Chapter 35: Storm Signals

Summary: One cocky broadcast is all it takes to light a match—and Tong Yao doesn't just spark. She ignites. As the stage shifts and strategies sharpen, lines are drawn, shots are fired, and for the first time, the world sees exactly what happens when someone underestimates ZGDX's analyst. The storm isn't coming. It's already here.

Author's Note: The Muse is cackling and they had fun with this entire chapter!

Chapter Thirty-Five

The moment A'Guang's cocky, juvenile voice blared across the arena speakers, echoing in the otherwise quiet lounge where Rui, Yue, and Yao were seated, all three heads turned toward the massive screen mounted on the far wall.

"So, old veteran men of Team ZGDX, get ready to be trampled under our feet! Because we will take your title as the best!"

The arena roared, reacting to the broadcasted pre-recorded interview as the introduction for KING's Captain rolled out with smug, over-the-top confidence, his face on screen full of youthful arrogance and puffed-up bravado.

Yao froze.

There was a very specific kind of silence before a storm—and Yue, leaning forward with a bag of chips in one hand, caught it.

The slight twitch in her fingers.

The faint scowl blooming between her brows.

And then, just like that, she was on her feet—furious, indignant, and flustered beyond all recognition as she pointed at the TV like it had personally offended her.

"What the heck did that barely fifteen-year-old brat just say about my team?!" Her foot came down in a sharp, decisive stomp against the carpeted lounge floor, her eyes wide and blazing, mouth set in a fierce little pout of disbelief as her arms flailed slightly in righteous fury. " Old veteran men? Who is he calling old?! They're not old—they're experienced! And they will mop the floor with that loudmouth child!"

Yue, wide-eyed, dropped his chips. Rui, mid-sip of coffee, choked a little. 

"Uh-oh." Yue muttered under his breath.

"She's activated." Rui murmured, shifting subtly away from the line of fire.

Yao, flushed and fuming, turned toward the door like she was genuinely contemplating marching her small, furious self out into the arena to tell A'Guang off in person. " I swear, " she huffed, fists clenched, " if he says one more word— "

"Boss Bunny," Yue said quickly, rising with both hands held up, "I know that tone. That is the 'storming onto the stage to commit a murder' tone."

"You're not supposed to cause international incidents before the first tower is even down," Rui added calmly, though his lips twitched at the corners.

"He hasn't even played yet, and he's already got that attitude?! You'd think he'd at least be able to grow chest hair before talking about trampling people!" Yao scowled harder, her chest rising and falling with frustrated breaths.

Yue snorted so hard he had to cough to cover it up.

And as the broadcast switched back to the arena's main stage, Rui calmly reached for his phone and sent a message to Kwon and Sicheng both: 

Your Tiny Boss Bunny is about five seconds away from declaring war. We suggest someone handle it before she pulls a Kun Hyeok and rushes the stage.

Out on stage beneath the bright lights and roaring energy of the crowd, Coach Kwon stood with his arms folded as the team sat behind their screens preparing for the match—Lao K idly spinning his mouse, Ming already clicking through warm-ups, and Sicheng leaning back with that familiar lazy posture that always belied just how sharp and calculating his mind was.

But then both Kwon and Sicheng's phones buzzed at almost the same time, the soft vibrations drowned by the surrounding noise but sharp enough to draw their attention. In eerie sync, they reached into their pockets and pulled out their phones, each glancing down at the glowing notifications.

They didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

Because the moment they read the message from Rui, the reaction was instant.

Kwon's brow arched slowly upward, a twitch of resigned amusement slipping across his usually stern features as he muttered, "Of course she is."

Meanwhile, Sicheng's unreadable expression shifted—barely. A tick at the corner of his mouth, an amused exhale through his nose, and then his gaze lifted to glance in the direction of the lounge, despite the walls between them.

He could already picture it.

Her cheeks flushed, hazel eyes wide with outrage, arms flailing slightly in that helpless way she did when flustered logic collided with an emotional reaction she hadn't quite prepared for. Probably pointing at the screen like it owed her an apology. Probably ready to storm out and lecture that brat of a Jungler on how experience trumped arrogance every single time.

He didn't need the footage.

He knew.

Sicheng didn't even bother replying to Rui's message. He just smirked to himself, leaned forward slightly, and said in a low voice that only his teammates could hear, "If she walks in here mid-match, it's A'Guang's funeral. Not ours."

Lao K snorted. "So we don't need to focus bot?"

"No," Sicheng replied coolly, "just clear a path. The Bunny's coming."

