and were met with Xiangling and a tofu sampler.

“Childe said you’d be hungry,” she said, smiling brightly, “for...answers?”

The following day, you tailed him toward a secluded alley until he stopped dead, looked around dramatically, and whispered something into the ear of a bewildered street vendor. You watched from the roof as Childe handed the man a slip of paper and said—loudly—“Tell her the flower blooms at midnight. And not a second later!”

The vendor just blinked. “Who?”

Childe placed a dramatic hand on his shoulder. “You’ll know when you see her. She’s always pretending not to watch.”

You had to physically restrain yourself from hurling a rock.

The final blow came via an anonymous tip sent directly to Mondstadt Intelligence suggesting that you might be a double agent—compromised, the tip claimed, by prolonged exposure to “Harbinger-class charm.”

You were summoned to the Liyue liaison’s office for a lie detector interview. Lisa from the Knights happened to be in town to conduct it. She greeted you with a sunny smile and a teacup that smelled faintly of smug satisfaction.

“Emotionally compromised by a Harbinger,” she said, flipping through your file. “Dramatic. I like it.”

“I’m not emotionally compromised.”

Lisa raised a brow. “Mm-hm. Tell me, have you ever described your target using...subjective adjectives?”

“What does that mean?”

She sipped her tea. “Would you, for example, say he’s—oh, I don’t know—‘annoyingly handsome’?”

You froze. “No.”

The magical flower on her desk withered instantly.

Lisa glanced at it then back at you with a slow grin. “The flower thinks otherwise.”

You groaned. “It’s lying.”

“It’s an enchanted lie detector. It can’t lie.”

“I’m being framed.”

She chuckled, setting her cup down. “Relax. You’re not the first field agent to get rattled. But if it helps, I’ve read your surveillance notes. Granted, they’re a little lovestruck and doodle-adjacent, but I’ll give you this—you’re meticulous. Dutiful, even.”

“They’re maps.”

“One had a tiny sketch of his dumb shoulder pauldron.”

“It was part of his silhouette!”

Lisa leaned back, looking far too amused. “Sure it was.”

You exhaled, rubbing your face. “So what now? You report me?”

Lisa leaned back in her chair, thoughtful. “Technically, I should file a formal warning.”

You tensed.

“But between us? I’ve read his file. If you’ve kept up with him for this long without quitting or stabbing him in a back alley, you deserve a medal.”

She slid your folder back across the table, winked, and said, “Consider this a friendly caution. And maybe keep your maps less...artistic.”

That night, you found a note in your coat pocket:

You weren’t supposed to accept, of course. It was part of the rules of covert surveillance: no fraternizing with the target, no direct contact, and absolutely no candlelit meals. But exhaustion won, and maybe curiosity. And maybe—you hated to admit—a very foolish kind of hope.

His apartment was warm, clean, and filled with little things that didn’t match the Harbinger reputation, like a chipped tea set and a tiny cactus named Boris, who was wearing a red scarf.

“I figured you deserved a hot meal,” Tartaglia said. “Since you’re constantly hiding behind barrels.”

You nearly dropped your fork.

“I mean, really,” he continued, “there’s one by the blacksmith that’s not even big enough to crouch behind. You think I don’t see you?”

You remained silent for another moment.

“Want me to leave?” you finally asked, unsure if this was a trap.

He smiled, setting the soup down. “Want you to stay.”

He promptly tried to do a twirl-and-serve maneuver with the ladle, flung it directly into the wall, and deadpanned, “Tactical ladle misfire. We recover.”

And for one night, it felt simple, honest, and easy. Which made everything all the more difficult.

By the following week, he was back to nonsense.

“Now entering a suspicious-looking alleyway,” he narrated as you tailed him. “Possibly to meet a contact. Or to buy discounted street bao. Hard to say.”

You trailed him into a small bookstore only to find a single volume sitting face-up on the counter: How to Woo Your Spy: A Tactical Romance Guide. It was underlined in red. With tabs.

You stared.

The clerk gave you a thumbs-up.

From behind a display, Childe called, “Chapter 7 has tips on ‘shared danger as a bonding activity.’ Thoughts?”

