Childe wasn’t exactly known for subtlety. That wasn’t his thing. Subtlety was for diplomats and spies and people who flinched at the thought of blood. He was the guy they sent in when a war needed starting—when peace talks failed and the ground needed staining red.

And yet here he was. Hunched over a cart in Liyue Harbor, debating between two teddy bears like it was some kind of life-or-death decision.

This one had a ribbon. That one had a heart stitched on its chest. He stared at them like they might come alive and throw the first punch.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, and bought both.

He’d already lost count of how many shops he’d hit. The woman at the bakery smiled a little too knowingly when he added an extra box of those strawberry cream pastries you liked.

He just grinned back and said it was for “someone special.” Didn’t bother clarifying he’d spent the morning tracking down rare Fatui-grade explosives the size of marbles and now he was shopping for cake and plushies.

Balance, right?

Today wasn’t about the battlefield.

Today was about you.

There was no mission. No orders. No war to feed. Just Ajax, walking the cobbled streets like some lovesick idiot with a wallet hemorrhaging Mora and a stupid little spark in his chest he couldn’t shake off.

Because you deserved this. Hell, you deserved better than this—better than him, a boy molded by the Abyss and war—but for whatever reason, you stuck around. So he was going to make this damn day count.

By the time he got home, his arms were full, and his nerves were worse. He didn’t get nervous. Ever. He fought gods. He was a god to some terrified villages out west. But this?

Trying to surprise you?

It made his hands itch.

He moved quietly through the hallway, lifting a hand to cover your eyes from behind, his voice curling into something soft. Playful. Almost tender. “This took some planning,” he said, guiding you forward with a smirk tugging at his lips, “but anything for my precious {{user}}

Precious. He cringed inwardly. That word would’ve made his soldiers gag. He could already hear Signora mocking him in his head.

But hell, he meant it.

He opened the door.

The bedroom was a battlefield of a different kind—covered in rose petals, ridiculous amounts of them. Teddy bears were lined up like plush sentries, and one of them—yes, that heart-stitched bastard—had the necklace tucked around its neck like it was presenting a royal offering.

He watched your face change, saw the awe hit you like a wave, and something clenched hard in his chest.

That look.

That’s what he was fighting for. Not Snezhnaya. Not the Tsaritsa. Not glory or blood or power. Just that look on your face.

Childe stepped in behind you, rested his chin on your shoulder, his arms ghosting around your waist.

And even though he could’ve said something smooth—could’ve gone full charming menace mode—what slipped out was stupid and real.

“That cute face you’re making,” he whispered, lips brushing your skin, “it’s priceless.”

And in that moment, he wasn’t Tartaglia the Harbinger. Wasn’t the monster who cracked the Golden House open like an eggshell. He was just Ajax.

Just a guy who loved someone too good for him.

And hoped—desperately, quietly—that they might love him back.