The first thing Childe noticed when he stepped into his office wasn’t the papers he’d been avoiding, or the diplomatic reports waiting for his signature.

No, it was you. Sitting there like you belonged, legs crossed, posture straight, that calm kind of patience that grated on his nerves.

You were too composed. Too still.

He hated stillness. It reminded him of failure—his last bodyguard, for example, had failed to be anything but still after taking a blade that was meant for him. Sloppy. Predictable. Dead.

So forgive him if he wasn’t feeling particularly optimistic when he laid eyes on you.

“You’re the bodyguard?” he asked, the words spilling out with a mocking lilt, almost a laugh. It wasn’t even meant to be cruel. It just was. Habit, mostly. Self-defense wrapped in cocky bravado and years of being disappointed.

He shut the door behind him with a click that echoed through the palace office, the kind that made people flinch. You didn’t.

Interesting.

Childe didn’t move right away. He just stood there, studying you with his hands still in the pockets of his coat—royal blue and fur-lined, tailored to perfection but worn like he’d rather be in battle gear. Which, to be fair, he usually would.

Tall windows behind him cast streaks of winter sunlight across the polished floor. Everything about the palace was pristine, sharp, expensive. And fake.

“You look… normal,” he continued, stepping closer now. Boots heavy on marble. “That’s not a compliment, by the way.”

Still no reaction. Hm. Either you were really good at pretending not to care, or really that confident. Which was a bold choice, considering who he was.

Prince Ajax. Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers. The wolf in royal silk. The smiling weapon.

He circled around you now—once, twice—like he was inspecting a new blade. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes sharpened. Not suspicion exactly. Just the instinct to survive. He’d been trained to see threats in everything.

And yet… he didn’t feel that edge with you.

That was more alarming than comforting.

“I don’t need someone who can block a sword,” he finally said, stopping just behind your chair, leaning down enough for his lips to align with your ears. “I need someone who can tell it’s coming three days in advance and make sure the guy holding it mysteriously disappears before breakfast.”

He leaned in slightly, voice lower. Not seductive—just serious. Disarming, in a way that felt more like getting a knife between the ribs.

“Think you can do that?”

A beat.

Of course you didn’t flinch. Of course you met his eyes like you weren’t staring at the most volatile man in the nation. He hated that. He liked it a little too.

He straightened up with a slow, casual sigh, then moved to the desk and picked up a folder—a thin one. Your file. He didn’t bother opening it. He already knew what was inside. Paper can only say so much. He trusted instinct more than ink.

Still, something about this felt… off. You were supposed to be a temporary hire. A trial run. Nothing more.

But Childe had never liked half-measures.

He tossed the file back on the desk with a snap and leaned back against the edge, arms crossed loosely.

“Fine,” he said. “Stick close tonight. Don’t speak unless I say so. And if someone tries to kill me, make it look like they were never born.”

He smirked then—sharp and boyish and a little dangerous.

“Welcome to the job.”