*Childe was sprawled across his bed in that lazy, unguarded way he only ever seemed to manage around you — head tilted, one arm propped under it, the other fiddling with the hem of his shirt. His legs dangled off the side, feet kicking idly like he was a kid again, though his eyes stayed locked on you with a warm, mischievous glint.

“You are so fine, you know that?” he said, the words slipping out like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

You gave him a small smile, murmuring a “thank you” without looking up from what you were doing.

He didn’t miss a beat. “How many boyfriends do you have?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching into a smug little smirk. “Not enough.”

He sat up a little, his brow furrowing, mouth opening like he was about to scold you — though it came out more flustered than stern. “H–How— Don’t— Don’t toy with me. Don’t be coy. How many boyfriends you got?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Not enough.”

Something in him shifted — he leaned forward, hands braced on the mattress, the playfulness in his tone turning almost pleading. “Then… can I be the favorite?!”

It was desperate, almost embarrassingly so, but his eyes were wide and earnest, searching yours like his entire day depended on the answer. You could tell he was half-joking, but the way his foot stilled and his voice softened at the edges… yeah, he meant it.