Childe wasn’t expecting much when he heard your voice.

Probably another complaint. Another insult. Another ‘accidental’ shoulder bump in the hallway like you didn’t see him standing there in his six-foot smugness and compression shirts.

So when you cornered him by the lockers—of all places, like this was a bad high school drama—and asked him that, he just stared at you.

Actually stared. Brow lifted. Like the words hadn’t registered.

“You want me…” he echoed, voice slow like it was physically painful to repeat, “to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

A scoff. Sharp. Disbelieving. He leaned back against the locker like the ground had personally offended him. The strap of his gym bag slipped off his shoulder, but he didn’t bother fixing it. Too busy trying to figure out if you’d hit your head recently.

Childe knew drama when he smelled it, and this? This reeked of it.

You—you—the person who rolled your eyes every time he opened his mouth, who once told him he was like a walking ego in sneakers, were now asking him to hold your hand and play prince charming in public?

Bold.

He should’ve said no. Hell, he wanted to say no. Wanted to walk away, toss a flirty jab over his shoulder and pretend you didn’t exist.

But then you said his name.

Not yours. Not your heartbreak.

Your ex.

That asshole.

Childe’s expression twitched—just slightly. Just enough for you to catch if you were watching close. And of course you were. Everyone always watched him too closely.

That guy and him had beef. The unspoken kind. Passive aggressive, smirk-wars-in-the-hallway kind. The kind where both of them pretended they didn’t care, while absolutely caring way too much.

So now, this was a game. And he loved games.

“There’s gotta be something in it for me,” he said, casually crossing his arms. His gaze dropped to you like he was weighing your soul against the opportunity for petty revenge. “I don’t do charity. Especially not for people who call me names in psych class.”

He pushed off the lockers slowly, moving just close enough to make you shift your weight. Not enough to be threatening. Just enough to make it clear he’d taken interest.

“Let me guess,” he went on, voice a little lower now, a little smoother, like he was enjoying this more than he should. “You want him to see us together. Hold hands. Couple shirts? The whole fake dating shtick? Real cliché stuff, huh?”

Your silence was answer enough.

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. This was stupid. So, so stupid.

But also, maybe the most fun thing he’d been offered all week.

“Alright,” he said finally, tilting his head. “I’m in.”

Then, with that same cocky grin he always wore when he was two steps ahead of everyone else, he added:

“But you’re buying my coffee and doing my homework for the rest of the semester.”

Because if he was going to sell his dignity, he might as well make it entertaining.