At that point, you realized you weren’t just compromised. You were being courted. In his own absurd, roundabout, passive-aggressive way, Tartaglia had flipped your mission on its head. He wasn’t evading your watch. He was dancing directly into your line of sight and daring you to look away. You weren’t a spy anymore. You were a joke whose target was now in complete control of your mission. Worse, you liked him. 

You started packing—not for a strategic withdrawal but for resignation. You burned your notes, checked the ferry schedules to Mondstadt, and even drafted a letter to your old alchemy tutor asking if he was still hiring. You drafted a final report and nearly handed it to the Liyue branch courier.

But you hesitated. Because Childe hadn’t shown up to his usual, overdramatic note-taking spot that morning. Or his afternoon reconnaissance session, or any of his other activities. And he didn’t appear the next day, either. There was no “top secret” journal. No “coincidentally” shared table, no notes, no loud fake intel or bad metaphors, and you…missed him. That was the worst part.

So you did something foolish—you looked for him.

You found him behind the Northland Bank, not hiding or fleeing, just leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smiling lazily like he’d been waiting.

“So,” he said casually, “how long do we keep pretending we don’t like each other?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head. “Come on. You’ve watched me long enough to know I don’t make moves without a plan. And I’ve watched you long enough to know you only break protocol when you’re interested.”

You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it again. He took one step forward, then paused to slip something into your coat before walking off with that maddeningly smug stride. It wasn’t a note; it was a surveillance photo of him, annotated in your own handwriting. You thought you’d misplaced it and hadn’t seen it in days.

You stared at it for a long moment. Then, finally, you smiled.

Maybe, just maybe, the best way to complete this mission...was to surrender.

Epilogue [Classified]

Inside Childe’s apartment, in a drawer beneath a mess of red string and overkill sticky notes, sits a cork board. Every pinned photo is a poorly taken candid of you: mid-eye roll, hiding behind a lamppost, smiling when you thought no one was watching. At the center, in bold letters:

darknight disclosure

The Angel’s Share was warm with the late-night hum of conversation, mugs clinking and laughter spilling into the air like bubbles from a fresh pour. Behind the counter, Diluc worked with his usual precision, filling glasses, sliding them across the bar, and exchanging the occasional polite word with a customer before turning away again. 

You sat with Kaeya and a handful of off-duty Knights at a table near the bar. The lot of them were already a drink or two past restraint, leaning toward one another as stories flowed faster than the ale.

“I’m telling you, I saw the Darknight Hero last week,” declared Swan, his voice carrying the awe of a man describing a folk legend. “He leapt from the rooftop right in front of me, flaming sword and all.”

“Oh, you’re lucky,” Huffman laughed. “Last time I caught sight of him, he was just a shadow slipping between alleys. But you hear the stories—Pyro vision, master swordsman, striking red hair…”

“That man can swing a claymore like it’s nothing,” chimed in another knight, thudding his mug down with emphasis.

You nodded along. “Well, of course. Diluc’s always been good with a claymore.”

The table stilled. Kaeya’s wineglass paused halfway to his lips. Behind you, a faint, startled cough echoed from the bar.

“…What?” Huffman asked.

You shrugged, unbothered. “You know, the youngest Cavalry Captain the Knights ever had? It’s hardly surprising he’s that good.”

Swan blinked. “We’re talking about the Darknight Hero.”

“Yes,” you replied easily. “I’m talking about Diluc.”

The knights traded baffled looks.

“Wait,” you said slowly, scanning their faces. “You mean you all don’t know?”

Kaeya’s expression remained steady, but the lazy half-smile he wore gained a little more calculation.

“Know what?” Huffman asked, now sounding uncertain.

“That they’re the same person?” You gestured vaguely toward the bar. “Same height, hair, build, Pyro vision—same everything. And the mask he wears covers, what, this much of his face?” You circled both hands around your eyes. “That’s barely even a disguise. I mean, it’s literally him in an owl mask and a cape.”

A couple of knights looked uneasy, glancing toward the bar. Huffman even squinted, like the picture might just be forming in his head.