And behind them, Kwon chuckled under his breath and shook his head. "Hell hath no fury," he muttered, "like a flustered Tiny Boss Bunny with a bone to pick."

By the time the first round ended, the scoreboard wasn't just leaning in ZGDX's favor—it was practically bowing in surrender.

It hadn't even been a contest.

From the moment the match began, everything had gone like clockwork. Lao K and Ming's mid-jungle synergy flowed seamlessly with surgical precision, setting traps that A'Guang walked into again and again with the predictable arrogance of someone too young to realize experience wasn't just a number—it was a weapon. Sicheng didn't even have to carry this round. He just held his lane like a blade to the throat, calm and utterly cold, as if to say, This is the price of disrespect.

The crowd roared, the casters were breathless, and by the time the game was called, the only question anyone had left was: how much worse could it get for King?

Kwon didn't wait for post-game stats.

He stood, collected his clipboard, and without even looking at the celebrating crowd, made a beeline for the lounge with a calm, measured pace—though anyone who knew him could see the gleam of quiet satisfaction in his eyes.

And when he opened the door?

He found chaos.

Not in the physical sense—the lounge was intact, untouched—but it was the emotional chaos that hit first.

Because there she was.

Their Tiny Boss Bunny.

Still in her team jacket, standing in front of the now-muted television like she had just been personally insulted by it. Her expression was a masterclass in flustered fury—lips pursed, brows drawn, hands clenched into fists at her sides as she muttered under her breath in a way that was, quite honestly, terrifying. And not a single one of them had heard her speak like this before.

"…I swear, if that brat talks like that again I'll bury him in patch notes so deep he won't know which meta he's playing in. 'Old men,' my ass—Sicheng could 1v5 him blindfolded with a broken mouse and still win."

Yue blinked, wide-eyed and nearly speechless, his phone halfway to his mouth like he'd been trying to record but forgot how to function. He glanced sideways at Rui, who was frozen in the corner like he didn't know whether to intervene or grab popcorn.

"…and I'll tell you this right now, if he thinks for one second that underestimating us is going to give him anything other than a hard stomp and a stat page he'll have to explain to his coach in therapy—he's got another thing coming."

Sicheng and the boys entered just then, their victory energy crackling off them—and all of them, every single one, paused in the doorway. Because hearing that come from her —their usually reserved, logic-driven, calm-to-the-point-of-faintly-terrifying Data Analyst?

It was glorious.

Lao Mao leaned into Lao K and whispered, "She's still going…"

"She's gonna hit a 1k word count on death threats before she notices we're here," Pang muttered, half in awe.

And Sicheng? He just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth. He'd seen her fierce. He'd seen her hold her ground.

But this?

This was new. And it was personal. It wasn't about numbers anymore. It was about them. And she wasn't going to let anyone walk over ZGDX—not on her watch.

And that?

That made him fall a little harder all over again.

She didn't even give them time to say a word.

The second the door had closed behind Sicheng and the team and the muted static glow of the TV screen flickered with replays of ZGDX's domination, Yao spun on her heel so fast it nearly sent the end of her braid flying. Her boots hit the floor with a sharp stomp, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed, and one small, furious finger jabbed straight toward the very lineup of men who had just annihilated King's first round with terrifying precision.

"You—" she started, voice sharp, commanding, and impossible to ignore, "—had better bury that brat in the second round."

Another stomp. A pointed glare.

"Utterly. Bury him."

Lao Mao blinked like he'd been struck by lightning.

Pang audibly choked on his laughter, slapping a hand over his mouth.

Yue straight-up flinched and leaned behind Rui, muttering under his breath, "Why is she scarier than our entire PR department?"

Sicheng, still leaning lazily against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, arched a brow and said nothing. He didn't have to. The pride in his expression, the curve at the corner of his mouth, and the soft glint in his amber eyes said it all.

Their Tiny Boss Bunny was on a warpath.

And she was doing it for them.

"I don't care how you do it," she continued, tone clipped and pacing now, her index finger still flashing like a weapon. "Outplay, outfarm, camp his jungle—hell, invade his base and feed him his own build for all I care, but that child insulted you." She stopped then, hands on her hips, fire in her posture even as the sleeves of her oversized ZGDX team jacket nearly swallowed her hands. "And no one insults my team and gets away with it."

There was a beat of stunned silence—one heartbeat of awe-struck stillness—

Then Lao Mao, eyes wide, muttered quietly to Lao K, "She said my team."

And that was it.

The whole room snapped to life with energy.

Because the next round?

It wasn't just about revenge.

It wasn't just about shutting a kid up.

