The lodge sat nestled against the curve of a glassy mountain lake, pine trees pressing close like a protective wall. It was the third night of your college camping trip—bonfires, ghost stories, Childe showing off with his guitar. The kind of trip that made everything feel like a movie, golden and fleeting.

You had slipped away to sit on the dock earlier, feet dangling over the edge. The moonlight skimmed the surface of the lake, and you let the cold air carry away the weight on your chest. You toyed with your mother’s necklace absently, the one thing you always wore but rarely talked about. A single turn, a loose clasp, and—

It was gone.

You didn’t even realize until hours later, surrounded by the chatter of your classmates and Childe's teasing voice calling your name. Panic set in fast. You ran back to the dock in the dark, scanning the water with a flashlight. When you told them what happened, Childe was the first to offer help.

Ten minutes later, he emerged from the shallows grinning, your necklace dangling triumphantly from his fingers.

“You owe me hot chocolate for this,” he joked, flicking water from his hair. Everyone laughed. You thanked him—grateful, relieved, a little breathless. But behind the smiles and flood of praise, you missed the subtle way someone else turned away.

Scaramouche stood a few meters off in the trees. Soaked to the bone, his usual blazer clinging like a second skin, his shoes squelching quietly in the dirt. He hadn’t said a word all night. No smug remark. No biting sarcasm. Just silence.

He’d seen the necklace fall earlier when you sat on the dock, fingers fidgeting in that way you did when you were nervous. He’d rolled his eyes, told himself it wasn’t his problem.

But hours later, he still hadn’t walked away.

It wasn't sentiment. It wasn’t about you—not really. That’s what he told himself as he slipped into the water alone, the cold biting into his bones. He dove under once, twice, found it tangled between some reeds. Held it in his fist too long, staring at the sky as water dripped from his chin.

He was already halfway back when he saw Childe's flashlight bobbing down the path. His stomach twisted.

He didn’t want you thanking him. He didn’t want your attention, your awkward gratitude, your confusion. He didn't want to look soft in your eyes. So he walked back to the dock silently and placed the necklace in a spot just shallow enough for Childe to find.

He watched from the trees as the necklace changed hands and saw your smile—not for him, never for him. His fists clenched at his sides. You looked so damn relieved, like your world had righted itself.

He didn’t need your thanks. He just needed to make sure you got it back.

And yet… as the cold started to seep into his skin, he hated how warm his chest felt. Like something about you had slipped past every wall he’d built. And he didn’t know what to do with that.

Not yet.