The moonlight spilled across the polished koa wood floor, catching the sheer curtains as they swayed in the ocean breeze drifting through the wide open terrace. The sound of waves crashing softly below filled the room like breath—constant, slow, inescapable.

Zhongli sat on the edge of the sofa, posture immaculate, legs crossed beneath flowing ivory robes embroidered with golden thread. His amber eyes were trained on the delicate teacup in his hand, as if it were the only thing worth acknowledging in this cursed palace of silk and salt air.

Behind him, barefoot footsteps padded across the floor. Childe’s voice followed, lazy and amused, coated in that familiar undertone of hunger.

“You’re acting like they chained you to a monster.”

Zhongli didn’t look at him. He took another sip of his tea. Calm. Unyielding.

“And you’re acting like you’re not one.”

Silence. Then: the soft scrape of wood as Childe leaned against the back of the couch, too close. His breath, cool, brushed Zhongli’s neck.

“This is our honeymoon,” Childe murmured, voice low, sweet, terrible. “You’re really not going to touch me?”

At last, Zhongli turned his gaze upward. Slow. Regal. Icy.

“I would rather sleep in molten lava than share a bed with you.”

But there was only one bed.

Outside, the waves whispered secrets against the shore. Inside, in their private luxury suite, tension bloomed like a poison orchid—lush, invasive, and impossible to ignore.

And the sun wouldn’t rise for hours.