The Grand Master and the Cat Keeper (Varka x Reader)
Synopsis: You came to Mondstadt to disappear quietly. Varka found you anyway. What begins as evening conversations and rescuing stray cats turns into something deeper. Something warm, magnetic, impossible to ignore.
A/N: I listened to Varka’s voiceline about him wanting to adopt cats and dogs and...well. My entire brain short-circuited. This was supposed to be a short fic about Varka meeting reader’s stray cats. And then suddenly I had… 12k+ words of slow-burn tenderness, emotional tension, cat bonding, and accidental domesticity.
Please enjoy cat-dad Varka and the love story he absolutely did not expect to have, but absolutely deserves. 💙
Tags: Fluff. Slow Burn. Banter. Flirting. Emotional Tension. Mutual Pining. Mutual Support. Domestic Vibes. Cat Adoption Shenanigans. Cat Dad Varka. Protective Varka. Light Angst. Comfort. Confession. First Kiss. Heated Kissing. Found Family Energy. Reader Has Walls. Varka Breaks Them Down Gently. Mondstadt Ships It. Varka Is Not Subtle.
Word count: 12570
⋆ ✦ ⋆
You’re crouched in a narrow alley when you hear footsteps.
Heavy ones. Unhurried. Getting closer, then pausing, as if whoever’s out there is listening.
You freeze, one hand hovering protectively over the three stray cats curled beneath your makeshift shelter. They meow softly, one even hissing in its sleep, and you stroke them until they settle.
Technically, you’re not doing anything wrong.
Since arriving in Mondstadt a few days ago, you’ve been collecting strays—three so far —and your landlord would absolutely evict you if they knew. So you built the cats a quiet little shelter out of crates, cloth, and stubbornness, and you visit every evening.
Tonight is no different.
At least until—
“Knew I’d heard something.”
You stiffen. You dust off your clothes quickly and step out into the lantern-lit street and stop dead.
A man stands there.
Not just a man.
The tallest man you’ve ever seen: broad shoulders beneath worn armor, scarred forearms, hair tousled from the late-night wind. His presence is so solid, so warm, it fills the entire street before he even speaks.
From the stories, he must be the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius.
You do not let yourself panic. You also do not let him near your cats.
Before you can overthink it, you straighten up. “Grand Master. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
His expression brightens with amused surprise.
“No need to be so formal with me. Just Varka.” He crosses his arms loosely, a grin tugging at his mouth. “What’re you doing out here this late?”
Your spine stiffens instinctively. “Just… taking an evening walk. Mondstadt is the city of freedom, isn’t it?”
“Woah, easy there.” His grin widens, delighted rather than offended. “Just making conversation.”
You’re sure he means no harm, but the idea of him discovering your cats and forcing you to move them makes your stomach twist.
“I have insomnia,” you say quickly. “I wander around at night.”
He tilts his head, unconvinced and amused in equal measure.
“You know, you can’t fool me. Unless you’re hissing on a regular basis, you’ve got cats somewhere.”
“Hissing can be healthy,” you counter. “If used properly and without the intent to harm.”
Varka blinks. Then he laughs. A low, warm sound that does terrible things to your ability to think.
“…I see.” He studies you with a new kind of interest. “Didn’t expect that answer.”
You cross your arms. “With all due respect, don’t you have better things to do?”
He looks around the quiet street, then back at you. “Not really, no. Just came from Angel’s Share. Was heading to sleep.”
His expression softens, voice dropping into something warm and sincere.
“But I protect this city. Don’t like people wandering alone at night, no matter how safe it seems. Alright?”
“Mm.” You click your tongue. Then nod slowly. “I see what this is about now. Not chivalry… though it’s appreciated.”
You narrow your eyes. “You want to see the cats.”
Varka‘s grin breaks wide open. “Yeah. I do. Please?”
Somehow, it’s endearing. This mountain of a man asking like you’re the one granting him a favor.
“They’re a little feisty,” you warn.
“Even better.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “They’ll love me.”
“You’re not giving up, are you? There are cats everywhere. Why don’t you go admire someone else’s?”
He laughs, a sound that fills the alley. “You fuss over them so much. Now I want to meet them.”
A meow echoes from your shelter.
You sigh. “…Great. Now they noticed you. Your laughter’s too loud.”
“I’m a loud man.” He shrugs, still grinning. “But I can be very calm, if I need to be. People say I’ve got a soothing aura.”
“Uh-huh.”
He puts a hand to his chest in playful offense, then gives you a long, assessing look like he’s piecing something together.
“C’mon. I’ll behave.”
Against your better judgment—and because your cats already know he’s here—you lead him to the shelter.
“Cozy,” he mutters, crouching beside you. “Could use some work, though. I’ve got ideas.”
“You’re very invested,” you deadpan.
“Mhm.” He offers his hand to the ginger kitten, his voice going unexpectedly soft. “I always wanted to adopt cats.”
That… does something to you. “Are you always this chatty?”
“Yeah, usually.” He glances up at you, eyes warm. “Why? You like it?”
You look away. “We’ll see about that.”
But the truth is already obvious.
One of the cats crawls onto his arm and starts licking him. You choke on a laugh.
“Got names for them yet?” Varka asks.
“Kinda,” you say too quickly.
He smirks. “Thought so. C’mon. Tell me. I can keep a secret if it’s part of some sacred cat oath.”
“With the cats?”
“Yeah. You seem the type to talk to them constantly.” He watches the way your mouth twitches. “That’s a compliment.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course you have opinions about cat names.”
“Oh, I have more than opinions.” He leans in conspiratorially. “I have suggestions.”
Your heart does something unhelpful.
You gesture toward the black-and-white one curled in a box. “That’s Pepper.”
Varka hums, nodding as if evaluating the name on some internal scale of worthiness.
“Strong choice. Looks like a Pepper.”
The ginger one paws at his sleeve. “And that one’s Bristle.”
He grins. “Very accurate. Fiery little knight.”
You hesitate before adding, “The third one… doesn’t have a name yet.”
Varka’s head snaps up so fast it makes you blink. “No name?” he repeats, like you’ve just revealed a sacred vacancy.
He looks between you and the tiny grey kitten curled against your ankle. Then, softer, hopeful: “…Are you letting me?”
Your heart stutters. His voice dropped. Gentle in a way you didn’t expect from a man who looks like he could bench-press a beast.
You shrug, casual, though you definitely did this on purpose. “Maybe. If you don’t pick something ridiculous.”
He places a hand dramatically over his heart. “I take this honor very seriously.”
He studies the kitten with the focus of someone naming a knight, not a stray.
The kitten stretches, bonks its tiny head against his massive palm, and immediately begins purring.
Varka’s expression softens. Melts, even. “…Whisper,” he says.
You blink. “Whisper?”
He nods, suddenly shy in a way you wouldn’t have thought possible for a man this enormous.
“She’s quiet. Watches before she acts. Careful little thing.”
Your lips curve. “Whisper it is.”
If Varka were any happier, the street lamps would probably brighten in solidarity.
He clears his throat like he needs to steady himself. “So. You’re new to Mondstadt.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Everything about you says you’re not from around here.”
His eyes flick over your posture, your shoes, your careful way of speaking. He doesn’t judge, just notices.
You fall into an easy conversation for a while. You tell him about the cats, mostly, about where you‘re staying at the moment, and he listens and makes commentary. Gives you some info about the city, always with that grin.
Then he pauses, just looking at you. “You exploring? Passing through? Or planning to stay a while?”
You look down at the cats, then back at him. “Not sure yet. Maybe I’ll tell you next time.”
A slow, pleased smile spreads across his face. “Counting on it.”
He rises to his full height, the alley shrinking around him again. “You need a permanent place, though,” he says lightly. “Something safe. For the cats.”
His eyes catch yours. Warm. Intent. “I’ll keep an ear out.”
You open your mouth to protest—he’s the Grand Master, for Archon’s sake—but he’s already crouching again to give Whisper a final chin rub.
“Get home safe,” he says, stepping back. “And don’t wander alone at night, yeah?”
