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I.
Liyue Harbor smelled like sea salt, incense, and regret.
Not Lumine’s regret, mind you. Hers smelled more like flaming flowers and bad decisions involving teleport waypoints on cliffs. No, this particular regret belonged wholly—gloriously, stupidly—to one Fatui Harbinger who had, yet again, thrown himself into Lumine’s path like a very determined fish flinging itself at a waterfall.
“Hey,” said the fish. “Did it hurt?”
Lumine, in the middle of trying to buy three grilled tiger fish and a stick of candy that definitely wasn’t for Paimon (who was currently hovering nearby like a morally flexible goblin), raised an eyebrow. “Did what hurt?”
Childe leaned against the market stall as if he owned gravity, the sky, and several metaphysical concepts. “When you fell from Celestia.”
Paimon gagged audibly.
“Seriously?” Lumine asked. “That’s what you’re going with?”
Childe grinned like a man whose flirting was powered entirely by caffeine, delusion, and an unshakable belief in his own charm. “Would you prefer, ‘Are you a pyro slime? Because you’re on fire’?”
“That’s worse,” Lumine said, but she took the candy anyway. “And inaccurate. I’m electro today.”
“I’m flexible,” he offered, with a wink that made a passing granny nearly drop her lotus seeds. “Besides, it’s the thought that counts.”
“The thought,” Lumine said, “was poorly constructed, dangerously aimed, and actively offending my synapses.”
“Sounds like love.”
Paimon, floating beside them and eating grilled fish with the slightly haunted intensity of someone trying to ignore a live drama unfolding beside her, made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cry. “Can we not do this in public?” she muttered. “Think of the children.”
“What children?” Childe asked innocently. “You mean the ones Lumine and I will—”
Lumine threw the grilled fish at his face.
It hit with a very satisfying squelch.
He wiped fish grease from his jaw with all the dramatic flair of a stage actor mid-monologue, as if her snack-based assault had wounded him both physically and philosophically.
“You wound me,” he said.
“Not yet,” Lumine replied. “But I could. Fatally.”
Childe beamed. “And yet, I’d still crawl back.”
“Oh Archons,” muttered Paimon.
“Don’t you have a job?” Lumine asked. “A nation to threaten? An army to command? A moral compass to misplace?”
Childe folded his arms, undeterred. “I took the day off. For you.”
She stared. “You what.”
“For you,” he repeated solemnly. “I told the Tsaritsa I had a very important assassination. It was metaphorical. For your heart.”
“You are unbelievable,” Lumine said, almost impressed.
“I know,” he said, grinning.
The worst part?
She smiled.
Not much. Just a flicker. Just a breath of amusement so quiet it barely existed. But he caught it like a fisherman catches a legend—carefully, greedily, and with a ridiculous amount of personal flair.
Lumine caught him watching and immediately dropped the smile like it had betrayed her.
She coughed. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Of course not,” he said gallantly. “It was the wind. A trick of the light. Maybe a glitch in your facial muscles.”
“I will glitch your face.”
“I would let you.”
“I believe that.”
“I’d enjoy it.”
Paimon dropped her candy and floated away, muttering something about emotional damage and needing therapy.
They wandered down the harbor together, Lumine stubbornly pretending it wasn’t a walk and Childe pretending it wasn’t the best part of his week. He offered her more bad lines. She countered with sarcasm sharp enough to be classified as a weapon. He flirted like he was getting paid. She rolled her eyes like it was a personal art form.
And yet—
She didn’t walk away.
Even when he accidentally kicked a pigeon and tried to save it by performing very loud CPR and yelling “I’M A DOCTOR OF LOVE,” which earned them both a scolding from a very angry birdkeeper and a small crowd of bewildered onlookers.
Even when he tried to rhyme “Lumine” with “queen,” “dream,” “divine,” “sunshine,” and (somehow) “porcupine.”
Even when he offered her his coat “because her beauty was making the air colder.”
She stayed.