Kaeya set his glass down with deliberate care. “Perhaps,” he drawled, “it is better not to pry into the affairs of our city’s mysterious protector.” His smile was easy, but his eyes flicked sharply toward you in warning. “I am sure our dear friend is only indulging in some harmless speculation.” 

The others mumbled agreement, most too far into their drinks to piece together your logic anyway. Kaeya guided the conversation to a safer subject, but you caught the way his gaze slid toward the bar, like he was watching for someone’s next move. You did not have to wait long.

“Excuse me,” came Diluc’s voice at your shoulder, perfectly polite but perfectly firm. “A moment of your time, please.” It was not a request.

Kaeya raised an eyebrow, his mouth curling as you stood. “Do enjoy yourself,” he murmured, the soft edge of amusement in his tone.

Diluc steered you toward the storeroom under the pretense of needing help with something, though the moment the door shut behind you, he fixed you with his steady, crimson-eyed stare. 

“So,” you began before he could speak, “this is about the whole ‘you being the Darknight Hero’ thing, right?”

“I am not—” He stopped, and his voice shifted to something cooler. “You should be more careful with your words.”

“Why?” you asked, incredulous. “Because no one else knows? Do you mean to tell me they seriously don’t recognize you?”

“You are mistaken.”

You folded your arms. “I’ve seen you in both outfits. You’re not even trying to change your stance. The owl mask is a nice touch, but it doesn’t fool anyone—”

“It is not an owl mask,” he interrupted, a little too quickly.

“It has feathers and a beak, Diluc.”

“That does not make it an owl.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “So you’re not denying that you’re him—you're just denying the owl part?”

“I am not admitting anything.”

“Right. Which is exactly what someone would say if they were trying to hide the fact that they run around at night in a cape and owl mask, setting things on fire.”

For a moment, something faintly exasperated and faintly embarrassed flickered across his face. “…You have quite the imagination.” He lifted a gloved fist to his lips and cleared his throat. “However, I am not the Darknight Hero.”

You arched a brow. “You vanish whenever he shows up. And seriously, you’re probably the only person in the entire nation with hair that red. Do you even realize how much you fight like yourself? I’m just saying, you’re awful at this whole secret identity thing.”

He exhaled slowly, muttering something under his breath that you were pretty sure was a regret about ever speaking to you.

“See?” you pointed out triumphantly. “That’s the face of a man who’s been caught.”

“That,” he said with great restraint, “is the face of a man who wishes to avoid having rumors spread about him in his own tavern.”

You smiled sweetly. “Relax. Your secret’s safe with me…Mister Owl.”

His eyes closed briefly, like he was weighing the possibility of throwing you out the back door. “Go back to your table.”

When you returned, Kaeya’s smirk was already waiting. He didn’t say anything at first—just leaned back, watching you sit. Then, right when you thought you were safe, he let out a thoughtful hum.

“Mister Owl?” he said, voice carrying far too well over the table.

Somewhere behind you, a glass was set down on the bar a little harder than necessary.

You didn’t bother asking how he knew. You’d known Kaeya long enough to understand that he had a way of hearing things he had no business hearing, no matter how far away you said them.

“I have to say,” Kaeya continued, swirling his wine, “that’s…inspired. Though I’m not sure he’ll appreciate the nickname.”

“I’m sure he won’t,” you agreed, sipping your drink.

Kaeya’s grin sharpened. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make sure it catches on.”

From the bar came the annoyed snap of a cloth being shaken out for a wipe-down. You didn’t even need to turn around to know whose it was.

genshin boys overhear you talking to yourself

You're crouched beside a broken cart wheel, half-hidden in tall grass, muttering furiously to yourself as you examine the splintered wood.

“Of course it had to break here, in the middle of nowhere. No signal flare left, and I let the boat crew leave without me. Brilliant. Great job, really stellar planning—”

“You’re being rather harsh on yourself.”

You startle so hard you nearly fall backward. Kazuha stands a few paces behind, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves, his eyes full of quiet amusement and concern.

“You were gone longer than expected,” he explains, seeing your confusion. “Beidou sent me to check if you’d lost your way—or started arguing with local wildlife.”

You flush. “No, I’m just…talking to myself. Thinking through how to fix it.”