“Why?” you tease. “You going to scold me again?”
He grins. “No. I’ll just show up again.”
And with that, he disappears around the corner, leaving you in the alley with three cats, a racing heartbeat, and the distinct sense that Mondstadt just became more complicated than you planned.
— ✦ —
You don’t plan to run into him again.
And yet.
Three nights later, Varka appears with a basket slung under one arm.
“For the cats,” he says, like this is a completely normal thing for the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius to be doing at midnight.
The basket is full of fish.
Pepper takes one sniff and hisses with pure excitement.
Varka beams like he’s just negotiated a major treaty. “Knew she’d love it.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Wanted to.” He crouches down, already offering Bristle a piece. “Besides, I was in the area.”
You raise an eyebrow. “At night. In this specific alley.”
“Patrol route,” he says, far too quickly.
You don’t believe him for a second.
(He comes back the next night too.)
It becomes a pattern.
Not every night—but often enough that the cats start looking for him. Often enough that you stop being surprised when his footsteps echo down the alley.
Often enough that you start… expecting it.
You call him “Varka” now without hesitation.
Not Grand Master. Not sir. Just… Varka.
He pretends it doesn’t affect him.
(It does.)
You notice the way his expression shifts every time you say it, something warm and pleased flickering across his face before he schools it back to neutral.
You notice, and you don’t stop saying it.
One evening, Whisper bypasses you entirely and scrambles straight up his arm to perch on his shoulder.
Varka goes very still, like he’s afraid to move and dislodge her.
“She picked her favorite,” he announces, voice soft with wonder.
“You bribed her,” you point out.
“Effective leadership.” He grins, then very carefully reaches up to scratch under her chin. Whisper purrs so loudly you can hear it from three feet away.
Something warm and unhelpful settles in your chest.
Days slip by like this. Quiet moments. Soft shifts.
By the second week, you’ve stopped pretending this isn’t happening.
“You know,” you mutter one evening, speaking more to Bristle than anyone, “he’s very persistent.”
Varka, who’s crouched two feet away coaxing Pepper out of a box, perks up immediately.
“See? I knew you made oaths with them.”
“Not oaths.”
“Guidelines, then. Sacred cat agreements.”
“Varka, stop listening to my private conversations.”
“Can’t.” He doesn’t even look sorry. “Too charming.”
You try to glare at him.
It doesn’t work.
(It never works.)
Sometimes you catch him watching you.
Not your face—your hands. The way you move around the cats. How gentle you are when Pepper gets skittish, how patient when Bristle refuses to settle, how soft your voice goes when Whisper curls into your lap.
Each time, his expression does something you don’t quite know how to name.
Soft. Like he’s cataloging every detail and filing it away somewhere important.
Once, you look up too quickly and catch him mid-stare.
He doesn’t look away.
Just smiles—small and wondering and entirely too warm—and says, “You’re good with them.”
“They’re cats,” you manage. “Not exactly difficult.”
“Still.” His voice drops, goes quieter. “It’s nice. Watching you care about something.”
You look away first.
One evening, the conversation shifts.
“How’s the apartment search going?” Varka asks while refilling Pepper’s water bowl.
“About as well as you’d expect.” You sigh. “Mondstadt’s apparently full.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Lot of people moving in lately. I’ve been asking around though—there might be something opening up soon.”
You blink. “You’ve been asking?”
“Told you I’d keep an ear out.” He glances over, slightly amused. “Though apparently I’ve asked enough people that rumors are starting. Kaeya asked if I was setting up a secret hide out.”
You snort. “What did you tell him?”
“That I’m helping a friend.” His eyes are warm. “He didn’t believe me for a second.”
“And what does he think?”
Varka’s ears go slightly pink. “Nothing worth repeating.”
One evening, when Varka shows up at the usual time, you’re hyperaware of every look, every smile, every time his hand lingers near yours.
“You alright?” he asks, noticing your distraction.
“Fine,” you lie. “Just… long day at work.”
You’d found a job at one of the shops. Nothing glamorous, but steady. Enough to pay for the temporary room and save a little. Enough to prove you could stay in Mondstadt if you wanted to.
If you wanted to.
You’re starting to think you do.
He doesn’t push. Just settles beside you, close enough that his warmth reaches you, and starts telling Pepper about his day like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
A shopkeeper stops you in the plaza one afternoon.
“Excuse me—are you the one the Grand Master’s been visiting every night?”
You choke on air.
Behind you, Varka—who’d been trailing at a polite distance like he just happened to be walking the same direction—immediately becomes very interested in a basket of apples.
“I don’t—we’re not—it’s just—” You flounder.
The shopkeeper grins knowingly. “He talks about you, you know. And the cats.”
“He what—”
“Good man.”
She’s gone before you can form a coherent response.
Varka is still examining apples with the focus of someone who absolutely heard every word and is choosing violence by pretending he didn’t.
“Varka.”
“Mm?”
“Did you tell half of Mondstadt about the cats?”
“Only the relevant half.” He finally looks at you, grin unrepentant. “They were curious why I kept disappearing at night.”
“And you thought the truth was a good idea?”
“Better than letting them think I was up to something suspicious.” He shifts the apple basket to one arm. “Besides. I’m proud of those cats. Why wouldn’t I talk about them?”
The way he says those cats does something to your chest you refuse to examine. Like they’re his too. Like he has any claim to them beyond showing up uninvited with fish.
You feel warm.
And then you notice something wrong.
He’s favoring his right shoulder.
It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t catch it. But you’ve been watching him for weeks now (not that you’d admit it), and you see the way he rolls it slightly when he thinks no one’s looking, the careful way he moves when reaching for things.
That evening, when he shows up at the alley, you’re ready.
“Here,” you say, holding out a small jar.
He blinks. “What’s this?”
“Salve. For your shoulder.”
Surprise flickers across his face before he schools it. “How did you—”
“You keep rolling it.” You shrug, trying to seem casual even though your heart is beating too fast. “Figured you pulled something during training or… whatever it is Grand Masters do.”
He stares at the jar like you’ve handed him something precious.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know.” You press it into his hand before you can overthink it. “But you’re always taking care of everyone else. Someone should take care of you too.”
The words hang in the air between you.
Varka goes very still, his fingers closing carefully around the jar.
When he looks up, something in his expression has shifted—softened and intensified at the same time.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
You clear your throat, suddenly flustered. “It’s just salve. Don’t make it weird.”
His laugh is soft, a little rough. “Too late.”
He tucks the jar away and the way he looks at you makes your breath catch.
Like you’ve given him something he didn’t know he needed.
You mention, casually, that the nights are getting colder and the cats could use better blankets.
The next evening, Varka arrives carrying three.
Thick ones. Wool. Probably expensive.
“These were lying around in the storage,” he says, far too innocently.
You raise an eyebrow. “And they just let you take whatever you want from storage?”
“They will. I can be very convincing,” he says, completely sincere.
You don’t even argue. Just take the blankets and watch him arrange them carefully in the shelter, adjusting corners with the same focus he probably uses for military strategy.
“You’re going to get in trouble,” you say quietly.
“Worth it.” He doesn’t look up. “They need to be warm.”
A couple of weeks ago, you were hiding cats in an alley.
Now the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius is stealing blankets for them.
You’re not sure when your life became this strange.
(You’re not sure when you stopped minding.)
— ✦ —
One evening, the rain begins just as you’re finishing up with the cats. Soft at first, then steady enough that you glance up at the sky and sigh.
Varka, who’d shown up twenty minutes ago with “extra fish, just in case,” follows your gaze.
“Come on.” He straightens, brushing cat fur off his pants. “Angel’s Share is right there. I’ll buy you a drink.”
It’s not a question.
But the way he looks at you makes it feel like one anyway.
You should say no.
You should go home, draw a line, remember that he’s the Grand Master and you’re just someone passing through Mondstadt with three stray cats and no permanent address.
But the rain is picking up, and he’s looking at you like spending more time together is something he actually wants, and—
“Alright,” you hear yourself say. “One drink.”