It was about answering their Tiny Boss Bunny.

And no one— no one —was going to let her down.

Kwon, still riding high on the momentum of that first-round victory and very aware of the fire their Tiny Boss Bunny had just lit beneath the team, turned toward her with a thoughtful hum as he reached up to adjust the cap tilted low over his brow.

"You want to come on stage for the ban and pick?" he asked, his voice casual but with the edge of seriousness that always laced his decisions during matches.

Yao, who had only just begun to settle—arms crossed tightly over her chest as she stood between Yue and Rui, her scowl still lingering from the footage of A'Guang's little outburst—froze.

Her head snapped toward him, wide hazel eyes blinking once. Twice.

"M-me?" she asked, the fire from before quickly smothered by the sudden onset of nervous confusion. "But… I'm not a coach. Or a player."

She looked around as if someone might suddenly appear and tell her he was joking. Her fingers curled into the edge of her jacket again, knuckles white against the red and black fabric.

"I'm just the part-time Data Analyst," she added more quietly, her voice unsure now. "Is that even… allowed?"

Kwon, without missing a beat, turned slightly and looked toward Rui—who nodded once, already pulling up a message on his phone to clear the path with the officiating team.

"If your title's an issue, we'll say you're representing our analytics team," Rui replied, tone even, brisk. "You're registered under ZGDX. You're not an outsider."

Kwon, his arms now crossed, regarded her with that patient steadiness of his before adding, "No one else's mind breaks down King like yours does. You earned this. So, if you want it—come with me. If not, no harm done."

Yao blinked again, processing. She could still hear A'Guang's taunts ringing in her head. She could still see her boys— her team —flashing her proud, stupid grins when she'd demanded they bury the brat in round two.

And now…

They were offering her a seat at their table. Even if it was just for one phase. Even if it was just this once.

Yao took a breath, straightened her spine, and lifted her chin—nervous, yes, but resolute. "I'll come," she said quietly.

And across the room, Sicheng didn't smile. But he did shift slightly, his gaze never leaving her, his eyes warm and steady. Because she was walking onto that stage not just as their analyst. But as theirs .

The lights on stage burned a little brighter than she remembered. The low hum of the crowd beyond the arena doors rolled in like distant thunder, not yet thunderous, but ever present. Yao followed behind Kwon and the team as they stepped into position, her steps careful and composed but she could feel the heat rising beneath her skin as she walked just behind Sicheng, Lao K trailing beside her like a shadow, noticeably closer than usual.

And then the voices started.

The commentators, sharp, practiced, and far too observant.

"Wait—is that ZGDX's Data Analyst? That's Tong Yao, isn't it?"

"She doesn't usually come out for ban and pick. That's a first."

"No official coaching title, but from what we've heard—she's behind several of their recent strategy updates."

The murmur built quickly, amplified by the echo of the stage mics. Yao tried— really tried—not to duck her head or look like she wanted to vanish beneath the floor. She could feel the weight of every camera trained on her like a physical pressure against her spine. Her fingers curled tightly into the sleeves of her jacket, pulling them down over her palms in a futile attempt to ground herself.

Then she glanced toward the other side of the stage.

King's players were already seated, their jerseys crisp, their posture sharp. The youngest members glanced up curiously—mildly interested in the unexpected presence of the quiet figure beside ZGDX's captain. But it was A'Guang, seated at the center, who noticed her first.

His gaze lifted lazily and then locked. There was a flicker of amusement in his expression—confident, dismissive, a shade too smug for someone who'd only won bluster and soundbites so far.

Yao's spine snapped straight. Her eyes narrowed. The glare she shot across the stage wasn't dramatic or staged—it was furious , crackling with every ounce of the scorn she held for his arrogance and his juvenile outburst from earlier. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, and before she could catch herself, her foot twitched. Once.

A single, small stomp against the polished floor.

Sicheng, without turning, caught the motion in his peripheral and muttered from the corner of his mouth, voice pitched so low only she could hear it, warm with restrained amusement. "Easy, Xiǎo tùzǐ," he said, his tone calm but edged with fond warning. "No throttling the kid. Yet."

Yao sucked in a breath through her nose, straightened again, and forced her gaze forward as she took her seat behind the pick-and-ban panel. Her hands trembled slightly, but her glare had done its job. 

A'Guang was no longer smirking.

And Sicheng?

He didn't glance her way but the smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth was smug enough to rival a trophy.