He steps closer and knelt beside you, examining the wheel. “Hm. The axle’s intact. A proper wedge might hold long enough to get you back to the road.”

You blink. “Oh. You’re not going to tease me about earlier?”

“I speak to the wind as if it listens,” he says lightly. “Why would I judge you for speaking to yourself?”

You glance at him. “And does the wind ever answer?”

He smiles faintly. “Only when I’m quiet enough to hear it.”

And then, just like that, he gets to work, gathering branches, finding rope in your satchel, never once asking why you chose to be alone in the first place but just staying until the cart moves again. Maybe the wind hadn’t answered, but he had.

He walks into the tavern early in the morning, expecting silence. Instead, he hears your voice in a low, frantic whisper as you await his arrival: “Okay, you’ve got this. He’s just a man. A tall, brooding, red-haired, intimidatingly handsome man—Archons above, why am I like this?”

He freezes mid-step, but the tap of his boot on the tile is loud enough to betray him. You whirl around, mortified, and lock eyes with him like a deer caught in emotionally compromising headlights.

He blinks once. Slowly.

“…I assume that was about me,” he says, voice neutral, but his ears are visibly pink.

“I—No—I mean—kind of?” you squeak, visibly crumbling under the weight of your own existence.

He clears his throat and looks away, reaching for a mug that absolutely does not need his attention.

“Understood,” he mutters.

For the rest of the day, he’s overly polite, painfully formal, and avoids eye contact like it’s flammable. Later that evening, you find a cup of your favorite tea left out for you—steaming, perfectly steeped, and completely unsupervised. The mug has a folded note under it, consisting of just three words: “You’ve got this.”

He’s passing by your room when he hears your voice, quiet but distinct, and increasingly unhinged: “Okay. Plan A: cry. Plan B: threaten to cry. Plan C: run away and never return.”

He pauses mid-step, then leans against the doorway with a lopsided grin. “Wow, those are some elite-level crisis strategies. You sure you’re not Fatui?”

You shriek in embarrassment. “How long have you been standing there?!”

“Long enough to know you’ve got potential,” he laughs, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside.

You groan and hide your face. “I was joking. mostly.”

“Nah, I kinda like it,” he teases. “Plan A’s got emotional flair. Plan B? Classic drama. However, Plan C?” his voice softens just a bit. “If you ran, I’d just find you. You know that, right?”

You look up and find his smile stripped of mischief. It’s quiet and gentle in a way that makes your heart trip over itself.

“But…if you do need tissues, I’ve got plenty.”

Somehow, this ends with him dragging you to sit on the couch, arms slung around you, both of you buried under a blanket neither of you remembers pulling over your laps.

“New plan,” he says, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Plan D: stay right here.”

He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He'd simply been on his way when he found you pacing the courtyard, completely unaware of his presence.

“He probably doesn’t even notice when I smile at him. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just ignoring me. Ugh. I should just throw a rock at him.”

He replies instantly. “Try it. I’ll throw one back.”

You flinch so hard you nearly drop your bag. He’s already leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. His gaze flicks to you, sharp but dissolving into something strangely unguarded. You open your mouth, but he speaks first.

“I notice,” he tells you, quieter now. almost like it costs him something to admit. “More than you think.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing down the corridor before you can speak, like he never meant to say anything at all. But later, you find a small, perfectly smooth stone placed outside your windowsill. No note. No explanation. Just one rock, light enough to throw.

He’s walking past the study when he hears you, your voice sounding low, frantic, and clearly not meant for anyone else.

“Okay, if I just put the books back exactly the way he had them, maybe he won’t know I was here. Unless…he cataloged them by page wear. Oh archons—what if he did? Why does he have to be attractive and terrifying?”

His deadpan voice sounds right behind you. “For the record, I do catalog them by page wear.”

You jump, dropping the book you’re holding, but instead of hitting the floor, it lands effortlessly in his palm.

“Also, you’ve been muttering to yourself for three full minutes. You’re not exactly subtle.”

You open your mouth to explain, apologize, evaporate, anything, but he just walks past and plucks a book from your stack.

“You misaligned this one by 0.6 centimeters,” he remarks, tone neutral. “But I’ll let it slide.”

You’re still frozen, blinking at him.

