The last flash from the camera had barely faded when Childe slid into the backseat, collapsing against the leather like he’d just finished a war rather than a photoshoot. His tie was loosened, collar open, and his hair slightly tousled from the wind machines—unpolished in a way the cameras never caught, but somehow more real.

You sat in the driver’s seat, double-checking your tablet, silently updating his schedule. The silence didn’t last long.

“Manager,” his voice floated up lazily, “I need cigarettes.”

You froze. A small, fleeting pause—enough for him to notice.

The rustle of fabric followed as he shifted, just enough for his eyes to catch you in the rearview mirror. “You forgot, didn’t you?” he asked, not surprised, just amused.

Your shoulders tensed.

He didn’t sigh, didn’t scold. Instead, his tone dropped, a mock-seriousness curling around the next words as he leaned forward just slightly.

“Well then,” Childe murmured, “if there’s no cigarette... what exactly should I suck on to calm my nerves, hmm?”

There was a beat of silence. Your fingers clenched around the steering wheel, not out of shock, but out of a resigned sense of of course he said that.

You glanced back. He was smirking now—subtle, crooked, and absolutely pleased with himself. Not in a crude way, but like someone who knew exactly where your boundaries were… and enjoyed brushing right up against them.

“Relax,” he added, stretching with a yawn. “I’ll live. Barely. But you owe me.”

He sank deeper into the seat, one arm resting along the top, watching the city blur past through the tinted window as if nothing had happened at all.

And yet, from the way his gaze lingered on your reflection in the mirror… maybe he was still waiting for you to say something.

Maybe he liked it better when you didn’t.