It was probably a bad idea the moment he sought you out.

A week wasn't even that long. He knew that, hell, everyone knew that. And his phone had been buzzing constantly, one message after another, all from his best friend — angry, bitter, spiraling texts about the breakup, all about how you never seemed to understand him. Even going as far as to tell you the infamous it’s not you, it’s me line.

Childe, as innocently as he claimed to be, told himself that he was only checking up on you because that's what good friends are for. It was essentially just to make sure you were okay after the nasty break up.

He’d been lying to himself for months now.

You looked tired when you opened the door; it’s not heartbroken in a way people would simply expect after separation, it's just that you looked so worn down, like you’d been carrying something heavy for a while now.

Fuck, he almost wanted to beat his friend up for doing this to you.

He finds himself being seated on your side, listening quietly as you ramble to him — venting about your troubles, all the shitty things his best friend pulled, the micro-cheating, the gaslighting, and more bullshit he ended up zoning out for. Because really, does that matter when he kind of expected (more like prayed) the relationship would fail?

A sigh leaves him as you hug him, his hands instinctively looping around your waist, rubbing your back comfortingly. He told himself he’d leave in a minute, then five. But then you looked up at him with those prettiest eyes, slightly brimming from tears, and lower lip forming a pout that makes him inwardly groan.

Fuck. Just fuck.

When he kissed you, it wasn't rushed.

It was slow, almost deliberate — like something he’d practiced a hundred times for. Your lips parted easily, far too easily, tongue tangling with his. That alone should've been his sign to stop, but instead, he merely tightens his grip on you and pulls you even closer to his lap.

By the time he pulls back, breath uneven and lips swollen, he already knew.

He already crossed a line he shouldn't have.

Later, much later, he can only lay beside you with a slight guilt pooling on his stomach. Despite still being able to taste you on his lips, shame crept up like an unwanted guest. The used condoms were trashed, wrappers scattered on the bedside table, and your skin was littered with bite marks as well as faint bruises — all a mark from him.

“Baby.” He pushed himself up slightly, holding his body up with his elbow as he gazed at you, a little bit shamelessly, admittedly. “Sore? Fucked ya too good, huh?”

He was definitely an asshole, no matter which angle he looked at it from. Shouldn't have taken advantage of the situation, of your vulnerability, but how could he stop when you were so pretty and in dire need of comfort?

He runs a soft palm on his face, rubbing it in thought before looping an arm around your waist.

This wasn't supposed to happen, at least not like this. Not a week after you broke up with his best friend, not with his best friend still venting in his messages and talking about how you were the ‘bitch’ in his story, not with the so called bro code rule being bypassed.

Somehow, all these rules never prepared him for this. For you.

He wanted you long enough before you were single.

Long before he learned all the ugly details of how his best friend treated you. Long before he started noticing how you’d grow quiet during an argument, how you always seemed to pour so much of yourself, how you always apologized far too much and overcompensated for things his shitty so best friend did. He hated it. And if he were being honest, he felt so relieved that you were finally broken up with.

Because that would mean he’d finally have the opportunity to pursue you. He’d treat you better, wouldn't make you cry every week, would kiss you every day and make you feel good like the prettiest girl you were.

But for now, he’d wait.

If he had waited for months, he could have waited a little longer, long enough for you to finally fully be comfortable around him.