Without looking at you, he adds almost offhandedly, “Next time you wish to come by, just ask. I’d rather see you here than not.”

And then he starts reorganizing beside you. He’s silent, efficient, and just close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

You’re sitting alone on the quiet terrace just outside Wangshu Inn, knees pulled up to your chest as you mutter into the dusk. “Why did I say ‘sweet dreams’? Who says that to Xiao? He’s the vigilant yaksha, not some character from a bedtime story. He probably thinks I’m a sentimental weirdo—”

“I don’t.”

You whip around. He’s suddenly there, silent as ever, standing just behind you in the fading light.

“I don’t think you’re weird,” he repeats, voice soft and steady, though there’s the faintest crease in his brow like he’s wondering if he’s said too much.

You scramble to stand, completely flustered. “Wait, how long were you—?”

“I heard my name,” he says plainly, as if that explains everything.

The air feels charged with embarrassment. Yours. Maybe his, too. After a pause, he glances away toward the treetops. His voice is quieter now.

“No one’s said that to me before.”

You blink. “Said what?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Sweet dreams.”

There’s something almost reverent in the way he says it, like the words feel too fragile in his mouth.

“I didn’t think those were something I could have.”

The breeze carries the scent of silk flowers, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, without looking at you, he adds, “But I liked hearing it. From you.”

Your heart flips once, hard.

And before you can spiral all over again, he turns to go, but stops just long enough to murmur, “Goodnight. I hope…yours are sweet, too.”

He’s strolling through the estate gardens when he catches the faint tones of your voice, muffled but unmistakably dramatic. Curious, he peeks around a hedge and discovers you monologuing to a cluster of blue hydrangeas with passionate gestures.

“Lord Ayato, my dearest nemesis. Why must you smile like that? Why must your tea taste like heartbreak and fine politics?”

His brows lift in faint surprise. 

“And why did I tell him it was ‘transcendent’? That’s not normal person behavior. That’s the kind of thing a swooning diplomat says before fainting into their fan.”

Ayato brings a hand to his mouth, stifling the laugh that bubbles up. He knows he should announce himself—knows it's indecent to linger—but curiosity roots him in place. It’s rare to see you so unguarded, and rarer still to be the subject of such poetic vitriol.

You pace a few steps, oblivious. “He probably thinks I was flirting. Which I wasn’t. I think. Ugh.”

He waits just a second longer, watching as you sigh and press your fingertips to your forehead like a tragic heroine from a stage play, before stepping forward, his fan snapping closed with a soft click.

“I didn’t realize I’d been cast as the villain in your private soliloquy.”

You freeze. There is no mistaking his voice, nor the silk-smooth amusement threading through it. Slowly, you turn.

“I must say, your critique was…vivid,” he continues. His expression is polite, but his eyes betray him, bright with barely contained laughter. “And rather unfair to the tea, which I assure you is not culpable for your emotional distress.”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. He tilts his head, as if considering something seriously.

“Though I do wonder what heartbreak tastes like to you.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands.

He inclines his head slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Next time, speak your grievances aloud to me instead. I assure you, I respond far better than flowers.”

He walks in on you muttering and pacing in circles.

“Okay, okay. Don’t laugh if he tells another joke. But also don’t not laugh, because then he’ll think you hate him. Ugh, why is this so complicated?”

He appears behind you with a perfectly straight face and says, “What do you call a fake noodle? an impasta.”

You shriek and nearly trip over a chair. He waits. You groan.

“That was…better than usual,” you admit.

He pauses as he appraises you. His lips twitch. “So. You’ve been rehearsing responses to my jokes?”

You blink, caught. “No. Definitely not.”

He steps closer, arms folded, head tilting in mock-serious thought. “Interesting. That implies you anticipated more. Which means…you’re expecting me.”

“…to keep telling them?”

He nods solemnly. “Correct. And now that I know you’re preparing, I’ll have to escalate.”

You groan again, this time into your hands, and he finally cracks a smile. Later, he’ll tell you a compliment disguised as a riddle. You’ll pretend not to swoon. He’ll pretend not to notice. Neither of you is very convincing.