Later, at the inn, Paimon confronted her with all the grace of a glitter-covered raccoon with a grudge.
“You liked it,” Paimon accused. “You smiled! You laughed! You—blushed!”
Lumine tossed a pillow at her head. “I did not.”
“Did too!”
“Did not.”
“You let him walk you home!”
“He doesn’t know where I live. He followed me.”
“He said you looked nice!”
“He says that to every person he meets.”
“He tried to duel a lamp for looking at you funny!”
“That lamp was flickering. It looked suspicious.”
“Oh my Archons.”
Lumine rolled over, pressing her face into the bed.
Paimon floated above her, arms crossed. “You liiiiiiiike him.”
“I do not like him.”
“You smiled!”
“I was being polite.”
“You threw fish at his face!”
“That was self-defense.”
“You blushed!”
“That was a heatstroke.”
“It was night!”
Lumine groaned. “Fine. I think he’s… funny.”
“Funny?”
“And mildly endearing. In the way that a stray dog is endearing. Loud. Mangy. Morally questionable.”
Paimon narrowed her eyes. “You’re doomed.”
Somewhere in the harbor, Childe stood on a rooftop, looking at the stars.
“She smiled,” he whispered.
Below him, a pigeon exploded for no reason.
It was a good day.
II.
Liyue’s Guili Plains were peaceful in the way abandoned ruins always are—sun-drenched, humming with old echoes, and hiding at least seventeen potential death traps. Lumine had just finished clearing out a Hilichurl camp (Paimon was still muttering about the slime that hit her in the eye like it had a personal vendetta), when she heard the sound no traveler ever wants to hear after a long day of monster-fighting:
“TARTAGLIA, NO—”
Followed by a very large splash.
And then silence.
And then—
“I’m fine!” a voice called, far too cheerfully for someone who had just face-planted into a river. “Totally fine! Just communing with the fish!”
Lumine closed her eyes. “No.”
Paimon, already hovering over the edge of the broken stone bridge, gasped. “It’s him!”
Lumine sighed. “Of course it is.”
Childe was in the river.
Again.
Because of course he was.
Because the laws of physics no longer applied when the eleventh Fatui Harbinger decided to exist near water.
He had apparently been sparring with a group of Millelith scouts along the riverbank to “stay sharp” and “keep morale up” and “show off his biceps,” and had somehow managed to backflip off a half-crumbling ruin into the shallow part of the river like a very sexy salmon performing a mating ritual. He was now sprawled in the current, floating like a man who had accepted death, heroism, and the possibility of becoming river sushi all at once.
He blinked up at Lumine with watery wonder. “My angel,” he whispered. “Have you come to rescue me?”
“You’re in a foot of water,” she said.
“I’m drowning.”
“You’re kneeling.”
“My soul,” he croaked. “It’s sinking.”
Paimon floated by Lumine’s shoulder, utterly unimpressed. “He’s faking it.”
Childe groaned. “I’m dying of embarrassment.”
“Good,” Lumine muttered, crossing her arms. “Let it consume you.”
He was shirtless.
This was, apparently, a crucial part of his dramatic death sequence.
His coat had somehow been flung onto the riverbank in a puddle of moss and shame. His gloves floated down the stream like little leather corpses. His bare chest gleamed in the sunlight like a divine weapon forged for chaos, hubris, and unfortunate distractions.
Lumine refused to look.
Her eyes remained perfectly level. Locked on his face.
Which was, frankly, worse.
Because his face was doing that thing again.
That smug, rakish, oh-no-I-fell-into-your-life-by-accident expression that meant somewhere, deep down, Childe thought this was going exactly as planned.
“I’m not saving you,” she said flatly.
“I didn’t ask you to,” he said, already doggy-paddling toward her with the grace of a confused duck. “But if you wanted to, I wouldn’t complain.”
“You’re not even injured.”
“I could be. I might have shattered my—” he paused, dramatically clutching his side. “—heart.”
“I could leave,” Lumine suggested.
“You could. But you won’t.”
He looked so hopeful.