His smile could light up the whole plaza.
“One drink,” he agrees.
(You both know it won’t be just that.)
He’s already holding the door open for you, warm lamplight spilling out behind him.
Inside, the tavern is nearly empty.
Varka scans the room once, decides immediately, then places a guiding hand near your back. Not touching, but close enough you feel the warmth.
“Upstairs,” he says with a little grin. “Quieter there.”
You follow him up the wooden steps to a table overlooking the main floor.
He gestures for you to sit.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab the drinks.”
Before you can protest, he’s already gone.
A moment later, he returns with two glasses and sets one gently in front of you.
“It’s something light,” he says. “Figured you might want to keep a clear head.”
You blink. The consideration isn’t surprising coming from him, but it’s unfamiliar to you. And it warms something in your chest.
He settles into the seat across from you, forearms braced on the table. His size makes the corner nook feel smaller, more intimate.
“So,” Varka says, softer now. “Tell me why you came to Mondstadt.”
You take a slow breath. You hadn’t planned to tell him this. But something about the quiet space, the warm wood, the light on his face makes all speaking easier.
“I’m from Fontaine,” you begin. “Born there. Raised there. My family’s… well-off.”
Varka doesn’t react with judgment. He simply listens, steady and open. “But I never fit,” you continue. “All those expectations. Parties. Perfect etiquette. Being graceful and charming in all the ‘right’ circles. It felt like wearing someone else’s life.”
His brow softens.
“So,” you shrug, “I left. Traveled a while. Tried to figure out who I actually am without all the noise.”
“And that brought you here?” Varka asks quietly.
“Yeah. Mondstadt was meant to be temporary.” You look out the window, at the rain streaking down the glass. “But it feels easier to breathe here. More honest.”
When you look back, Varka is watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher. Gentle, contemplative, warmed by something he hasn’t named.
“Thinking about staying, then?” he asks, and there’s something careful in his voice. Like your answer matters more than he wants to admit.
“Maybe,” you say. “I’m not sure yet.”
His expression does something complicated. Hope and patience warring in his eyes.
“Actually,” he says, expression brightening slightly, “I might have a lead. One of the knights mentioned a place near the plaza. Landlord’s reasonable, apparently. Not confirmed yet, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll know more in a few days.”
Something in your chest eases. The uncertainty you’d been carrying about where you’d live, whether you’d have to leave Mondstadt, whether the cats would have a real home.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For caring about that. About… all of us.”
His expression softens. “Of course I care.”
The words settle between you, weighted with something neither of you quite names.
He takes a sip of his drink, and when he speaks again, his voice is thoughtful.
“You know,” he begins, “people like to pretend paths are straight lines. That you’re supposed to follow one clear direction, beginning to end.” He huffs a breath. “My life cured me of that notion eventually.”
“Oh?” you ask, leaning in.
“Yeah.” He taps a finger lightly on the table. “Spent years trying to become the hero. The symbol. The one who charges in first and gets all the glory.”
A soft laugh. “Turns out, that wasn’t me. Never was.”
You blink. “Really?”
“Really.” His voice goes low, almost thoughtful. “Glory’s loud. But real importance?” He shakes his head. “That’s quieter. More grounded. Protecting people. Showing up. Making a place safer. Kinder. That matters more to me than any legend.”
It matches him. Perfectly.
“So,” he finishes, tilting his head, “if you strayed from the path life laid out for you? Good. Sometimes the wandering is the only part that actually belongs to you.”
His gaze lingers a second too long. Your pulse trips.
You weren’t expecting this. Not from someone who looks like he could wrestle a Lawachurl and win. Not from the Grand Master who everyone in Mondstadt seems to revere.
But he’s looking at you like he understands exactly what it means to walk away from a destiny someone else chose. Like he’s done it himself.
“That’s…” You swallow. “That’s exactly it. I couldn’t have said it better.”
Something shifts in his expression. Warmth, recognition, something deeper.
“Then you’re on the right path,” he says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”
The moment stretches between you.
You clear your throat, needing to lighten the weight before it pulls you under.
“You’re very philosophical for someone who was interrogating me about hissing before.”
He lets out an unrestrained laugh. Deep and warm.
“I stand by it,” Varka says. “Still a reasonable question.”
“It’s really not.”
He shifts closer. Not much, but enough that the warmth of him reaches across the table.
The conversation flows easily after that. Easier than it has any right to, considering you’ve known him less than a month.
You tell him about Fontaine. Not the practiced version you give strangers, but the truth: the suffocating expectations, the parties where you felt like someone on display, the moment you realized you’d rather have nothing than live someone else’s life.
He listens like every word matters. Asks questions that show he’s not just being polite—he actually wants to understand. “What was the moment you decided to leave?” “Did anyone try to stop you?” “Do you miss any of it?”
You find yourself answering things you normally wouldn’t. Remembering details you thought you’d buried.
When you pause, suddenly self-conscious about how much you’ve shared, he just refills your glass and says, “Go on. I’m listening.”
And he is. Completely. Like nothing else in the world exists except you and this conversation.
In return, he tells you stories.
About fights—though he never boasts, always deflects credit to others. About the knights and their various mishaps. About Mondstadt and why he loves it, why he stays, why protecting it matters more to him than any glory ever could.
You listen just as intently, asking your own questions, calling him out when he’s too modest, teasing him when he gets that fond look talking about “his” knights.
When he laughs—really laughs, not just that warm chuckle—you feel it in your chest. Like the sound is burrowing under your skin and making a home there.
The tavern empties around you.
Neither of you moves to leave.
At some point, his hand ends up near yours on the table. Not touching, but close. So close you’re hyperaware of the space between your fingers, the way the light catches on his skin, the fact that closing that distance would be so easy.
You don’t.
But you think about it.
And when you glance up, you find him watching you with an expression that suggests he’s thinking about it too.
“You’re different tonight,” he notes, voice dropping into something more intimate.
You arch a brow, trying to lighten the weight of the moment. “And you’re different when you’re not sniffing around alleys trying to find cats.”
“Cats were a welcome surprise,” he says, voice dropping. “But I’m not complaining about the company either.”
The air between you shifts.
He notices your sharp inhale, and his mouth curves. “Relax,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement. “I don’t bite.”
“I’m not nervous,” you lie.
“Sure you’re not.”
He holds your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between you.
Then he glances toward the window, where the rain has softened to a gentle mist.
“Rain’s letting up,” Varka says quietly, almost reluctant to break whatever this is. “Should probably check on the cats before it starts again.”
He stands, then pauses—hand extended, waiting.
You accept without thinking. His hand engulfs yours. Warm, steady, careful.
And the walk back feels different.
Closer. Quieter. Charged with something neither of you names.
He doesn’t let go of your hand until you reach the alley.
Even then, his fingers linger for just a moment. Warm and careful and entirely too aware of what they’re doing.
When he finally releases you, the absence feels louder than it should.
— ✦ —
The next few days blur together. Varka starts finding excuses to see you outside the evening cat visits.
“Was in the area,” he says, appearing while you’re buying vegetables.
You raise an eyebrow. “The headquarters is on the other side of the city.”
“Long patrol route,” he says, entirely shameless.
He carries your bags anyway.
One afternoon, you’re reading on a bench near the cathedral when a shadow falls across your book.
You look up.
Varka stands there, two cups of tea in hand. “Thought you might want one,” he says.
You blink. “How did you know I was here?”
“Lucky guess.” But his eyes are warm, pleased he found you.
You take the tea. Your fingers brush his.
He notices. You pretend not to.
But as he settles across from you, you can’t help noticing the way the afternoon light catches in his hair, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his hands dwarf the teacup.
He’s always been large—you knew that objectively.
But sitting here in the quiet cathedral square, watching him handle the delicate cup with surprising care, you realize he’s also just… handsome.
The thought arrives unbidden and unwelcome.
You take a sip of tea to hide your face.
The next day, Varka arrives looking harried, ink stains on his fingers.
“Rough day?” you ask.
He groans, settling beside you. “Paperwork. Mountains of it.”
