The hour is soft.

11:12 pm, maybe 13 — the digital clock has been blinking the same numbers for what seems like forever now. The house is dark, painted in muted hues by the dim bedside lamp, its glow casting golden halos around familiar things: the curtain pulled half-shut, the sweatshirt hanging from the chair, the lazy sprawl of limbs tangled beneath a shared blanket.

Childe isn't speaking. Not yet.

He’s lying on his side of the bed, with one arm draped comfortably around you — not out of instinct, but something quieter. Steadier. His breathing has slowed from the usual restless rhythm he keeps during the day — always moving, always laughing, always throwing himself into the next thing before the last one’s done. But here, now, with the weight of the day behind him and the warmth of you against his chest, he lets himself rest.

Cuddles with you have always been nice.

His eyes stay half-open, watching you fiddle with the hem of the comforter. He's not sure when he started memorizing things like that — the littlest things — that he adores about you.

Childe has always been the type of person to court chaos with a grin. He’s friendly and sociable. But curled up beside you like this, listening to the world go quiet, he realizes that there's something about stillness that doesn't scare him as much anymore.

“You ever thought about how weird time is?” He mumbles, a look of slight contemplation plastered across his features. His fingers are drumming gently against your hips, a steady rhythm to it.

He sees you lazily turn to face him, looking at him.

Somewhere outside, a car door slams shut. A dog barks. The city continues on like it always does — but in this room, time thickens like honey. There's no rush. No mask. Just soft breaths and warmth and the quiet miracle that you love him.