She stared down at him, glittering and soaked and impossibly sincere.
And then—fine. Maybe she rolled her eyes. Maybe she sighed like the weight of Teyvat was on her shoulders. Maybe, just maybe, she stepped into the shallows, grabbed him by the wrist, and yanked.
He stood.
Towering. Drenched. Shirtless.
Dripping on her boots.
“Thanks,” he breathed, like she’d just pulled him from the gates of the Abyss.
“I didn’t do that for you,” she said, releasing his wrist like it burned.
“Oh?” He smirked. “Did you do it for the fish?”
“Yes,” she said. “They were tired of you polluting their sacred waters with your stupid.”
They sat on the bank while he “recovered,” which mostly involved him dramatically wringing out his hair while Paimon complained loudly and Lumine stared pointedly into the middle distance.
“So,” Childe said, leaning back on his elbows. “You were watching.”
“I was not.”
“You were. You looked very invested.”
“I was trying to see if you’d break your spine.”
“Aw,” he grinned. “You do care.”
“I care about gravity.”
“Is it because I’m wet?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I just mean,” he continued breezily, “you keep glancing over. You’ve got this whole stoic warrior thing going, but I can tell, you know. When a girl’s impressed.”
“You nearly drowned in three feet of river.”
“True,” he said solemnly. “But I did it sexily.”
Lumine picked up a rock.
Paimon raised a warning finger. “No murder.”
“Just a small one,” Lumine said.
And somehow—
somehow—
he made her laugh.
Not a full laugh. Not a melodious giggle or an open-mouthed cackle. But a little breath. A hitch in her throat. A quiet, traitorous puff of amusement.
Childe didn’t comment on it.
Didn’t tease, or smirk, or say something outrageous to earn another one.
He just... smiled.
Softly. Like it mattered.
Like he’d just been handed a secret.
Lumine noticed, and immediately shoved him into the river again.
He came back up sputtering. “You like me!”
“Not even a little.”
“You do! You laughed! That was affection! That was endearment! That was the sound of your heart saying—”
“That was a death rattle,” she said. “And you’ll hear it again if you keep talking.”
“You’re blushing.”
“Paimon, do something.”
Paimon blinked. “What do you want me to do?”
“Push him into the ocean next time,” she muttered, turning away before anyone could comment on the warmth blooming across her ears.
Later that night, Childe found a small bundle on his windowsill at the inn.
A towel. A bag of dried fish. A note, written in neat, annoyed handwriting:
"Learn how to swim. Idiot."
He smiled for hours.
III.
There were rumors.
Of a golden-haired demon slicing through a Fatui skirmish patrol near Dihua Marsh. Of a ghost-quick figure that moved like lightning and left nothing but stunned agents and broken egos in her wake. Of a girl whose eyes flashed like judgment, whose sword sang like vengeance, and whose smile—when it did appear—was more dangerous than any Vision.
The rumors were all true.
And Childe was very much in love with them.
“I think she kicked a guy so hard he fell in love with gravity,” one scout whispered.
“She knocked a Cryo Agent out with his own mask,” another said.
“I heard she caught an arrow midair and gave it back,” a third added.
Childe, listening from behind a conveniently placed tree stump with all the subtlety of a wet raccoon, was grinning like a man seconds away from making a terrible life choice.
“Oh, she’s definitely nearby,” he murmured, already jogging toward the source of the wreckage. “Sunshine! My war goddess! My beautiful herald of destruction!”
---
The third time it happened, it was raining in Liyue.
Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain—the kind with thunder cracks and lightning bolt metaphors and protagonist pain. No, this was the annoying kind. The humid kind. The kind that made every step squelch and every article of clothing stick to the skin like betrayal.
It was miserable.
It was perfect.
Because Childe, criminally, looked good in the rain.
Drenched and glowing, his hair slicked back in bronze-drenched disobedience, his shirt clinging in all the wrong-right ways, like he’d just stepped off the cover of a romance novel that was trying very hard to pretend it wasn’t about poor life choices.
