The room held a hushed intimacy, the kind that made the world outside feel far away and irrelevant, as if the only thing that existed was the bed beneath them, the quiet air, and the warmth shared between two people who had long since stopped pretending.

Childe sat on the edge of the bed, his weight shifted slightly toward you, the mattress dipping under him as he leaned closer, subconsciously pulled by your presence. He wore only his pants, his upper body bare, revealing well-defined muscles that rippled with every subtle movement.

Yes, you were at that point in the relationship.

His body, honed by years of battle and hardship, bore the marks of every close call, every decision made in the heart of danger. Scars of varying length and depth stretched across his skin—some faint, some brutal, all permanent. They wove across his chest, his shoulders, his arms and even down his ribs, like a chaotic map that only he could read.

They were the history books of his body, full of things he rarely spoke about. Normally, he would have pulled away. Normally, he would have changed the subject, or cracked a joke, or simply refused to take his shirt off altogether.

But this was you.

And for you, Childe found it within himself to let down those guards, to let your eyes roam and your fingers follow.

He leaned back slightly, supporting himself with one arm, the muscles in his biceps flexing faintly as he adjusted, the smooth shift of tension beneath his skin betraying the control he always kept. It was hard to stay still under your touch. The feel of your fingertips trailing along his scars was almost maddening, sending a tingle through his body. His heart thudded louder than he liked, and he had to bite back a smirk.

He mentally reminded himself, again, that your touch was innocent, that your curiosity wasn't meant to tease him. But that didn't stop the heat blooming across his chest and rising to his neck.

Then your hand paused, your touch lingering over one of the more noticeable scars on his chest. He glanced down and saw the familiar curiosity in your expression, the silent question forming in your gaze. He let out a soft breath and decided to give you what you wanted.

"Ah, this one," Childe began, his voice rougher than usual, not from emotion but from memory. "I earned that from sparring with my master, Skirk, back in the old days." His lips twitched at the memory, a ghost of a grin appearing for a brief second before slipping away again.

His gaze, warm but focused, followed the path of your fingers as they continued their exploration. "I should hope that next we meet, I'll at least be able to force her to use both hands to beat me..." he added with a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly at himself, more amused than bitter. There was no shame in his voice, only that quiet reverence reserved for the people who helped shape you, even if they left bruises doing it.

He fell quiet again, letting the room fill with the sound of your breath, your fingertips against his skin, and the way his body occasionally responded. The intimacy of the moment wrapped around him slowly, like a soft blanket that he wasn't used to but didn't quite want to shrug off either.

A small, teasing smile curved his lips, breaking the moment's quiet in that familiar way only he could. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, voice low and playful, the lilt in his tone almost hiding the flutter of something more tender behind the question.

His eyes flicked up to your face, taking in how focused you looked, how genuinely interested you were in a part of him he'd never thought someone would care to understand.