I Signed A Contract To Work With My Rival, But I Ended Up In His Bed Instead

The air that hit Childe’s face as he stepped off the Snezhnayan galleon was thick with the familiar scents of salt, silk flowers, and grilled fish. Liyue Harbor. It hadn’t changed. The same cacophony of merchants hawking their wares and children laughing echoed between the traditional rooftops, the same warm, humid air settled over the docks. He felt a familiar thrum under his skin, a low-frequency vibration of energy that always seemed to emanate from the city’s ancient stones. It was a feeling he had once mistaken for the promise of a good fight. Now, it just felt like a precursor to boredom.

He adjusted the collar of his formal Fatui uniform, the stiff fabric a constant, irritating reminder of his current role. Diplomat. The word itself was bland, tasteless. He was here to secure new trade routes, to smooth over the lingering political friction from his last visit with polite words and signed papers. It was a mission for bureaucrats and politicians, not for the Tsaritsa’s Vanguard. But an order was an order, and his loyalty was absolute, even when the task was mind-numbingly dull.

What truly grated on him, however, was the addendum to his mission briefing. He was to work with a local consultant, arranged by the Liyue Qixing and approved by the Fatui’s own diplomats. The reasoning was sound—a local expert would navigate the labyrinthine cultural protocols and business etiquette that Liyue’s elite held so dear. But to Childe, it felt like a leash. A handler. A clear message from his superiors that they didn’t fully trust him to manage the mission without causing an international incident. After the Osial affair, he supposed he couldn’t blame them, but the implication still stung.

He didn’t need a guide. He knew Liyue. He knew the rhythm of its streets, the pride of its people, the deceptive currents that ran beneath its prosperous surface. He had spent months here, walking these very paths, learning its ways not for diplomacy, but for conquest. The thought of being tethered to some dusty academic or a prim Qixing secretary, forced to endure lectures on the proper way to serve tea or the historical significance of gift-wrapping, made his teeth ache. He walked through the throng of people at Feiyun Slope, his gloved hands tightening into fists in his pockets. He would get this done. He would smile, shake hands, and sign the papers. And he would dismiss this state-sanctioned babysitter as quickly and cleanly as protocol allowed.

The hostess at Liuli Pavilion led him with practiced grace through the main dining hall, its air heavy with the scent of expensive spices and whispered business deals, and into a private room overlooking the harbor. The lacquered screen door slid shut behind him, muffling the restaurant's ambient noise and leaving him in a sudden, expectant quiet.

A man stood with his back to the door, gazing out the large, circular window at the ships below. He was tall and impeccably dressed in a dark, tailored coat that emphasized the sharp line of his shoulders and his narrow waist. Even from behind, there was an aura of stillness and immense self-possession about him that felt jarringly familiar. Childe’s irritation sharpened. This was his consultant? Some Liyue aristocrat who probably spent more on his tailor than Childe earned in a month?

Then the man turned.

The air left Childe’s lungs in a silent rush. His heart gave a painful, stuttering thump against his ribs, and for a half-second, the entire world seemed to shrink to the space within that room. It was Zhongli. His face was exactly as Childe remembered it—the same sculpted planes, the same serene set of his mouth, the same amber eyes that seemed to hold the weight of millennia within their depths. Eyes that were currently fixed on him with a calm, unreadable expression.

A storm of conflicting emotions crashed through Childe. Fury, hot and sharp, at the memory of the deception. A bitter, aching sense of betrayal that he had thought long buried. And beneath it all, something else—a low, resonant hum of excitement that he despised himself for feeling. The dull, gray landscape of his diplomatic mission had just been set ablaze with color.

“Childe,” Zhongli said. His voice was the same deep, smooth timber that had once narrated long, rambling stories over countless shared meals. Now, it was formal, distant. “I trust your journey was satisfactory.”

Childe forced his jaw to unclench, schooling his expression into one of professional indifference. “Zhongli-xiansheng. This is… an unexpected development.”

“Indeed.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Zhongli’s lips before vanishing. “The Liyue Qixing felt these negotiations required a consultant with a deep understanding of our nation’s history and contractual traditions. They approached Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, and Director Hu Tao recommended my services.” He gestured to the empty seat across the polished table. “My role is to act as a neutral arbiter, to ensure that any agreement forged between Snezhnaya and Liyue is equitable and honors the spirit of our long-established customs. I am contracted by the Qixing, not the Fatui. My duty is to the integrity of the contract itself.”

Of course. It was infuriatingly logical. Who else but the former God of Contracts could be the ultimate authority on them? It was a move so perfectly orchestrated, so quintessentially Zhongli, that Childe could feel a headache beginning to form behind his eyes. He was frustrated, yes, but a dangerous flicker of the old intrigue had already been sparked. This wouldn’t be a boring mission after all.

Childe took the offered seat, the polished wood cool through the fabric of his uniform. He placed his hands on the table, lacing his fingers together to stop himself from doing something satisfyingly juvenile, like drumming them against the surface. He would be the diplomat. He would be professional. He would not let this man see how profoundly his presence had unsettled him.

“The primary objective,” Zhongli began, his voice a low, resonant baritone that seemed to vibrate in the very air of the room, “is to establish a framework that respects Liyue’s established commercial traditions while accommodating Snezhnayan interests. This will require careful attention to the nuances of gift-giving, the phrasing of proposals, and the observation of auspicious dates for key meetings.”

He spoke with the unhurried, deliberate cadence of a scholar delivering a lecture. Childe tried to focus on the words, on the practicalities of the mission. Gift-giving. Proposals. Dates. It was all just noise. The true distraction was the sound itself, the deep, smooth timber of Zhongli’s voice. It wrapped around him, a familiar and infuriatingly pleasant sensation, pulling at memories he had ruthlessly suppressed. Memories of evenings at this very restaurant, of Zhongli explaining the history of some obscure dish while Childe listened, captivated not by the story, but by the storyteller.

His gaze drifted from the neatly stacked documents on the table to the man across from him. Zhongli’s posture was perfect, his back straight, his shoulders relaxed. He gestured with one gloved hand to emphasize a point about the Feiyun Commerce Guild, and Childe’s eyes followed the movement of those long, elegant fingers. He remembered those hands, ungloved, carefully pouring tea into his cup. He watched the column of Zhongli’s throat move as he spoke, the sharp line of his jaw, the way the light from the window caught the gold at the tips of his eyes, making them glow like molten amber.

A slow, traitorous heat began to build low in his gut, a tightening that was both physical and deeply unwelcome. He was furious. He had every right to be. This man, this god, had played him for a fool, had used him as a pawn in a grand, celestial scheme. He should be looking for the cracks in that serene facade, searching for a weakness to exploit. Instead, he was fighting the urge to lean forward, to close the distance between them, just to hear that voice more clearly, to feel its vibrations more intensely. He shifted in his seat, the formal fabric of his trousers suddenly feeling tight across his lap.

“...and therefore, your initial approach must be one of reverence for their history, not of aggressive acquisition. Do you understand, Childe?”

Zhongli had stopped speaking. He was looking at him, his amber eyes patient, expectant. Childe’s mind went blank. He hadn’t heard the last part of the sentence, lost in the sound and the sight of the man in front of him. He forced a sharp, confident nod, hoping it looked convincing.

“Of course,” he said, his own voice sounding rougher than he intended. “Reverence. Understood completely.”