You’re standing in front of a mirror, hyping yourself up. “You’re brave. You’re bold. You can flirt with Itto today. Probably. Maybe. Okay, no, don’t flirt, just survive eye contact.”

A voice behind you booms, “Well hey, I think you’re already killin’ it!”

You scream and spin around so fast you almost knock over a stool. Itto’s standing in the doorway, grinning like a kid who just found candy and a beetle.

“Also, flirting’s totally encouraged. Ten outta ten, would recommend.”

You clutch your chest. “How long have you been standing there?!”

“Since the part where you said you were bold and brave or whatever. Sounded super cool, so I figured I’d stay for the ending.”

You groan. He’s still grinning.

“But hey,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, “you don’t gotta overthink it. Just talk to me like normal! Or, y’know, you could flirt if that’s easier.”

You entertain the idea of feigning amnesia, knowing he’d probably fall for it. Instead, you mutter, “...I liked your hair today.”

He lights up like the sun. “See? You’re killin’ it!”

Somehow, this ends with him offering to coach you through flirting with him. The audacity.

You were only meant to drop off a report. Nothing more. Just a quick visit to the Knights’ headquarters, a few signatures, and out. And yet here you are, lingering in an empty hallway, your forehead pressed lightly against a stone pillar as you mutter to yourself.

“Genius. Absolutely genius. ‘Nice weather, Kaeya.’ That’s what I went with. Might as well have added, ‘Hi, I’ve been harboring a wildly inconvenient crush on you since Stormterror was still a problem. Want to date and/or be the reason I start writing terrible poetry again?’”

A breath of laughter—not your own—cuts through the silence.

“I’d be open to both,” a familiar voice replies.

You freeze.

He’s there, lounging against the window alcove like he’s been there all along, elbow propped casually on the sill, head tilted with interest. His smile says he heard every word. His eyes say he enjoyed it.

Kaeya pushes off the ledge and strolls toward you, every step perfectly unhurried. “Next time you plan to deliver a monologue about me, perhaps wait until I’ve left the building. Unless,” he adds, voice dropping with playful weight, “you were hoping I’d hear it.”

You can feel the heat rise to your face like a sunrise.

“I was just thinking out loud,” you manage.

“So I gathered. And for the record”—he passes close enough that his cloak brushes your sleeve—“I find it flattering.”

You briefly consider flinging yourself out the nearest window.

At the end of the corridor, he glances back over his shoulder, smile curling just shy of sincere.

“If the weather stays this nice, do let me know if that wildly inconvenient crush turns into something more actionable.”

And then he’s gone.

A junior knight passing by gives you a puzzled look. “You, uh…look like you saw a ghost.”

You exhale, voice thin. “Worse.”

You’re by yourself in the back room of Bubu Pharmacy, sorting herbs and muttering under your breath. It’s been a long day, and unfortunately, your brain has chosen to perseverate.

“If I faint in front of him again, I’m just going to say it was low blood sugar. Not the fact that he tucked my hair behind my ear like it was nothing.”

“Hmm. I’ll make a note to check your glucose levels...and perhaps develop a tincture for sudden-onset romantic distress?”

You whip around so fast that a handful of Qingxin spills onto the table. Baizhu stands in the doorway, serene as ever, holding a tray of tea like he didn’t just obliterate your self-esteem.

“It’s a surprisingly common condition,” he adds, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Often triggered by gentle gestures and poor coping mechanisms.”

Changsheng pokes her head out from behind his collar and lets out a tiny, delighted laugh. “Lovesick. Very contagious,” she stage-whispers.

You bury your face in your hands.

Baizhu sets the tea down beside you with quiet care. “I could prepare a cure, but I fear the malady is mutual—and, strangely, quite welcome.”

You think you’re alone, sitting quietly in a dim corner of the library and murmuring your frustrations to yourself. Dainsleif, combing the shelves for a particular volume, pauses when he hears the soft thread of your voice carry through the candlelight: “I bet he doesn’t even remember my name. I’m probably just a temporary footnote to him anyway. Someone who fades like shadows at dusk.”

His low voice answers from just beyond the glow of your lantern. “You are not a footnote.”