As soon as the final countdown echoed through the stage speakers, and the unmistakable Victory screen flared across the monitors in ZGDX's signature crimson and silver, the sound of the arena exploded—cheers and astonished exclamations blending together into one massive wave of noise. But Kwon didn't wait for the boys to finish high-fiving or for the analysts to start babbling their disbelief on the broadcast. He had already turned toward her with that rare, pleased smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

"Come on, Tiny Boss Bunny," he said, guiding her gently by the elbow and already moving her offstage. "Let's go let Rui and Yue bask in their collective horror now."

Yao, cheeks pink but eyes shining, followed without protest—still visibly vibrating from the tension of standing under stage lights and cameras, from knowing the crowd had seen her, that the commentators had noticed her presence, that he had noticed her presence—but also from something else.

From pride.

Because her boys— her team —had just dismantled King in record time. Nine minutes, forty-two seconds. The fastest professional match in the current season. A new standing league record. No mercy. No room for debate.

By the time they reached the lounge again, Rui already had one hand pressed to his face while Yue sat slack-jawed on the couch, holding a can of soda that he hadn't even cracked open yet.

"Ten minutes," Yue muttered, still staring at the screen. "No. Less than. Nine forty-two. What the actual—"

"Language," Rui warned automatically, though his voice carried more stunned awe than authority.

Kwon dropped into the chair next to them, looking smug as hell, while Yao lowered herself onto the edge of the armrest, clutching her ZGDX jacket sleeves in her hands but unable to hide the soft, stunned little smile blooming across her lips. "They didn't just bury him," Kwon said calmly, his eyes locked on the still-replaying match highlights. "They lit the coffin on fire and danced on the ashes."

Yao didn't say anything at first. Just watched the screen as Sicheng's champion tore through the enemy base, decisive, merciless, exacting.

And then—

"I did say to bury him," she murmured softly, voice touched with satisfaction, barely above a whisper. "They just listened."

Yue let out a dramatic groan, slumping sideways. "Remind me never to piss off our Tiny Boss Bunny again," he muttered into the cushions. "She might not stomp us , but she'll feed us to Cheng-ge with a damn spreadsheet and a smile."

And Rui, rubbing the bridge of his nose, could only nod slowly. "Let the league write its headlines," he said under his breath. "ZGDX just made a statement."

The hallway was mostly empty, the kind of quiet that settled after the chaos of post-match interviews and cleanups. Yao had only intended to slip down the corridor for a quick restroom break, brushing her hair behind her ear as she moved with quiet steps. But just as she passed a tucked-away door marked "Equipment Storage," a soft sound caught her attention—sharp, broken, and unmistakably raw.

Crying.

Pausing, Yao turned her head slightly. Her hand hesitated just before reaching for the handle, her brow furrowing. It wasn't in her nature to pry, but something about the sound—muffled and clearly trying not to be heard—had her quietly easing the door open, poking her head inside.

Her eyes widened slightly.

A'Guang.

The Captain of King.

His shoulders were hunched, his head ducked low as he quickly swiped at his face, the faint pinkness around his eyes betraying the tears he hadn't quite managed to hide. He startled at the sound, turning with a sharp, defensive look that flickered into something ashamed the moment he recognized her.

"What do you want?" he muttered, voice thick, trying and failing to pull his pride back into place.

Yao stood awkwardly in the doorway, fingers tightening slightly against the edge. "I heard someone crying," she said, voice soft but not uncertain. "So I came to investigate."

"Oh." A'Guang looked away again, wiping the back of his wrist against his cheek. "I didn't think anyone would, really. I hid here."

His words made something twist in her, not quite sympathy—but something close to understanding. She didn't know him. Didn't trust him. But she knew what it felt like to want to disappear.

Still, she shifted uncomfortably. She didn't do well with comforting strangers, not when her instinct was to disappear into silence herself. But she cleared her throat and forced herself to at least offer, "Would you like me to get your team for you?"

A'Guang let out a soft, bitter huff, not looking at her. "You're probably getting a laugh out of this," he mumbled. "Since I insulted your team in that hyped-up video."

That was what made her snap upright.

"No," she said sharply, a spark of fire igniting in her voice. "Don't put words in my mouth."

He blinked up at her in surprise.

"I'm not laughing," Yao continued, stepping inside the room fully now, her eyes narrowing. "But I do hope you take this as a lesson." Her words were calm, but they carried weight—blunt, precise, the same way she analyzed data and broke down strategies. But this time, the target wasn't a champion draft. It was his ego. "Trash talk might work on streams," she said, "but you're not on some junior-level stream anymore. You're in the OPL. And that means something." She crossed her arms, standing straighter now, her soft voice hardening. "You didn't just embarrass yourself. You embarrassed your whole team. You're not being mocked because you lost—you're being mocked because you ran your mouth and couldn't back it up."

