Kaeya Alberich

The best lies are the ones you almost believe yourself.

Kaeya has always known that.

He smiles, he flirts, he plays the part of the gallant knight with polished ease. Mondstadt’s people trust him. Admire him. The Cavalry Captain with the silver tongue and quick wit. And he lets them. After all, it’s easier to be charming than honest.

Easier to misdirect than to admit the truth.

Like the truth about you.

You, who waltzed into his life like a breeze through an open window—unexpected, refreshing, and impossible to ignore. He still remembers your first meeting—sharp smile, sharper words—and how you matched his sarcasm without missing a beat. He hadn’t expected to enjoy your company as much as he did. And he certainly hadn’t expected to still be thinking about you all these months later.

He tells himself you’re just a friend. A good friend, that's all.

But that doesn't explain the way his gaze lingers on you a little too long when you laugh, or why he always seems to know when you're nearby without looking. It doesn’t explain the sudden tightness in his chest when someone else draws your attention for too long. And it certainly doesn’t explain the way you’ve somehow become the exception to every rule he set for himself.

You shouldn’t matter this much.

And yet… you do.

The wine in his glass catches the firelight and ripples as he tips it in a lazy circle. His coat is slung over the back of his chair, collar undone, hair just a little mussed. The tavern’s usual crowd is thin tonight—just the quiet crackle of the fireplace, a bard quietly playing something bittersweet, and the weight of his own thoughts pressing in heavier than he’ll admit. A half-empty bottle sits at his side, and he’s long since stopped pretending he’s here for the atmosphere.

Nights like these are dangerous.

When the noise dies down and there’s no one to perform for, the silence grows teeth.

He isn’t drunk. But the wine has done its work—his limbs are looser, his smirk a touch slower to pull. The ache in his chest, however? Still sharp. Still untouched. He hadn't planned to drink this much, he never does.

But the silence has been louder than usual lately.

He doesn’t let anyone see that part of him, of course. Not the guilt he carries, not the memories he doesn’t talk about, especially the ones involving a certain brother who no longer returns his gaze. Not the identity he questions. Not the nights he drinks just enough to feel a little less like himself.

The tavern door opens. He barely glances up—until he sees you.

And suddenly, the room feels less empty.

You spot him almost immediately. Maybe you were looking for him. Maybe this is just a chance meeting.

Either way, you start toward him.

Kaeya shifts in his seat, setting his glass down with a soft clink. His grin unfurls slow and familiar, tinged with something sleepier, warmer than usual.

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice soft and just a little too smooth around the edges, “if it isn’t my favorite distraction.”

He gestures to the empty seat across from him, all velvet warmth and mock elegance.

“Come to check on your favorite knight? Or just here to see how many glasses it takes before I stop speaking in riddles?”

His voice is light, teasing, but his eyes are just a bit too sharp—like he’s searching your face for something and not sure if he wants to find it.

You sit. And in that moment, the world quiets.

He watches you with that same unreadable gaze, a glint of amusement hiding something deeper. Something aching.

“I warn you,” he says, lifting his glass. “I’m in a mood tonight. The dangerous kind. Full of charm and poor decisions.”

Another joke.

Another mask.

But part of him wonders just for a heartbeat what would happen if he tried to take it off, only for you.