He was waiting for her.
With flowers.
“You,” Lumine said flatly, “are not serious.”
“I’m always serious when I’m courting someone,” he said, as if that were a normal thing to admit aloud at eight in the morning in front of an entire crowd of vendors, merchants, and an old fisherman who absolutely paused to watch the drama unfold.
Paimon stared at the bouquet in horror. “Those are Glaze Lilies.”
“Correct,” Childe said proudly. “Freshly stolen. I mean picked.”
“You can’t just hand someone Glaze Lilies!” Paimon squeaked. “Do you know what those mean in Liyue?!”
“Yeah,” Childe said, offering them to Lumine like he hadn’t just admitted to minor botanical crimes. “Unwavering devotion. Eternal love. All that sappy stuff.”
Lumine did not take them.
Instead, she stared at him. Then at the flowers. Then at the absolute downpour soaking them all in equal parts rainwater and regret.
“Why,” she asked calmly, “would you give me that?”
“Because I’m in love with your ability to stab me without blinking,” he said. “It’s very romantic.”
“I will stab you again.”
“See? You get me.”
“You are insufferable,” she muttered, shoving the flowers back at him.
“But I’m wet and handsome and carrying symbolic floral arrangements,” he protested, trailing her like a particularly dramatic ghost. “Doesn’t that earn me a date?”
“This is not a date,” Lumine said, without turning around.
“Then why are we walking together in the rain under one umbrella?” he asked sweetly, holding the umbrella over them with a smile that could melt glaciers and tax documents.
“You’re holding it over yourself. I’m outside. Getting soaked.”
“I can move it,” he offered innocently, tilting it an inch and bonking her in the forehead with the edge. “See? Compromise. Teamwork. Healthy communication.”
“I’m going to drown you in a teacup.”
“Make it a wine cup. We’ll toast to our love first.”
The duel came later.
Because of course it did.
Because Lumine, being the type of girl who filed affection under “battle damage,” only agreed to spend more time with Childe if he agreed to spar instead of flirt.
He accepted instantly.
Which was his first mistake.
Because Lumine, soaked to the bone and sparkling with electric fury, was not interested in subtlety. Her sword glowed. Her glare glowed. Her teeth practically glowed. And Childe? Childe was smiling like a man who thought being eviscerated was foreplay.
They fought in the rain. On the empty stone plaza near Mt. Tianheng. Thunder cracking in the distance like applause.
Steel clashed. Hydro met electro. Sparks flew.
It was hot. In the most illegal way possible.
“You’re holding back,” she said, panting slightly as she blocked a slash.
“I’m flirting,” he corrected.
“Same thing.”
“You notice when I hold back?” he asked, sounding too delighted for someone actively being kicked in the chest.
“I notice everything.”
“So you noticed I brought your favorite candy earlier?”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “That was a bribe.”
“And you took it.”
“I threw it in a puddle!”
“You unwrapped it first.”
“I threw the wrapper in a puddle.”
“Ah,” he said, dodging a lightning-fast jab. “So I’m sweet and eco-friendly.”
Eventually, he lost.
Of course he did.
He fell dramatically onto the wet stone like a man defeated not by sword, but by love. He sprawled like a Renaissance painting. One hand over his chest. One leg elegantly flopped to the side. The Glaze Lily bouquet lay a few feet away, damp and crumpled.
“You win,” he breathed.
Lumine pointed her blade at his throat.
He blinked.
Then grinned.
“Is this the part where you kiss me?” he asked.
She paused.
Considered.
Then leaned down and—plucked one Glaze Lily from the bouquet. Twirled it in her fingers. Pressed it to his lips.
“Eat it,” she said.
“What?”
“Eat it,” she repeated. “Since you’re so devoted. Eat your devotion.”
“I—”
“Or I’ll stab you with it.”
Childe swallowed nervously.
“I’m conflicted,” he admitted. “This is both terrifying and kind of hot.”