He makes a face. “Tomorrow's going to be worse. I'll be drowning in papers until sunset. At least.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“It is.” He watches Bristle chase a leaf with clear longing. “This is much better.”
The next afternoon, you find yourself standing outside the headquarters, a basket of lunch in hand and a half-formed plan in your head.
This is probably a terrible idea.
You walk in anyway.
The entrance hall is impressive. A few knights mill about, and you suddenly feel very out of place.
“Can I help you?”
You turn to find a woman. Blonde hair, gray-blue eyes, an air of competent professionalism that's somehow both intimidating and kind.
“I'm looking for Varka,” you say. “Is he... available?”
Her expression shifts—recognition.
“You're the one with the cats,” she says. It's not a question.
Your face heats. “I—yes. How did you—”
“He talks about you.” Her smile is gentle. “I'm Jean.”
“Oh." You're suddenly very aware that you're talking to someone important while holding a lunch basket like some kind of—
“He's in his office,” Jean continues. “He's been buried in paperwork since dawn and his mood is... not good.”
“Actually,” you say before you can lose your nerve, “I was wondering if I could borrow him. Just for a bit. He mentioned being swamped today, and I thought—” You gesture vaguely with the basket. “—maybe a break would help?”
Jean's expression does something complicated. Surprised, pleased, almost relieved.
“I think that's exactly what he needs.” She glances toward his office, then back to you. “Take as long as you want. I'll handle anything urgent.”
“Are you sure? I don't want to—”
“I'm sure,” Jean says, and there's genuine warmth in her voice now. “He needs this.”
You knock on the door.
“Come in,” comes a weary voice.
You push the door open to find Varka behind a desk absolutely buried in papers. He's bent over a document, quill in hand, and he doesn't look up.
“Jean, I promise I'm working on the—”
“Not Jean.”
His head snaps up.
For a second, he just stares. Surprise and confusion and then something that looks almost like relief flooding his expression.
“What are you doing here?"
“Rescuing you.” You hold up the basket. “You said you'd be drowning in paperwork. Thought you might need sustenance. And—” You glance at the mountain of documents. “—possibly a reason to stop before you go insane.”
Varka blinks. Then he laughs. Tired but genuine. “You have no idea how tempting that sounds.”
“Then come with me.”
“I can't just—” He gestures at the desk. “There's still so much—”
“Jean said she'd cover anything urgent.” You lean against the doorframe, giving him your best challenging look. “Come on, Grand Master. When was the last time you actually took a break?”
His jaw works.
“You're trouble,” he mutters, but he's already standing, and you see the grin he's trying to hide. He clearly welcomes the distraction.
“So I've been told.”
You lead him out of headquarters, through the plaza, and then—instead of stopping at the fountain or a bench—you head toward the city walls.
“Where are we going?” Varka asks, amused suspicion creeping into his voice.
“You'll see.”
When you reach the base of the wall, you set the basket down and start climbing.
“What are you—” Varka stops dead. “Are you climbing the city wall?”
“Yep!” You're already halfway up, using the handholds in the stone. It's not difficult. The walls are old, plenty of places to grip.
“That's not—you can't just—” He sounds somewhere between alarmed and baffled. “That's not allowed!”
“Says who?” you call down.
"Says the Grand Master!”
You pause, looking down at him with a grin. “Then I guess you'll have to come arrest me.”
His expression is torn between duty and disbelief and something that looks suspiciously like he's trying not to laugh.
“I told you I came to Mondstadt for freedom,” you point out, settling onto the top of the wall and letting your legs dangle. “Can't get more free than this.”
He stares up at you for a long moment.
Then, shaking his head with a laugh that sounds almost helpless, he follows.
He makes it look effortless, of course. One smooth motion and he's beside you, settling onto the wall with considerably more grace than you managed.
“You're going to give me a heart attack,” he says, but he's smiling now. Really smiling.
“Someone has to keep you on your toes.” You open the basket, handing him bread and cheese. “You were drowning in bureaucracy. Figured you needed reminding that there's a world outside that office.”
“By making me climb the city wall.”
“Exactly.”
He takes a bite, and for a moment you both just sit there, legs dangling over Mondstadt, the breeze carrying the scent of flowers from the meadow below.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I... needed this. More than I realized.”
“I know.” You bump your shoulder against his. “You get this look when you're buried in work.”
He glances over, something complicated in his expression. “You really do notice things, don't you?”
Before you can react, he reaches out and ruffles your hair. Playful, warm, entirely unexpected.
“Hey!” You swat at his hand, laughing.
“What?” His grin is unrepentant. “You caught me off-guard with the wall climbing. Fair's fair.”
“That's not—that's completely different!”
“Is it?” He's leaning closer now, eyes bright with mischief. “You surprised me. I surprised you. Seems even to me.”
Your heart is thumping in your chest.
You're very aware of how close he is. How his hand is still in your hair. How easy it would be to lean in, to close that distance, to—
He seems to realize the same thing.
His expression shifts, the playfulness fading into something more intense, more aware.
For a breathless moment, neither of you moves.
Then he clears his throat, hand dropping, putting a careful few inches between you.
“We should probably eat,” he says, voice slightly rougher than usual.
“Right. Yes. Food.”
But you're both very aware that something just shifted.
— ✦ —
Two days pass without seeing Varka.
It’s not unusual—he’s the Grand Master, he has responsibilities. But you’ve gotten used to his presence in the evenings, the sound of his footsteps in the alley, the way Whisper perks up when she hears him coming.
The cats notice his absence too. Bristle keeps looking toward the alley entrance. Pepper seems restless.
On the third evening, he finally appears.
And everything in you goes still.
He's different.
There's no blood, no visible damage. His armor is intact, his posture upright as ever. To anyone else, he'd look fine.
But you've spent weeks watching him. Learning the easy warmth of his presence, the way he fills a space with calm.
This isn't that.
This is contained. Tightly controlled. Like he's holding something back with sheer force of will.
The air around him feels heavy. Like the atmosphere before a storm, all potential energy and barely-leashed power.
The cats notice too. Pepper's ears flatten slightly. Bristle stops mid-exploration, watchful.
Only Whisper approaches, cautious but trusting.
“There you are,” you say, keeping your tone light despite the unease curling in your stomach. “Thought maybe you'd gotten bored of us.”
“Never.” His voice is normal. Warm. Steady. But when he crouches beside you to greet the cats, you see it.
The careful precision in every movement.
The tension in his shoulders.
The tightness around his eyes, around his mouth.
The way his hands are just slightly less gentle than usual. Not rough, but effortful.
This is what strength looks like when it's been tested. When it's held too much for too long and is barely holding together.
“Extended patrols,” he says, running his hand over Whisper's head. “Situation outside the city.”
“Everything okay?”
“All handled.” That practiced smile again. “We were victorious. No casualties.”
Most people would accept this. The mission succeeded, the Grand Master is fine, that’s all that matters.
You’re not most people.
You watch him settle beside you, the way he rolls his shoulder slightly when he thinks you’re not looking, the careful control in every movement.
“What’s it like?” you ask quietly.
He glances over. “What’s what like?”
“Leading people into danger. Fighting the way you do.”
Something flickers in his expression. Surprise, maybe, or something more guarded.
“Why?” He recovers with that easy grin. “Want to see me train sometime?”
The image arrives unbidden. Him in the training grounds, armor off, shirt clinging to his frame, that focused intensity you’ve glimpsed turned toward combat instead of cats—
Your face heats. “I—sure—but that’s not—” You catch yourself, narrow your eyes. “Hey. Don’t try to change the topic.”
His smile falters slightly. “Wasn’t trying to—”
“Yes, you were.” You turn to face him fully. “You do that. When something’s uncomfortable, you deflect with humor or change the subject. I’ve noticed.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far.
Then he exhales slowly, and something in his posture shifts. Not quite sagging, but releasing something he’s been holding.
“Nobody really asks that,” he says finally, voice quieter than usual. “About what it’s like. They ask if we won. If I’m injured. If the city’s safe. But not…” He gestures vaguely. “Not what it feels like.”
