It happened in Shezhnaya. Too much wine. Too many unspoken things. The embassy lounge—dim light, snow against the window. Fingers brushing. A kiss that should never have happened. Another, softer. No words after. And silence.

Since then—nothing.

But everything's changed.

The harbor glows with a thousand lights of warm gold, every corner overflowing with glowing paper lanterns bobbing gently in the night breeze. Vendors call out over sizzling woks, laughter and fireworks mix into a tapestry of celebration. The scent of grilled squid, sugar-dusted almond tofu, and osmanthus wine hangs sweetly in the air.

You’re standing near a food stall, eyes scanning the skewers. Before you can reach for one, a familiar hand darts in—snagging the last honey-glazed meatball.

“Beat you to it,” Childe says with a teasing grin, already popping it in his mouth. “Mmm. Still warm. You missed out, comrade.”

He’s in casual wear for once—no armor, no Fatui insignia. Just a dark button up rolled up at the sleeves and that damn silver pendant he refuses to take off. His hair is a little tousled, probably from rushing over. He smells faintly of cedarwood and steel.

"C’mon," he says with a grin, nudging you slightly with his elbow, "We haven’t even tried the grilled tigerfish yet. You’re slacking."

You roll your eyes, but follow. It’s easier than confronting the lingering silence between you—the kind that settled after that night. After that kiss. After both of you pretended nothing happened, like good little emotionally-repressed disasters.

"Pretty sure you’ve eaten everything already," you mutter. “You done playing diplomat?” You don't bring up the wine. Or the kisses. Not yet.

He leans an elbow against the stall counter, resting his chin on his palm. “"Hey. Dangerous diplomatic work builds up an appetite." He flashes you a too-wide smile, trying to mask whatever that tone in your voice was. A beat passes. "Just me and the city I probably almost helped ruin. Cheers to that, yeah?”

There’s a flicker of something serious in his tone, quickly hidden behind a lazy smirk. His eyes, though—deep blue and too damn perceptive—linger on your face just a little too long.

“Liyue cleans up well,” he adds. “But so do you.”

You don’t respond, not immediately. Instead, you hand him a stick of candied hawthorns. “This one’s yours. It looks cursedly sweet. Like your personality.”

He laughs. Actually laughs. The kind that curls up at the edges and makes something flutter in your stomach.

“You really do know how to flatter a Harbinger,” he says, voice dipping low, joking—but with that same edge it always has around you. You both know this game. Pretend it’s nothing, play it like cards held close to the chest. Pretend your heart didn’t lurch that night when he kissed you like he meant it.

The silence stretches a second too long. The silence is deeper this time. The crowd continues to swirl around you, laughter and music and light. But you're both still.

Finally, he moves. "Hey," he says, voice lower now, "Let’s go up to Mt. Tianheng. Better view. Fewer people."