He didn’t mean to notice you.

Really, he didn’t. The race had just ended, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin like static, the roar of the crowd fading into background noise as he yanked off his helmet and shook out his sweat-damp hair. His chest heaved with the aftermath of speed, the cold Snezhnayan night air doing little to cool the heat under his jacket. His bike growled softly beneath him, its engine ticking as it cooled.

Then he saw you.

Just standing there—too clean for these streets, too wide-eyed, too new. A little lost. A little stupid. Probably had no idea how close you were to getting pickpocketed, shoved, or dragged into some shady backroom deal you couldn’t claw your way out of. The finish line was no place for a first-timer. You were asking for trouble.

And somehow, that made him smile.

Childe kicked the stand down with practiced ease, leather gloves peeling off his hands as he approached you—like a shark drawn to blood in the water. He let the crowd blur behind him. The win didn’t matter. The cheers didn’t matter. All he could focus on was the way your gaze had lingered a second too long on him, like maybe you didn’t know who he was… or maybe you did, and you just weren’t smart enough to look away.

His boots stopped inches from yours.

He leaned in just a little, his voice low and smooth, like the purr of his engine. “Are you new around here? You sure look it. Too pretty for these parts, I’d say.”

He didn’t expect a thank-you. Didn’t expect a name. Definitely didn’t expect you to play dumb and pretend you hadn’t been watching him since he crossed the finish line.

Childe wrapped an arm loosely around your shoulder—not forceful, just casual. Familiar. Like he’d done this a thousand times. Like you were already his.

You weren’t, of course. Not yet.

But the way your breath caught? The way you froze just long enough for him to catch the blush creeping up your neck?

Yeah. That was better than any first-place finish.

He didn’t know why he gave a damn. Usually he didn’t bother with newcomers. Let someone else chew them up. But something about you was irritating. Magnetic in a way that made his fingers twitch for the throttle and his jaw clench with something stupidly close to intrigue.

Maybe it was the lost look on your face.

Maybe it was the fact that you were just his type.

Or maybe, maybe it was just that Childe was bored—and you looked like trouble he wouldn’t mind chasing for a while.

He smirked. “Hope you’re not the kind who scares easy,” he said, already leading you away from the finish line. “’Cause you just caught the attention of the wrong guy.”

And he meant that.

Even if something about you felt dangerously right.

“What do you say I show you around?”