You wait, giving him space.
“It can be straining,” he admits. “Every decision could mean someone doesn’t come home. Every plan I make, I’m weighing lives. And when we win—when everyone makes it back—I’m supposed to celebrate. Be the confident leader who never doubted.”
He looks down at his hands. “But sometimes I’m just… tired.”
Your chest aches.
This man who carries so much, and nobody asks if he’s okay because he’s always okay, he has to be okay, he’s the Grand Master—
“Come on,” you say, standing abruptly.
He blinks up at you. “What?”
“We’re going for a walk.”
“It’s late—”
“I know what time it is.” You’re already gathering the cats’ leads.
“With the cats?”
All three cats immediately perk up, meowing and purring as if in agreement.
You give him a pointed look. “You have your answer.”
He stares at the cats, then at you, then back at the cats.
“Well,” he says, a hint of genuine amusement creeping into his voice, “my four companions have decided. Who am I to argue?”
The streets of Mondstadt are quiet at this hour, just the soft glow of lanterns and the distant sound of the tavern.
You walk side by side, the cats exploring ahead on their leads. Whisper stays close to Varka’s heels. Loyal little thing.
“Thank you,” he says after a while. “For asking. For… this.”
“You don’t have to thank me for basic decency.”
“Still.” He looks at you, something complicated in his expression.
You stop walking. The cats pause too, sensing the shift.
Before you can overthink it, you step closer and wrap your arms around him.
He goes rigid—just for a second—before his arms come up slowly. Carefully.
“You’re a good person, Varka,” you murmur against his chest. “Not just a good leader. You’re… genuinely good. Kind. Thoughtful. The kind of person who remembers which cat likes which blanket and asks the right questions and notices things without someone mentioning them.”
You feel him exhale, long and slow, some of the tension draining from his frame.
“The kind of person people look up to,” you continue, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “Not because you’re strong or victorious or never make mistakes. But because you care. That’s why they follow you. Why they trust you.”
His eyes are very bright in the lamplight. “I don’t…” His voice is rough. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
He laughs—surprised and a little unsteady. “You’re extraordinary, you know that?”
“Why, because I give hugs?”
“Because you see things.” His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “You ask the questions nobody else asks. You notice things nobody else notices.”
The moment feels suspended, fragile.
“I admire that about you,” you say quietly. “You’re good at helping people, but you’re also good at knowing people. Seeing what they need. Being what they need.”
You hesitate, then add, “I wasn’t always… good at that. Knowing who to trust. I got hurt once—someone I cared about got hurt because I trusted the wrong people. Made the wrong call.”
His expression shifts. Understanding, protectiveness, something deeper.
“It made me careful,” you continue. “Maybe too careful. But you…” You meet his eyes. “You’re not like them.”
“Hey,” he says softly, both hands framing your face now. “Whatever happened before—that wasn’t your fault. You can’t control what other people choose to do.”
“I know. But it still—”
Bristle headbutts his leg aggressively, meowing with impressive volume.
You both startle, then laugh.
“I think someone’s jealous of the attention,” Varka says, crouching to give Bristle the pets she’s demanding.
“Or hungry,” you point out.
“Always a possibility with this one.” But he’s smiling. Something warm and genuine and entirely for you.
Pepper joins in the demand for attention. Then Whisper. Within seconds you’re both surrounded by insistent cats.
“Alright, alright,” Varka concedes, standing. “My four companions have spoken again. We should head back.”
The walk back is lighter somehow. His shoulders aren’t quite so tense. Your own chest feels less tight.
When you reach the alley, he helps you settle the cats before turning to leave. “Varka?”
He looks back.
“I mean it. What I said. You’re… you’re really good. Don’t forget that.”
Something in his expression goes very soft. “Coming from you,” he says quietly, “that means more than you know.”
And then he’s gone, but the warmth in your chest stays.
Behind you, Whisper purrs contentedly. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.”
— ✦ —
The next evening, when Varka shows up at the usual time, you’re hyperaware of every look, every smile, every time his hand lingers near yours.
“You alright?” he asks, noticing your distraction.
“Fine,” you lie.
He doesn’t push. Just settles beside you, close enough that his warmth reaches you, and starts telling Pepper about his day like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You watch him. This enormous man baby-talking to a cat—and something in your chest aches.
Don’t, you tell yourself. Don’t get attached. You’re leaving eventually. This isn’t permanent.
But it’s getting harder to remember why you would do that.
Varka brings you a scarf one day after.
“Nights are getting colder,” he says, wrapping it around your neck before you can protest.
His fingers linger at your collar. You can feel his breath, warm against your temple.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You’re acutely aware of everything—the calluses on his fingertips, the warmth radiating from him, how close his mouth is to your forehead. How easy it would be to tilt your head up, to—
Then Bristle meows, breaking the spell, and you both step back too quickly.
“Thank you,” you manage.
“Anytime.” His voice is rougher than usual.
You don’t take the scarf off, even after he leaves.
It smells like him.
Two days later, you notice his gloves are worn through at the fingertips.
You don’t say anything. Just buy a new pair and leave them at the Knights of Favonius headquarters with a note:
For patrols. Don’t argue.
That evening, when he shows up at the alley, he’s wearing them. “You know,” Varka says, crouching beside you, flexing his fingers in the new gloves, “you’re making it very hard to be the one who takes care of you.”
“Good.” You don’t look at him. “You do too much for everyone else anyway.”
“And you don’t do enough for yourself.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
He laughs. Surprised and delighted and entirely too warm. “Fair point.”
When you finally glance over, he’s looking at the gloves like they’re armor blessed by the Archons.
“They fit perfectly,” he says quietly.
You watch his hands as he flexes his fingers again.
You’ve seen those hands gentle with kittens, steady when holding them, and suddenly you’re thinking about them in contexts you absolutely should not be thinking about.
“I know your size.” The words slip out before you can stop them.
His eyes snap to yours, something intense flickering in them. “Do you?”
“I pay attention,” you manage.
“Yeah,” he says softly, voice rough. “I’ve noticed.”
Neither of you looks away.
Pepper headbutts your leg, demanding food, and the moment shatters.
But Varka doesn’t take the gloves off for the rest of the night.
And you notice.
One evening, Varka arrives earlier than usual, and there’s something different in his expression.
“I found a place,” he says without preamble.
You blink up at him. “What?”
“An apartment. Two rooms, near the plaza. I talked to the landlord about the cats. He’s fine with it.”
Your heart does something complicated.
You’ve been looking for weeks. Every place either doesn’t allow animals, costs too much, or the landlords take one look at you—a newcomer with no references—and politely decline.
You were starting to think you’d be in that cramped temporary room forever.
“Is it… expensive?”
“Affordable.” He names a price that makes your shoulders drop with relief. “And the landlord’s flexible. As long as you take care of the place, he’s not picky.”
“Varka…” Your voice catches, but his gaze tells you that words aren't needed.
“Want to see it?” he asks gently. “No pressure. But I think you’d like it.”
The next day, he takes you to see it.
It’s perfect.
Small, yes. The floors creak and the kitchen is barely big enough for two people. But the windows are tall, the light is good, and when you mention the cats, Varka points to the corner near the hearth.
“Perfect spot for them,” he says. “Warm. Safe.”
You stand in the middle of the empty apartment and feel something shift in your chest.
A permanent place.
In Mondstadt.
“I’ll take it,” you hear yourself say.
Varka’s smile could light up the entire city.
“The place will be ready in about two weeks,” he says. “Landlord needs to do some minor repairs first—fix a few floorboards, check the window latches, that sort of thing. But it’s yours after that.”
Two weeks. A permanent place in two weeks.
It feels both impossibly far away and remarkably close.
“I’ll help you move,” Varka says, like it’s obvious. Like there was never any question.
“You don't have to do that.”
“I know.” His eyes are warm. “But I want to. Besides, those cats aren’t going to move themselves.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Pretty sure Bristle would try.”
“Exactly why you need supervision.” Varka’s grinning now. “Can’t have her directing the whole operation.”
