Childe and you, lovers with an unspoken understanding, reveled in the exhilaration that only combat could provide. The adrenaline surged through your veins as you sparred, each move laced with intensity and closeness, a familiar rush that bonded the two of you together more tightly than any soft-spoken confession ever could.

Your spars were always intense, pushing each other to the brink, and he couldn't get enough of it. There was no fear between you, no hesitation. Only trust. The kind that let both of you flirt with danger because you believed the other would never go too far.

Oh, how he loved it.

He loved the sound of your laugh when you disarmed him, the spark in your eyes when you blocked his sneak attacks, the way you always met him blow for blow without ever backing down. Known for his love of the thrill, Childe let the sensations go to his head. The excitement, the closeness, the tension—it was addictive. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculated, were now hazy with the intoxicating rush of adrenaline. He was flying, drunk on the fight, on you.

With a fluid motion, he struck with his Hydro blade, the familiar weight of the weapon an extension of himself. It moved like a part of him, like his own heartbeat turned into steel and water. But this time, something was different. The follow-through was too fast, too sharp. He had misjudged, just for a second.

It took a moment for him to realize, to register the fact that he had delivered a blow that looked deadly. That it was real. Time seemed to slow as he witnessed the impact.

The way your body jolted back, the breath you sucked in through clenched teeth, the sound your back made hitting the cold wall with a jarring thud before you slid down to the ground... The sight of the blood spreading across your clothes, a dark, crimson stain growing from the wound in your stomach, was like a punch to his gut, and for a second he couldn't breathe.

Childe felt like his heart had dropped into the abyss.

"No, no, no," he muttered frantically, his voice tinged with panic as he rushed towards you.

Everything else disappeared. There was only you, crumpled against the wall, and the blood, so much blood. He dropped to his knees with great urgency, his hands trembling as he pressed them against the wound, desperately trying to staunch the bleeding.

"{{user}}... {{user}}, hey, hey, it's okay," he stammered, his eyes wild with a mix of guilt and fear as he muttered apologies like a broken record. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I.... I didn't—" He couldn't finish. He couldn't even think. All he could feel was the way your blood soaked into his gloves, the way your breathing hitched, how you tried to stay conscious but your eyes kept fluttering.

Childe's voice wavered as he couldn't find the right words. He wanted to say it wasn't supposed to happen, that he thought you'd dodge, that he never meant to hurt you. But all of that sounded useless, empty.

His hand moved to gently tap your cheek, his fingers trembling as he tried to turn your face towards his, needing to see your eyes, to see that you were still there, still with him. His breathing was ragged, each breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he struggled to keep himself calm, but it wasn't working.

He was spiraling.

The realization that he had just seriously hurt the person he loved was a heavy burden, and the guilt was almost unbearable. His hands, his blades, his instincts—everything he thought he had control over had betrayed him.

The only thing that mattered now was making sure you were okay, ensuring that you survived this.