Chapter 4: The Recipe for Happiness

The morning air carried the scent of dew and dandelion seeds as Jean made her way to Windrise for what she knew would be the last time. Her hands trembled slightly, clutching a basket of her own—a carefully prepared set of sunsettia tarts and a letter she had rewritten seven times. Under the great oak, she found Diluc already there, his back to her as he placed a covered dish beside the statue. He froze when he heard her footsteps, his shoulders stiffening. “I didn’t expect you this early,” he said, not turning around. “I think we both know I’ve been arriving earlier each week.” Jean’s voice was soft, but it carried in the still morning. “Hoping to catch a glimpse.” Diluc finally turned. His expression was unreadable, but his ears were tinged pink. “You’re supposed to be busy. Acting Grand Master duties.” “I made time.” She stepped closer, holding out her basket. “For you.” He looked at the offering, then back at her. “Jean…” “I know you hate being thanked. But this isn’t thanks.” She set the basket down beside his. “It’s… a conversation I’d like to continue. In person.” Diluc let out a slow breath, the tension in his jaw easing. “You’ve known it was me all along, haven’t you?” “Since the second week. You’re too precise with your knife cuts, and Adeline’s handwriting is far too neat to forge yours entirely.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “She did say I was rubbish at forgery.” They stood in silence for a moment, the wind rustling the leaves overhead. Jean reached into her basket and pulled out one of the tarts. “I made these myself. First attempt. They might be a little lopsided.” Diluc took it, examining the slightly burnt edge. “Imperfections mean effort.” He bit into it, and his eyes widened slightly. “Not bad.” “High praise from a winery owner who supplies half of Mondstadt’s pastries.” “I don’t supply pastries. I supply wine.” “You also supply anonymous care packages to overworked knights.” He looked away, but not before she saw the faint smile return. “Someone had to. You weren’t eating.” “And you were worried.” “I was observant.” “Same thing.” Diluc didn’t deny it. Instead, he opened his own basket and revealed a thermos of steaming coffee and a small jar of honey. “I noticed you take your coffee black, but you always add honey to tea. Figured you might like it sweetened.” Jean’s heart clenched. “You pay attention to everything.” “Only the things that matter.” They sat together on the grass, the statue of the Wind God watching over them. Breakfast was shared—lopsided tarts and perfect coffee, cold sandwiches and fresh berries. Their conversation flowed easily, from patrol routes to the best spots for harvesting berries, from Diluc’s latest vintage to Jean’s impossible pile of paperwork. “I don’t know how to stop,” Jean admitted, staring at the horizon. “The work never ends, and I feel like if I pause even for a moment, everything will crumble.” Diluc set down his cup. “Then let someone help you carry it. I’m not saying stop—I’m saying share the load.” He paused. “Starting with dinner. Tonight. Dawn Winery, seven o’clock. I’ll cook.” Jean looked at him, at the earnestness hidden behind his guarded eyes. “Are you asking me on a date?” “I’m asking you to eat a meal that isn’t cold and eaten over a map. Call it whatever you like.” She laughed—a real, unguarded laugh that seemed to surprise them both. “I’d like that. Very much.” By the time the sun climbed higher, they stood to leave. Jean picked up her empty basket, then hesitated. “Will you still leave things at the statue?” Diluc shook his head. “No need. I’ll bring them to your desk directly. Consider it a delivery service.” “The Knights of Favonius appreciate your patronage.” “Only the Acting Grand Master gets the express menu.” She smiled, warm and genuine. “Good. Because I think I’ve become rather spoiled.” As they parted ways—one toward the city, one toward the vineyard—Jean felt lighter than she had in years. The mystery was solved, but something better had taken its place: the beginning of something real. That evening, a single sunsettia bloom appeared on Jean’s desk, nestled in a small vase with a note that read: *Seven o’clock. Don’t be late. — D*. She wasn’t.