You nearly jump out of your skin as Dainsleif steps into view. The candlelight flickers across the lines of his face, which remains composed and unreadable but not unfeeling. He doesn’t speak gently, not exactly, but there’s a steadiness to his tone that seems to lessen the musty air.

“Names are more than words,” he says. “They are memory. History. Presence.”

He kneels slightly and locks eyes with you, his gaze piercing.

“I remember your name,” he continues. “Not only the shape of it. I remember the weight it carries when you speak it. I remember the careful way you said goodnight two nights ago, as if you weren’t sure I’d hear it, or hold it.”

You can’t breathe. You can’t look away.

“Don’t assume I forget the things that matter,” he says, rising to his full height again. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture softens. And then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears into the stacks. For a long moment, all you can hear is the echo of his footsteps and the pulse of your own heart—louder now, and somehow less alone.

You’re elbow-deep in soil, half-focused on coaxing the withered pardisah into a new pot, when your frustration finally boils over.

“Okay, next time, just say thank you and walk away. Easy. Normal. Not, ‘Wow, your ears are so expressive today,’ like some feral maniac.” You groan and press your forehead to your palm. “He probably thinks I’m studying him like a botanical specimen. What is wrong with me?”

“To be fair,” a dry voice answers behind you, “most people don’t notice ear movement unless they’re watching very closely.”

You nearly send the pot flying as you whip around. Tighnari is leaning beside your bag of soil, arms folded, one brow arched in faint incredulity.

“You were there…the whole time,” you croak.

“Roughly since the ‘feral maniac’ part,” he amends, tail flicking with suspicious amusement. “You were a bit harsh on yourself, but entertaining.”

You cover your face. “I swear I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“You didn’t,” he says gently, and then—surprisingly—smiles. “I didn’t mind the compliment. It was…oddly specific, but sincere. And clearly the result of long observation.”

He steps past you, crouching to inspect the flower you nearly murdered in your panic.

“Next time,” he adds, not looking up, “less spiraling, more speaking.”

His tone is neutral, but his ears betray him with the smallest, involuntary flick.

And then he mutters to himself, “They’re only expressive when you’re around, anyway.”

You pretend not to hear. For now.

You’re alone in the kitchen—or so you believe—flipping gyozas with intense concentration and muttering under your breath. “Okay, Thoma likes them crispy. Not burnt. Crispy, like his smile. No, wait, what? Focus!”

“Crispy like my smile, huh?”

You flinch. The spatula slips from your fingers and clatters to the stovetop. Thoma is casually leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and grinning like he definitely heard more than he should have.

“I’m flattered,” he says, stepping closer. “But now I’ve got questions. What, exactly, does a crispy smile look like?”

“I—I meant the gyoza, not your— Wait, no, I meant both—I mean—”

The oil hisses sharply, like even the pan can’t take it anymore. Smoke streams upward.

“No, the gyozas!”

Thoma is already by your side, grabbing the pan with practiced ease and sliding it off the stove.

“You know,” he says, grinning as he surveys the damage, “you didn’t have to set them on fire just to impress me.”

“I didn’t—!”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. Means I get to help.” He tosses you a wink. “Teamwork, right?”

Somehow, you end up shoulder to shoulder, sleeves rolled up, hands floured, trying again as he gives teasing tips on “optimal gyoza symmetry.”

Later, as the final batch sizzles golden and perfect, he leans just close enough to murmur, “Still not sure what a crispy smile is, but if we’re talking about yours…I think I get it now.”

You march down the corridor, shoulders tense, voice pitched low but laced with despair.

“No, Heizou, I don’t need your help picking up the papers I dropped. I just need a convenient hole to bury the cadaver of my dignity in, thank you very much—”

A hand suddenly lands on your shoulder.

“AAHH—” you scream mid-sentence, spinning on instinct and swinging your bag in self-defense.

Heizou barely ducks in time, a laugh tumbling out as he stumbles back, half-shielding himself. “Whoa, violent thoughts and airborne satchels? I should’ve brought a warrant first.”

You freeze, mortified. He’s already dusting off his sleeves like it’s just another day at the precinct.

“Really now, that’s the welcome I get?” he continues, far too amused for someone who was nearly concussed.

