Scaramouche huffed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, his nose and ears flushed red from the biting winter air. “Why are you nagging me like some overbearing parent? It’s just a scarf, Childe,” he muttered, eyes rolling as he tried to pull away from the taller man’s grip.

Childe, unbothered by Scaramouche’s glare, chuckled softly, wrapping his own scarf snugly around Scaramouche’s neck. “Your ears are bright red, and you’re practically shivering. I’m not letting you freeze just because you’re too stubborn to take care of yourself,” he replied, his voice light but firm.

“Blah, blah, blah…” Scaramouche grumbled, cheeks flushing deeper—whether from the cold or embarrassment, he couldn’t quite tell.

Childe stood back, hands on his hips as he admired his work. “There. Warm now?”

Scaramouche scowled but leaned forward suddenly, burying his face against Childe’s chest. “Whatever,” he muttered, his voice muffled.

Caught off guard, Childe blinked down at him before breaking into a wide grin. He wrapped his arms around the shorter man and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Sorry for nagging,” he whispered, though the soft warmth in his tone betrayed how much he enjoyed taking care of Scaramouche.

Childe’s grin turned playful as he thought to himself, Cute.