Later, when they were sitting under a stone overhang waiting for the rain to pass, Lumine finally spoke.
“Don’t give me flowers.”
Childe blinked. “Too much?”
“Too obvious.”
He paused.
“Okay,” he said. “Then what should I give you?”
She tilted her head, considering.
Then, slowly, she reached up, pulled the hairpin from her braid—silver, simple, sharp—and stabbed it into the wet wood beside his ear.
The thunk was deafening.
Childe blinked.
Lumine smiled. “Give me a reason to keep that in its sheath.”
He stared at her.
Utterly gone.
Paimon found them an hour later, both still damp, both pretending not to be shivering, both extremely suspiciously close together under the narrow arch.
She floated closer. Stared at the crumpled bouquet. Stared at the hairpin stuck in the wall.
“You two are weird,” she said.
“Correct,” Lumine replied, eyes closed.
“Violently weird,” Childe agreed, beaming.
Later, he handed her a new bouquet.
Smaller. Wildflowers. Sloppily bundled. Tied with a shoelace.
She stared.
“Don’t kill me,” he said. “These were free.”
Lumine took them.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t speak.
But she didn’t throw them, either.
And that, somehow, was worse.
---
That night, Childe found a note slid under his door.
If you flirt with me again in public, I will stab you.
It was written on flower paper.
He slept with it under his pillow.
He left her a note the next day.
To my deadly flower — thank you for not stabbing me in the throat. That’s real progress. Yours in pain and passion, Tartaglia.
She didn’t respond.
But she kept the note.
IV.
Lantern Rite in Liyue was a festival of lights, blessings, and decorum.
Which meant, obviously, that Childe should not have been there.
And yet.
There he was.
Wearing red. Carrying dumplings. Smiling like sin dipped in soy sauce. And calling out Lumine’s name like they were best friends, old lovers, or two fireworks in the same explosion.
“Lumine!” he shouted, weaving through the crowd with all the subtlety of a flying fish in a porcelain shop. “You’re here! I knew you’d come! I manifested this!”
“You bribed the guards,” she muttered, turning as Paimon tried to hide behind her braid.
“I bribed everyone,” he said proudly, handing her a skewer of sugar-coated hawthorn berries. “Including fate.”
“You don’t even like Lantern Rite,” she said, suspicious.
“Incorrect. I love joy. I love fireworks. I love cultural exchange. And,” he added with a wink that could be bottled and sold as a felony, “I love you.”
“In prison.”
“In poetry.”
It turned out that he had, for reasons unknown to logic, sense, or Archon-sanctioned diplomacy, entered the official Lantern Rite Haiku Contest.
He had also, for reasons even further beyond comprehension, rigged the bracket to ensure that Lumine would have to face him in the semifinals.
When she confronted him about this, he said, quote:
“I wanted to battle you in verse. What’s more romantic than haikus of the heart?”
To which Paimon replied, “Lumine beating you over the head with a frying pan.”
To which Childe replied, “That’s plan B.”
The contest was held in a candlelit pavilion above Qingce Village.
Poets from all corners of Liyue gathered. They wore robes. They bowed before reciting. Some even wept.
And then there was them.
Round three: Lumine vs. Childe.
He went first.
He stood.
He bowed. (Mockingly.)
He spoke.
“Blazing stars descend.
Her blade carves through my longing.
Ouch. My heart. Again.”
The judges blinked.
Paimon gagged.
Childe sat down with the satisfaction of a man who had just dropped a mixtape and an emotional war crime.
Lumine stood.
She stared at him.
Then recited:
“Dumpling full of lies.
Ginger hair. Zero morals.
Burn in fish sauce, please.”
Someone in the crowd cheered.
Afterward, he caught up to her on the lantern-lit bridge.
“That was a low blow,” he said. “I do not deserve fish sauce.”
“You deserve wasabi in your eyes,” she replied sweetly.
“I think your poetry was unfairly biased.”
“I think your existence is unfairly biased.”
“Against what?”
“Peace. Quiet. Sanity. The natural order.”