“You snuck up on me mid-spiral,” you retort, torn between embarrassment and residual adrenaline. “That’s reckless behavior, even for you.”

He raises a brow, utterly unbothered. “I prefer to think of it as instinct. I happen to have an uncanny sense for when people are saying my name behind my back. Or in this case, aloud. To themselves.”

Your eyes widen just enough to give you away. Heizou smiles like he’s just cracked another case.

“You know,” he adds, stepping just close enough for his voice to drop a tone, “talking to oneself is a perfectly natural response to emotional distress. Especially when that distress has, say…a face and a name?”

You groan and press a hand to your forehead. “You’re insufferable.”

He tilts his head. “And yet, I’m the one you keep muttering about.”

You try to come up with a retort. You fail.

“Don’t worry,” he continues smoothly, already turning on his heel, “your secrets are safe with me.”

“You are the secret,” you call after him.

“And still,” he says without looking back, “you can’t seem to stop confessing to it.”

“Okay, just be normal. If I trip, I’ll just play dead. He won’t even notice. He’s used to disasters,” you tell yourself as you pace in tight little circles outside the Adventurers’ Guild.

“Wait, was that about me?”

You nearly leap into the decorative flower box beside the stairs.

Bennett stands behind you, blinking wide-eyed, equal parts confused and concerned.

“No—I mean—kind of?” you stammer.

He scratches the back of his neck, flustered. “I mean, yeah, stuff does kinda explode around me sometimes, but…hey, you’re not gonna trip.”

He pauses, then adds quickly, “But if you do, I’ll totally catch you! Probably! I mean, I’ve got decent reflexes! Usually!”

He’s turning red now, voice rising an octave as he tries to dig himself out.

“Not that you’ll fall, or need catching! It’s just—If you did fall, hypothetically, I’d be there. Probably. Hopefully. Unless something explodes first.”

You both stare at each other in silence for a beat and then burst out laughing.

“So,” you say, grinning, “wanna grab lunch before something does explode?”

“Yes! Wait, are you asking me out?”

You hesitate. “…Would it make you trip if I said yes?”

“Most likely.”

“Then, I’ll give you ‘probably’ as my answer.”

“Perfect.”

He hears your muffled voice through the wall.

“If I see his ridiculously pretty face one more time, I’m going to cry. Or combust. Or both. There is no middle ground anymore.”

A suspicious creak of the floorboard makes your soul exit your body. The door swings open slowly. Kaveh stands there with a tea tray and the most theatrical expression known to man.

“Well,” he says, in full dramatic cadence, “had I known my face was wreaking such havoc on your emotional equilibrium, I would’ve brewed peppermint for the nerves.”

You groan and throw a pillow at him.

“Ah! betrayed by the very person moved to tears by my beauty. So you’ve chosen emotional combustion. Noted.”

You peek between your fingers. “Kaveh, please go.”

He places the tea tray down very deliberately. “I’ll leave,” he says, moving toward the door, “but only after I point out that I’m flattered, deeply and profoundly.”

He stops in the doorway, looks back with a grin just slightly too genuine.

“By the way,” he adds, not quite looking at you, “it’s mutual. The whole…emotional-overload-in-each-other’s-presence thing.”

And with that, he leaves. The tea cools quickly. You do not.

You’re standing outside Wánmín Restaurant, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and muttered self-advice as you wait for a certain funeral consultant to join you for lunch.

“You can’t just stare at him every time he talks. He’s not poetry. He’s a man. A terrifyingly wise, elegant man made of tea and regret.”

You pause, frowning at the phrase.

“Tea and regret?”

You jolt and whirl around. Zhongli is standing just behind you, his expression unreadable, as if weighing your words with the patience of centuries.

After a moment’s pause, a faint smile graces his lips. “I believe that’s a new metaphor.”

Then, with a quiet elegance, he gestures in the space between you.

“You may continue your soliloquy. I find it…endearing.”

You feel your composure unravel, cheeks flushing crimson as you try to meet his calm, knowing gaze. For a moment, the world narrows to the soft sound of your breathing and the quiet dignity of a man who understands more than he lets on, and you silently wonder if maybe, just maybe, he is poetry after all.