Childe stood behind you, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes fixed intently on your form as you held the bow in your hands. He had taken it upon himself to teach you the art of archery—one of the many weapons he'd claimed to "excel" in with that usual glint of pride in his voice—and today's lesson had quickly become more of an excuse to stay close to you than a test of your skill.

Still, he watched you now with a mixture of pride and amusement, his lips curled ever so slightly as he noted how serious your expression had become. You were focused, more than usual, and it showed in the tight line of your mouth and the way your eyes narrowed at the target downrange.

He couldn't help the way his gaze lingered longer than it should have, tracing the way your shoulders rose as you inhaled, the slow, careful rhythm of your breath as you readied the shot. There was something about how determined you looked, how you refused to let the weight of the bow overwhelm your stance, that made his chest feel light in a strange, unexpected way.

You looked kind of cute when you were trying so hard. It wasn't often he got to see this version of you, so completely absorbed and unaware of his eyes on you. And for Childe, that kind of focused peace was an irresistible thing to disrupt.

He tilted his head, amused, when you nocked the arrow with practiced hands, pulling the bowstring back slowly. Your form was solid, he'd trained you well, but just when it seemed like you were seconds from nailing the perfect shot, a devious little grin tugged at the corner of his lips.

The temptation was too strong.

Mischief danced behind his eyes as he took a step forward, closing the distance between you with a confident grace that made no sound on the forest floor beneath him. "You know," he began softly, his voice low and smooth, a murmur that slipped into your ear like warm smoke, "we're not just comrades."

He could see your eyebrows twitch slightly, just a flicker of confusion that betrayed the unraveling thread of your concentration. A smirk curled across his face as he leaned in closer, just enough to feel the faint warmth radiating off your back.

Before you could respond or even fully register what he meant, he stepped in again, reducing the space between your bodies to barely an inch. His chest almost brushed your shoulder. His hands came forward, fingers wrapping gently around yours, pretending to "adjust" your grip but doing nothing of the sort. His touch was slow and deliberate, fingertips brushing over your knuckles like a whisper.

"We're more than that," he continued, his words laced with the kind of easy charm that made them all the more dangerous. "Much more." The words were a low, intimate murmur, meant to distract while his fingers traced patterns on your back, mimicking the movements of his bowstrings.

He felt the tremor in your arms, the slight stagger in your hold, and his eyes lit up with a satisfaction that was impossible to miss. The arrow loosed just a second too early, slicing through the air and landing far wide of the intended target. It thunked uselessly into the grass, well off course.

Childe stepped back with a quiet chuckle, raising a brow as he feigned dramatic disappointment. "Ah, missed again," he sighed, one hand rising to rest against his chin as if deep in thought, though his expression was anything but serious. There was too much mirth in his voice, too much triumph in his gaze.

"Guess we'll just have to keep practicing," he added with a grin that was all teeth, the kind of smile that said he was already planning the next time he could pull this little trick on you. He was obviously proud of himself, of how easily he could throw you off.