“You know he likes you, right?” Sara asks one day when you’re picking up food.
“Who?”
She gives you a look. “The Grand Master. Varka. The man who rearranged his entire schedule to ‘accidentally’ run into you.”
“He hasn’t—we’re not—”
“He looks at you,” she interrupts gently, “like you’re the best thing that’s happened to Mondstadt in years.”
Your throat tightens.
“He’s just… kind. That’s how he is with everyone.”
“No,” she says simply. “It’s not.”
That night, Varka shows up early.
You’re still arranging the shelter when his footsteps echo down the alley.
“You’re here early,” you say, not looking up.
“Finished work early.” He crouches beside you. “Thought I’d help.”
You hand him a bowl of food without comment.
His fingers brush yours as he takes it.
This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately.
Neither do you.
When Varka arrives the next evening, you notice immediately.
The careful way he sits. The slight tightness around his eyes. The way he’s holding himself just a fraction too still.
“Long day?” you ask quietly.
“Just the usual.” But his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
You don’t push. Just shift slightly closer, your shoulder brushing his.
It’s a small thing. Barely noticeable.
But you feel him exhale—long and slow—some of the tension leaving his frame.
His eyes drop to where you’re touching, then to your face. The look there is complicated. Warm and wanting and carefully controlled.
“This helps,” Varka says, voice rougher than usual.
You’re suddenly very aware of the warmth of him, the solid presence at your side, the fact that you’re close enough to feel his breathing.
“What does?”
“This. Being here. With you.”
Your heart stumbles.
He’s not looking at you—he’s watching Whisper play with a piece of string—but his voice is too honest, too open.
“Here it’s just quiet. Just the cats. Just us. That's enough.”
He finally looks at you.
You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but sit there with your shoulder pressed to his, feeling the warmth of him, the weight of what he’s not quite saying.
“You don’t have to be ‘on’ all the time,” you say softly. “Not with me.”
Something in his expression cracks open.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I keep coming back.”
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he adds after a moment.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
About how I’m falling for you.
“Nothing important,” you say instead.
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, he asks: “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
You finally look at him.
“Of course,” you lie, panic taking over.
His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows it’s not true.
But he doesn’t push.
He never pushes.
Two days later, the rain comes.
Heavy and cold and relentless.
You stay with the cats longer than you should, making sure their shelter is secure, that they’re warm and dry.
By the time you finish, you’re soaked through.
Varka didn’t come tonight. Some emergency at the headquarters, probably.
You tell yourself you’re not disappointed.
You tell yourself it’s better this way. Less complicated, less dangerous, less likely to end with your heart in pieces when you eventually leave Mondstadt.
You tell yourself a lot of things as you walk home in the rain, shivering, already feeling the first warning signs of a fever settling into your bones.
— ✦ —
The next morning, Whisper doesn’t come out of the shelter. When you coax her into your hands, her tiny body feels too warm, her breathing small and uneven.
Your stomach drops.
You bundle her gently into your cloak and go looking for help.
But halfway across the square, the world swims.
You blink hard, but the plaza keeps tilting.
When did the sun get so bright? When did your legs get so heavy?
Right. You didn’t sleep much. Didn’t eat much. Didn’t think about the rain soaking you through last night, or how your throat’s been raw since morning, or how you can’t seem to get warm no matter how many layers you put on.
You take another step—
And sway.
A large hand steadies your shoulder instantly.
“Easy,” comes a familiar voice. “You okay?”
You look up.
Of course he’s here.
Varka is always exactly where he shouldn’t be, and exactly where you need him.
“I’m fine,” you say automatically.
His eyes flick down to Whisper, then to your unsteady posture.
“You’re not,” he says quietly.
“I’m just tired.”
“And feverish.” His gaze sharpens. “And trying to walk across the plaza with a sick kitten instead of asking for help.”
Your jaw tenses. “Whisper needs a healer. That’s all.”
“So do you.”
You stiffen, ready to protest, but your legs choose that moment to wobble again.
His hands catch your elbows, steady and warm. Stronger than they have any right to be.
“Sit,” he says gently but firmly. “Now. Before you fall.”
You bristle, instinctively defensive. “I don’t need—”
“Yes.” His voice is low, steady, and utterly unmovable. “You do.”
Your breath stutters. He lowers you onto a bench against the fountain wall. Carefully, like you’ll topple if he moves too fast.
Then he crouches, eye-level now, looking between you and the trembling kitten in your arms.
“What happened?”
“Whisper’s… warm. She’s not eating. And I—” Your voice cracks. “I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
His expression is impossible to read. Something between soft worry and something deeper, tighter.
“You don’t bother me,” he says quietly. “Not ever.”
Your breath catches.
He stands, shrugs off his cloak, and drapes it around your shoulders before you can stop him.
The weight of it settles over you, still warm from his body. Too intimate. Too caring. Too much like something you don’t deserve.
“Varka—”
“You’re shivering,” he says. “Let me help.”
You look down at Whisper again, guilt and fear twisting in your chest.
“I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve—”
“No.” His voice is suddenly firm, almost rough. “Stop that.”
You blink up at him.
“This isn’t your fault,” he continues. “Animals get sick. Weather changes. You’re doing everything right.”
You swallow hard.
He meets your eyes, steady and unflinching.
“And you don’t have to do it alone.”
You look away, throat tight. “I don’t want to rely on you for everything.”
His jaw flexes. Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, yes, but underneath it, something that looks almost like hurt.
“I don’t want you relying on me for everything,” he says slowly, voice tight with something he’s trying to control. “But I do want you to let me help when you’re sick and trying to carry a sick kitten across the plaza alone because you’re too stubborn to ask.”
He takes a breath, steadying himself. “I want to be here for this. Don’t you get that?”
Your breath hitches.
There it is—the edge of frustration.
“I didn’t want to be a burden.”
He exhales sharply, like the words hit him somewhere deep.
“You’re not,” he says, voice low and earnest. “Not to me.”
Before you can reply, Whisper stirs weakly.
Varka straightens immediately. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get both of you taken care of.”
And when you hesitate—because of course you hesitate, because accepting help feels like admitting defeat, like proving you can’t do this alone—
He waits. Hand extended. Patient. Unmovable.
Like he’ll stand there all day if that’s what it takes.
Whisper mewls softly in your arms, and the sound breaks something in you.
You take his hand.
His fingers close around yours, and he pulls you to your feet gently.
“There,” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
You don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because his hand is still holding yours, and you’re wearing his cloak that smells like him, and Whisper is tucked against your chest, and Varka is looking at you like—
Like you matter.
Like this matters.
And you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend it doesn’t.
— ✦ —
The next days pass in a blur of recovery and quiet anticipation.
Whisper bounces back quickly. Within days she’s climbing and exploring like nothing happened.
You take longer, but Varka checks on you daily. Brings soup. Insists you rest. Threatens to carry you back to bed when he catches you trying to organize your belongings too early.
“The apartment isn’t going anywhere,” he says firmly. “Neither am I.”
You stop arguing after that.
By the time moving day arrives, you’re mostly recovered and entirely out of excuses to avoid the flutter of nerves in your chest.
This is really happening.
A permanent place. In Mondstadt.
With Varka helping you settle into it.
You’re halfway through carrying a box up the stairs when Varka appears in the doorway, arms already reaching.
“I can carry my own things,” you protest.
“I know.” He takes the box anyway. “But I’m here, so you don’t have to.”
By the time the sun sets, your belongings are inside and Varka is helping arrange furniture like he’s done this a hundred times.
“The desk should go near the window,” he suggests. “Better light for reading.”
You both move to shift it, and suddenly you’re in close quarters. His arm brushing yours, his chest nearly against your back as you navigate the narrow space.
He smells like wind and leather and something warmer you can’t name.
“Careful,” he murmurs, hand steadying your waist as you nearly trip.
The touch is brief, practical, completely innocent.
Your heart races anyway.
You blink. “How did you know I like to read by windows?”