He was grinning again. Of course he was. Rain didn’t wash that grin away. Laws didn’t. Battlefields didn’t.
“I liked it,” he said.
“What?”
“Your poem.”
She blinked.
Then, softly: “You liked the part where I said you should burn?”
“I liked the passion.”
She stared at him.
He shrugged. “No one’s ever composed a haiku about me before. It’s kind of romantic.”
“It was a threat.”
He leaned closer. “Even better.”
Later that night, she found him again.
Not because she wanted to.
Because something exploded.
Violently.
Colorfully.
Above the rooftops of Liyue Harbor.
“Was that a firework?!” Paimon yelped, clutching Lumine’s arm.
“No,” Lumine said, squinting toward the rising smoke. “That was an incident.”
The incident, as it turned out, was Childe.
Of course.
Standing on a rooftop with two sparking mortars, ash on his cheek, and the air of someone who absolutely was not authorized to be here.
“Surprise!” he shouted down. “I made you a show!”
“You lit illegal fireworks,” Lumine shouted up.
“Romance is rebellion!”
“You almost set the dock on fire!”
“That was symbolism!”
“You’re going to jail!”
“I’ll write you love letters from the cell!”
She climbed up the side of the building because she had no other choice. Not morally, not ethically, not narratively.
“You are the worst man I’ve ever met,” she hissed, panting slightly as she reached the roof.
Childe looked at her.
And suddenly—
he wasn’t joking.
The smirk faded.
The grin softened.
The ridiculous glint in his eyes changed into something real.
“Then why,” he said, quiet now, “do you always climb back up to me?”
She froze.
The rooftop was silent.
Firework ash floated in the air like falling stars.
And then—
he said it.
Soft. Unarmored. Like surrender.
“You’re the only one who doesn’t run.
Even when I light everything on fire.
Even when I’m a disaster.
You still look at me like I’m human.”
Lumine stared at him.
Rain dripped from the eaves. The night smelled like smoke and sea.
“You’re an idiot,” she said, but it was soft. Barely a whisper.
He smiled again.
But gentler, this time. Like dawn.
The authorities arrived ten minutes later.
Childe was tackled off the roof by two very unimpressed Millelith guards.
“Worth it!” he shouted as they dragged him away. “I’ll write again next Lantern Rite! I’ll rhyme next time! Couplets, baby!”
Paimon watched from Lumine’s shoulder. “Should we… help?”
Lumine didn’t answer.
She stared at the rooftop.
Then down at her hand.
Still holding one of the burned-out firework shells.
She put it in her pouch.
Didn’t tell anyone.
V.
There are some moments in life that feel like they were written in permanent ink.
And then there are others—moments scrawled in pencil, moments the wind might carry off, moments too tender to survive the weight of names.
This was one of those.
The fifth time Childe flirted with Lumine, he nearly died.
Not in a charming way. Not in a “whoops I slipped, rescue me and also my shirt fell off” way. Not even in the deeply stupid, mildly sexy, slightly burnt Lantern Rite Illegal Fireworks Incident kind of way.
No.
This time, it was real.
The mission was supposed to be routine.
Clear out an Abyss Order camp.
Rescue a missing scholar from Sumeru.
Make sure Paimon didn’t eat any glowing mushrooms that gave her the ability to speak seventeen dead languages (again).
And, perhaps most importantly: avoid unnecessary drama.
This was a mistake.
Because Childe was on the team.
Because the scholar turned out to be missing on purpose.
And because the Abyss Order did not like Lumine.
(Or rather—they liked her too much. And that was worse.)
It happened fast.
Too fast.
A surge of power. A flash of corrupted light. An attack meant for her.
And Childe—idiot, disaster, war-drenched flirt Childe—stepped in front of it.
He didn’t make a sound.
Just—
dropped.
“You’re an idiot,” she whispered.
His blood was on her gloves.
Not a lot. Not enough to break her.
But just enough to shake her.
