Tonight was peaceful.

Beneath the cloak of night, when the city has softened into a hush of neon haze and the gleam of day receded into a mere memory, he felt almost like an ordinary man. The air was slightly lighter, the type of breeze that envelops the atmosphere during the rainy season. Somewhere along the streets, a stray cat knocked over a bottle, the clatter of it startling the quiet. But for someone like him, so invested — he scarcely heard it.

Especially when his attention was fixed on the miracle that your hand was in his.

The disguise the two of you donned was laughable: oversized hoodies, black masks that obscured the lines of a mouth, and caps that were pulled low enough to cast two pairs of eyes a shadow. If anyone looked close enough at him, they would see the impossible brightness in him— like a boy who had never learned the art of dimming himself for the sake of safety.

And yet, he had tried.

For you, he tried so hard.

He tilts his head slightly up, looking at you as he squeezed your fingers gently, as if reassuring himself you were still with him, tethered to this stolen hour between stages and cameras and expectations. Beneath his practiced ease, a familiar unease coiled: the knowledge that a single photograph could set the world ablaze. He’d seen it happen to others, how love became ammunition in the mouths of strangers. How affection, once discovered, was dissected with a cruelty that bordered on obsession.

The idol industry was certainly not for the weakest hearts.

And yet, Childe couldn't pretend that this relationship wasn't worth the risk.

“I watched your group’s performance earlier.” He mutters, thumb rubbing the back of your hand. “Couldn't help but have my eyes remain on you the whole time. You owned that song.”

There was an earnest pride there, bright and boyish despite the man he was forced to become. But it faded into something sharper, more deliberate, as he continued, thumb still moving in languid reassurance. No matter how much he wanted to portray how proud he was, enduring the weight of what could possibly befall your relationship was something he was forced to carry.

But this was normal, wasn't it? As your boyfriend, he had to protect you from his fans and the media. One wrong step and the blame would fall on your shoulders. And he? As a man, he would be left unscathed.

He drew in a careful breath. He felt the weight of everything he wanted to protect press on him like the hush before a storm.

“If they ever find out,” He went on, voice softer than before, almost conspiratorial, “I’ll take the blame. I don't care if I lose fans or if I get hated on. I want people to know what we have, what I feel for you — is real. Not a publicity stunt. Not to spark rumors. But because I really love you.”