He pauses, a slight flush creeping up his neck. “You always sit by them. In the tavern, the plaza, the cathedral steps…”
He’s been noticing. Cataloging. Remembering.
“Varka,” you say quietly.
He looks up from the table he’s positioning.
“Thank you. For… all of this. The place, the help, just…” You gesture vaguely. “Everything.”
Something softens in his expression. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I want to.”
The air between you thickens.
He’s standing in your home. Your space. Somewhere private and personal and entirely yours.
Except you invited him in, and he came, and now he’s here, in your kitchen, with dust on his shirt and warmth in his eyes, and it feels significant in a way you can’t quite name.
“The cats should go here,” Varka says finally, breaking the moment. He gestures to the corner near the hearth. “Warm. Out of the way. Safe.”
Of course he’s thought about the cats.
You help him arrange blankets, set up bowls, create a little sanctuary in the corner.
When you’re done, Pepper immediately claims the softest blanket. Whisper curls beside her. Bristle explores every inch, sniffing and investigating with her usual boldness.
“They like it,” Varka says, satisfaction clear in his voice.
“They do.”
You both watch them for a moment. This small family you’ve built, this strange little life that somehow includes him now.
“I should go,” he says, though he doesn’t move. “Let you settle in.”
“You could stay,” you hear yourself say. Then, realizing how that sounds: “For tea. I mean. If you want.”
His smile is soft and entirely too warm. “I’d like that.”
You make tea in your new kitchen while he sits at your new table, and it feels domestic and comfortable and terrifying all at once. You talk for a while. And it's nice.
“First night in a new place is always strange,” he says eventually. “If you need anything—”
“I know where to find you.”
His eyes hold yours. “Yeah. You do.”
He stands, reluctant to leave. “I’ve got to meet some of the knights at Angel’s Share—strategy discussion that’ll probably run late. But I’ll be nearby if—” He stops himself, looking almost embarrassed. “Well. You know where I am.”
“Angel’s Share is close,” you point out, smiling despite yourself. “I think I can manage.”
“And if anything—”
“Varka.” You give him a look. “Go. I’ll be fine.”
He nods, though he still doesn’t look entirely convinced.
When he finally leaves, the apartment feels bigger and emptier than it should.
— ✦ —
You spend the rest of the evening unpacking.
Arranging books. Hanging clothes. Trying to make this new space feel like home.
The cats explore cautiously. Pepper claiming the warmest corner, Whisper investigating every shadow, Bristle poking her nose into cabinets and crevices with her usual boldness.
In the end, you’re exhausted but satisfied. The apartment is still mostly bare, but it’s yours. The cats have food and water and soft places to sleep. The windows overlook the plaza where lanterns are just beginning to glow.
It’s perfect.
You settle the cats for the night—fresh water, blankets arranged just so. Bristle purrs when you scratch behind her ears, and Whisper is already curled up contentedly.
“First night in our new home,” you murmur to them. “No more cramped rooms. No more hiding.”
They seem satisfied.
You leave a window cracked for fresh air—just a few inches, secured with the latch Varka checked earlier—and finally let yourself relax.
You’d just finished changing into sleep clothes when you hear it.
A door creaking somewhere.
A gust of wind stronger than it should be.
And the bell around Bristle’s neck jingles once—
Then silence.
Your heart lurches.
“Bristle?” you call, searching the corners. “Come here!”
Nothing.
The window curtain flutters, and dread slides cold down your spine.
You rush outside barefoot, scanning the street.
“Bristle?!”
Your voice cracks.
And then, footsteps.
Heavy ones, too familiar now.
Varka rounds the corner quickly, expression alert, still carrying the faint warmth of the tavern on him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Bristle—she’s gone—the window—” You can’t form full sentences. Can’t breathe properly. “I have to find her—she could be anywhere—”
You try to move past him.
He catches your arm. Not roughly, but firm.
“Stop. Just—stop for a minute and—”
“I don’t have a minute!” You pull free, voice breaking. “She’s out there, alone, she doesn’t know this area, what if she’s scared, what if something—”
“I know.” His voice is steady but strained. “I know you’re scared, but you can’t just—”
“Can’t what?” You spin on him, panic making you sharp. “Look for her? What am I supposed to do, just wait? Just stand here while she’s—”
“You’re barefoot,” he interrupts, voice harder now. “You ran out here without shoes, without a coat, without thinking—”
“Of course I didn‘t think!” The words tear out of you. “I heard the bell and she was gone and I just—I can’t—”
Your voice cracks completely.
Varka’s jaw tightens, something flashing in his eyes. Frustration, fear, something barely controlled.
“You think I don’t understand that?” His voice is low, rough at the edges in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I’m not terrified right now too?”
You blink at him, startled.
“She’s—” He stops, takes a breath that sounds like it costs him. “She’s my cat too. I know that’s not—I don’t have any claim, but I—”
He drags a hand through his hair, and you realize his hands are shaking slightly.
“I’m scared too,” he says, quieter now but no less intense. “But you can’t just run into the night alone. What if you’d gone outside the city walls?”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t you?” His voice sharpens again. “If you thought she’d gone that way? If someone said they saw a cat near Wolvendom, or the Whispering Woods—would you have stopped at the gates?”
The answer must show on your face because something in his expression cracks.
“Exactly,” he breathes. “You would’ve run straight into hilichurl territory, or worse, and you wouldn’t have thought twice because you were scared and—”
He stops himself, jaw working. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
The world goes very quiet.
“What?” you whisper.
He’s not looking at you now. His hands are clenched at his sides, and when he speaks his voice is rough with something that sounds like desperation.
“You don’t get it,” Varka says. “Every time you’re in danger, every time you run off alone, every time you refuse to let me help because you don’t want to be a ‘burden’—”
He finally looks at you, and the expression in his eyes stops your breath.
“You—this—you are important to me. And watching you throw yourself into danger—”
He cuts himself off, breathing hard.
The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything he just said and everything he didn’t.
Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.
“Varka,” you breathe.
He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s trying to regain control.
When he opens them again, some of the intensity has banked. Not gone, but carefully contained.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to—” He shakes his head.
“I'm sorry too,” you murmur. “For worrying you.”
“Let’s just find her. Together. Please.”
This time when he offers his hand, you take it.
He’s right. You’re shaking, you’re barefoot, you can barely think straight.
And because somewhere in the last two minutes, everything changed.
His hand is warm and steady around yours, and he squeezes once before releasing it.
“Gates first,” Varka says, voice back to that calm competence. “She’s bold. She’ll move toward open space when stressed.”
You stare at him. “How do you know that?”
He glances sideways, a ghost of that crooked smile. “I pay attention. Especially to the things you love.”
The words hit you square in the chest.
You almost stumble.
Then—
A faint jingle in the distance.
Varka freezes.
“There.”
He points toward the grass beyond the outer wall—moonlight catching a tiny silhouette near a cluster of crates.
“Bristle!” you gasp, sprinting.
But she darts away, spooked by movement.
You stumble—
And Varka is instantly at your side, steadying your elbow.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Let me.”
He kneels slowly, lowering his massive frame with surprising gentleness.
“Hey, little knight,” he says softly, hand extended. “Come here.”
His warm and soothing voice works instantly.
Bristle creeps forward, sniffing his fingers, then headbutts his palm with a tiny mew.
The sound you make is half-laugh, half-sob.
Varka scoops her up with one careful hand and stands, turning to you. “Here,” he says softly, offering her.
You take Bristle, holding her against your chest like something precious. She purrs immediately, the sound vibrating through you, and your eyes sting with relief.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“Don’t.” Varka's voice is rough. “Don’t thank me for—” He stops himself, jaw tight.
You look up at him.
He’s still too close. Close enough that you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing hasn’t quite evened out, the careful control he’s barely maintaining.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” he says quietly. “Either of you.”
Bristle purrs louder.
You can’t speak.
Can’t move.
Can’t do anything but stand there with your cat between you and Varka looking at you like—
Like he’s been holding back for weeks and his control is hanging by a thread.
His eyes drop to your mouth.
Your breath catches audibly.