She pressed her hands over the gash in his side, Electro crackling wildly beneath her skin. Her voice didn’t tremble. She didn’t cry.
But her heartbeat screamed.
Paimon floated nearby in helpless, frantic circles. “He’s gonna be okay, right? He’s gonna—he’s fine, right?!”
Lumine didn’t answer.
She was too busy holding him together with stubbornness and fury and pressure against the bleeding.
And Childe—
Childe opened his eyes.
Bleary. Unfocused. Unfairly blue.
He smiled.
“You always this gentle with people you don’t like?”
She exhaled like a curse.
“You’re bleeding out,” she said.
“You’re holding me,” he murmured.
“You are concussed.”
“You’re beautiful.”
She pressed harder on the wound.
He wheezed. “Okay—ow—beauty has a price, I see—”
“Shut up.”
They made it to safety. Barely.
Set up camp in a cliffside alcove that overlooked the whole valley.
Stars wheeled above them like watchful gods.
Paimon snored softly against a mossy boulder.
And Childe—bandaged, shirtless (why always shirtless?), propped up against her shoulder like an annoying cat who thought pain was an aphrodisiac—sighed.
“This is nice,” he said.
“You’re injured.”
“I know.”
“You nearly died.”
“I know.”
“You’re lucky I—” she cut herself off. Looked away.
He turned his head. “That you what?”
“That I didn’t let you,” she muttered.
He smiled, slow. Honest. No teeth. No mask.
“That sounds dangerously close to affection.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I want to.”
She froze.
Then: “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll believe you.”
Silence.
The kind that falls like snow. Quiet and crushing.
He turned toward her. Winced. Reached for her hand.
She let him take it.
Held it, like a secret.
“Lumine,” he said softly, “you scare me.”
She blinked.
“Why?”
“Because you’re the first person who makes me want to stay.”
Her breath hitched.
“I’ve never had that,” he whispered. “A reason. A... pull. A home.”
“That’s not me,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “That’s just adrenaline. Or near-death hallucinations.”
He leaned closer. Their foreheads almost touched.
“Then why,” he said, “do I still feel it when I wake up?”
The kiss didn’t happen.
But it almost did.
So close that her eyes fluttered closed.
So close that he paused, lips trembling just above hers, like a prayer he wasn’t sure he deserved to say.
But it didn’t happen.
Because—
she pulled back.
Just a breath.
Just an inch.
And whispered, “Don’t.”
Not because she didn’t want to.
But because she did.
Because she wanted it too much.
And that was dangerous.
He didn’t push.
Didn’t sulk. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease.
He just nodded.
Once.
Twice.
Like he understood everything.
And then he rested his head on her shoulder.
Just for a moment.
Just until morning.
The next day, he was gone.
He left a note.
Didn’t want to say goodbye. Didn’t want to ruin the moment.
But you should know: if you ever fall—I’ll be the idiot who jumps after you.
Yours, stupidly,
Childe.
Lumine didn’t tell Paimon.
She just kept the note.
And later—weeks later, when someone joked about Harbingers and heartaches—she looked out over the cliffs and smiled.
Softly.
Almost.
+1.
It began with silence.
Which, in the case of Childe and Lumine, was dangerous.
Because for once, he wasn’t talking.
And for once, she was the one who crossed the distance first.
It had been weeks.
Months, maybe.
Time passed differently when you missed someone.
Sometimes it dragged. Sometimes it leapt. Sometimes it folded in on itself, all sharp edges and unsent letters, until it felt like you were still sitting on that cliffside, still pressing your palm to someone else’s blood, still wondering if wanting something made you weak or simply human.
Lumine hadn’t seen him since.
Not in the way that mattered.
Not in the way that felt like a knife wrapped in ribbon.
She’d heard things, of course.
Rumors. Whispers.
A ruin raided. A smuggler ring dismantled.
A Fatui Harbinger spotted on the edge of Inazuma with a smile like a sin committed twice.
But none of those sightings had names.
And none of them said her name aloud.
Until today.
Until now.