He notices—of course he notices—and something in his expression shifts. Darkens. Wants.
He takes a half-step closer.
Your back hits the wall behind you, and somewhere in your brain you register that he’s backed you up without you even realizing, that he’s close enough now you can feel the heat of him, that his hand is braced on the wall beside your head and—
“Varka,” you breathe.
He stops.
Freezes completely, his eyes searching yours.
His eyes go dark. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
Bristle meows between you, squirming.
The moment shatters.
Varka pulls back sharply, breathing hard, and you both stare at each other.
“We should,” he starts, voice rough. Clears his throat. “Get you home. Both of you.”
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He doesn’t touch you on the walk back.
Doesn’t need to.
The tension walks between you like a living thing, crackling and charged and waiting.
— ✦ —
Back inside, you set Bristle down carefully. She immediately darts to her blanket corner, curling up like nothing happened.
You exhale shakily, adrenaline still coursing through you.
Varka moves to the window—the one she escaped through—and checks the latch.
“It wasn’t secured properly,” he says quietly, testing it. “The wood’s warped here. I can fix it tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He says it simply, not looking at you. “I don’t want this happening again.”
You watch him work. Those large, careful hands adjusting the mechanism, making sure it’s tight. Making sure you’re safe. Making sure the cats are safe.
Something in your chest cracks. “Varka,” you say softly.
He glances over his shoulder.
You’re closer than you meant to be. Close enough to see his pupils dilate slightly, to see his breath catch.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “For… everything. For coming when I was panicking, for knowing where to look, for—”
Your voice breaks.
His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t thank me like I did something extraordinary.” He turns fully to face you now, and the intensity in his eyes stops your breath. “Like I wouldn’t drop everything the second you needed me. Like I haven’t been—”
He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair.
The space between you feels electric.
“Been what?” you whisper.
He looks at you for a long moment. “Completely gone for you. For weeks now. Maybe longer.”
The world tilts.
“Varka—”
He takes a step back, trying to create distance.
Your hand shoots out, catching his wrist.
He freezes.
You’re both staring at where you’re touching him—your fingers wrapped around his wrist, feeling his pulse thundering beneath your touch.
When you look up, his eyes are dark. Wanting. Barely controlled.
His breathing goes ragged.
Your hand slides from his wrist up his forearm, and you feel him shudder. “I’m asking you to stop being patient. Stop being chivalrous. Stop—”
You don’t finish the sentence.
Because Varka moves.
His hands find your waist and he walks you backward until your back meets the wall.
His forehead drops to yours, breath coming hard.
“Last chance,” he rasps. “Tell me to stop and I will. But if you don’t—”
You fist your hands in his shirt and pull.
“Don’t stop.”
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and surrender.
Then his mouth is on yours.
The kiss is everything you didn’t know you were starving for. Heat and hunger and weeks of carefully restrained wanting finally unleashed. His lips are firm, demanding, devastating in their intensity.
When you gasp against his mouth, he makes a sound low in his throat and deepens the kiss with an urgency that steals the air from your lungs.
You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders.
He groans into your mouth—a low, rough sound that vibrates through your whole body—and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth claims yours with growing hunger.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer like you’ve been waiting for this just as desperately.
The sound he makes is somewhere between surprise and surrender.
His grip tightens.
You arch into him and he responds immediately. His hand sliding from your waist to your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left. Until you can feel every inch of him.
Like he’s trying very hard not to lose himself completely.
Like he might anyway.
His other hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth claims yours with growing hunger. The contrast—that rough desperation tempered by such careful tenderness—makes you dizzy.
Heat. Everywhere. The solid wall of his chest against yours, the strength in his arms, the way he’s surrounding you completely and it should feel overwhelming but instead feels like safety, like home, like finally.
When he finally tears his mouth from yours, you’re both gasping for air.
But he doesn’t pull away.
Can’t seem to.
His forehead drops to yours, breath ragged and hot against your lips. One hand is still fisted in your shirt. The other cradles your face like you’re something precious.
“You really are like a cat,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.
Your breath hitches. “What?”
His lips brush your jaw. Barely a kiss, more like a promise. “Wary.” Another brush, just below your ear. “Careful.” His mouth finds the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “Slow to trust.”
You shiver, fingers digging into his shoulders.
His hand slides up your spine, fingers spreading wide across your back, holding you steady.
“But once you decide to let someone in—” His voice drops, goes rougher, and his mouth is so close to your throat you can feel every word against your skin. “—you give everything.”
You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can only feel the heat of his mouth on your throat, the careful restraint in his touch, the way he’s holding you like you’re precious and desired all at once.
“Varka,” you manage, and his name sounds like a plea.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and what you see in his eyes makes your heart stop.
Want. Yes. Need, definitely. But also something deeper. Something that looks like awe, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like he’s terrified and elated in equal measure.
“I need—” His voice cracks. “Tell me you want this. Not just tonight. Not just because we were scared and—”
You cup his face in both hands, cutting him off. “I want this,” you say firmly, clearly. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since—” You swallow. “Since the Angel‘s Share. Maybe before.”
The sound he makes is somewhere between relief and reverence.
“Thank Barbatos,” he breathes.
And then he’s kissing you again. Slower this time but no less intense. Thorough and deep and claiming, like he’s memorizing every response, cataloging every sound you make, learning exactly how to take you apart with just his mouth.
His tongue sweeps against yours and your knees actually buckle. He catches you immediately, arm banding around your waist, holding you up, holding you close.
The kiss goes molten.
Heat pools low in your belly. Your fingers find his hair, tugging, and he groans into your mouth. A deep, pleased sound that vibrates through your whole body.
He kisses like he does everything else. With complete focus, total commitment, like you’re the only thing that matters in the entire world.
When you finally break apart this time, you’re both trembling, flushed, breathing hard.
He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, trying to steady himself.
You can feel his heart thundering against your palm where it rests on his chest.
“I should—” His voice is wrecked. “I should probably go. Before I—”
Before he what? Loses control completely? Forgets to be careful? Stops being the gentleman he’s trying very hard to be right now?
“Don’t.” Your hands tighten on his shirt. “Stay.”
His eyes snap open, dark and searching and full of want barely held in check.
“You sure?”
“Not for—” You flush. “I mean, just—stay. Please. I don’t want you to leave yet.”
Relief and something warmer floods his expression.
“Alright,” he murmurs. He presses a kiss to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. Small, tender touches that feel like promises. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”
He doesn’t let go. Just holds you against him, one hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing gradually evens out.
“You know,” you murmur against his chest, “I think you’ve officially adopted the cats now.”
You feel his laugh rumble through him. “Yeah?”
“Mm. You named one. You helped move them. You ran through Mondstadt at night to find one.” You pull back enough to meet his eyes. “They’re yours too now.”
His expression does something complicated. Soft and pleased and almost shy.
“When did that happen?” he asks quietly.
“Probably the moment you found us in that alley,” you admit. “You just didn’t know it yet.”
His smile is devastating. “Best thing I ever found.”
“The cats?”
“You.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “The cats are a bonus.”
You laugh, and he kisses you again. Soft and sweet and full of promise.
When he finally, reluctantly pulls away, his hand lingers on your face.
“I should let you sleep,” he says, though he doesn’t sound like he wants to leave.
“Will you come back tomorrow?”
“Try to stop me.” He presses one more kiss to your forehead. “Sleep well. All four of you.”
You watch him leave, and when the door closes behind him, you touch your lips.
They’re still tingling.
Behind you, Bristle meows softly.
You turn to find all three cats watching you from their corner—Whisper’s eyes half-closed, Pepper already asleep, Bristle looking distinctly unimpressed with the delay in her post-adventure pets.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter, moving to join them.
But you’re smiling.
And when you fall asleep that night, it’s with the memory of his hands in your hair, his voice in your ear, and the absolute certainty that everything just changed.
You’ve found home.
⋆ ✦ ⋆
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)
More Varka to follow soon. (My drafts for him keep piling up and at this point I’m just embracing the chaos.) Masterlist.