She found him in Mondstadt.
Of all places.
Standing at the edge of Windrise, under that sacred tree, facing the wind like it owed him something.
He was alone.
No guards. No weapons drawn. No chaos in his wake.
Just wind.
And a single letter in his hands.
Unsent.
Unfolded.
Unread.
He didn’t hear her approach.
Or maybe he did.
Maybe he always did.
But when she stepped up behind him, he didn’t turn.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t ruin the moment with a grin or a joke or a wildly inappropriate compliment about her sword technique.
He just stood there.
Quiet.
Breathing.
Waiting.
Lumine said nothing for a long time.
Then, softly:
“You disappeared.”
His shoulders tensed.
“I thought it would be easier,” he said.
“For me?”
“For me.”
She stepped closer.
The grass didn’t even rustle beneath her feet.
“And was it?”
“No.”
“Then why did you go?”
He turned then. Slowly. Cautiously. Like someone approaching the edge of a dream they weren’t sure was real.
And he looked at her.
And smiled.
Small. Sad. Soft.
“You deserved someone who doesn’t flirt like a coping mechanism.”
She stared at him.
“You idiot,” she said.
And then—
she smiled back.
It broke something open between them.
The space collapsed. The distance disappeared.
He stepped forward.
She didn’t step back.
And when he looked like he was about to speak again, she raised one hand.
Silenced him.
Not unkindly.
Just… firmly.
It was her turn now.
“You flirted with me like it was armor,” she said. “Like if you threw enough words at me, I’d never hear the ones you were afraid to say.”
He blinked.
“And I let you,” she continued. “I let you play the fool. I let you grin and joke and burn everything in your path so you wouldn’t notice how much I wanted you to stop.”
“Stop?”
“Stop hiding.”
The wind picked up.
The branches of the ancient tree swayed overhead like an audience holding its breath.
“You flirted with me five times,” she said, stepping closer, “and every single time, you meant it.”
“Of course I did,” he breathed.
“I didn’t,” she said, “until now.”
He froze.
Eyes wide. Expression blank.
As if she’d pulled the floor out from under him with just a few syllables.
She smiled.
Just a little.
Then tilted her head.
“Don’t you want to hear what I sound like when I flirt?”
He choked. “Lumine—”
But she wasn’t finished.
Not yet.
She stepped so close that their shadows merged.
Looked him dead in the eyes.
And said—
“You are chaos in a nice coat.
Saltwater and sharp teeth and good intentions dressed up like daggers.
You flirted like it was a war strategy.
So I’m returning fire.”
She touched his collarbone.
Softly.
His breath caught.
“If I were a god,” she said, “I would carve your name into the wind so you’d never be alone again.
If I were a poet, I’d write one line—just one—and it would say:
He didn’t have to pretend with me.”
He was trembling.
Actually trembling.
And she—
smiled.
“Speechless?” she asked, cocking a brow.
“You’re terrifying,” he whispered.
“And yet,” she said, stepping even closer, “you still want me to kiss you.”
“I—” He blinked. “Wait, what—”
She kissed him.
It wasn’t perfect.
His nose bumped hers.
Her hand was still cold from the wind.
He gasped against her mouth like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
And yet—
And yet—
It was the best thing either of them had ever done.
Not because it was neat.
But because it was real.
Because it was the opposite of a performance.
Because it didn’t need to be chased or joked about or set on fire.
Because it happened.
And because she started it.
When they pulled apart, he looked dazed.
“Did you just—did you flirt with me?” he asked, voice high and half-hysterical.
“I think I kissed you,” she said.
“Right. Right. That explains the dizziness.”
“And the idiocy?”
“That’s pre-existing.”
She laughed.
He broke.
Melted.
Put his forehead against hers and breathed.
“Lumine,” he whispered, “tell me this isn’t a dream.”
“It’s not.”
“I think I might still pass out.”
“If you faint on me, I’ll leave you here.”
“That sounds like love.”
“Shut up and kiss me again.”
He did.