A'Guang winced.

"Do you see ZGDX doing that?" she asked, voice pointed. "Do you see YQCB, CK, or even DQ-5 trying to rile people up before a match with that kind of posturing?"

He shook his head slightly.

"No. You don't. Because there's nothing to prove by talking. Only winning. And you weren't ready—not as a player, and definitely not as a Captain." Silence followed her words. Not the heavy kind, but the weighted kind—full of truth and consequence. Yao looked away, muttering under her breath as she turned slightly toward the door, mostly to herself now. "Maybe next time, just play the game."

But before she could take a step, she paused.

Because she felt it.

The unmistakable presence behind her. The shift in air. The familiar hum of someone who didn't have to speak to make his presence known.

Lu Sicheng.

Her eyes flicked sideways.

There he was.

Standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable, but those amber eyes locked on her—and then on the boy still sitting there, red-eyed and stunned. She hadn't known he was listening. But from the look on his face, he had heard everything .

Sicheng didn't say anything at first. He just leaned casually against the doorframe, one brow arched, arms still folded across his chest, the weight of his presence settling into the room with quiet authority. His gaze drifted from Yao—still standing with that stubborn, righteous tension in her spine—to A'Guang, who had quickly wiped his eyes again and straightened in a clumsy attempt to save face.

Then, voice low, dry, and utterly infuriating in its amusement, Sicheng finally spoke.

"You make him cry, Xiǎo tùzǐ?"

Yao blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then her entire face flushed a deep pink, her expression contorting with flustered indignation as she whipped around to face him fully. "No!" she squeaked, her voice sharp with scandalized offense. "I—I did not make him cry!"

Her foot stomped hard against the tile, a sharp little sound of emphasis that made A'Guang nearly jump and Sicheng's mouth twitch upward into the beginnings of a smirk.

"You sure?" he asked mildly, tone infuriatingly casual. "Because he looks a little emotionally traumatized."

"I was scolding him," Yao huffed, cheeks red now as she jabbed a finger toward the boy still sitting there like he was caught between guilt and confusion. "Because he acted like a brat and embarrassed his whole team with that ridiculous video and someone had to say something because clearly no one else was going to and it needed to be said!" She puffed slightly at the end, eyes narrowed, chest rising with breathless irritation as she turned a fiery glare up at her Captain.

Sicheng just stared at her, blinking once, twice—and then, calmly, smoothly, the smirk returned full force as he tilted his head ever so slightly. "So," he said, letting the word drag with barely concealed amusement, "you did make him cry."

"You are impossible !" Yao groaned, nearly vibrating with frustration now. 

"Mm, but you love me." he murmured, clearly enjoying every second of her outrage.

And that—well, that shut her up fast. She made a sound, some mortified little noise in the back of her throat as her hands flailed slightly before she spun on her heel, muttering about immature Captains and hopeless men and how he was absolutely not allowed to say things like that in front of people.

Sicheng didn't chase her. But the gleam in his eyes as he watched her storm out—flustered, stomping, and adorable in a way only she could be—lingered long after the door swung shut behind her.

And behind him, A'Guang blinked up, a little dazed, and muttered with something close to awe, "She really is terrifying."

Sicheng's smirk deepened. "You have no idea."

Sicheng didn't follow after Yao—not yet. Instead, he pushed off the door-frame and stepped further into the room, slow and deliberate, until he stood just a few feet in front of A'Guang. The younger player, still visibly rattled from both the loss and the unexpected scolding, looked up at him warily, shoulders tensing the way rookies often did when they realized they were no longer dealing with equals, but with the weight of someone who had earned every ounce of his name.

Lu Sicheng's tone shifted—still calm, still measured—but gone was the teasing warmth he reserved for the girl who'd just stomped out. What remained was the cold, quiet gravity of a Captain addressing a player. A warning wrapped in wisdom. "You've got fire," he said, eyes narrowed slightly, not unkind but not soft either. "That much is obvious. And talent? Maybe. Can't deny you've got potential."

A'Guang didn't move, just swallowed hard.

"But," Sicheng continued, voice dipping low, smooth like a blade across silk, "trash talk without weight behind it isn't confidence. It's cowardice. When you talk big and fall short, you don't just embarrass yourself. You embarrass your team. You paint a target on your back, one you're not ready to carry."

The boy's jaw twitched.

Sicheng didn't stop. "You think this game is about ego? About acting bigger than you are? You'll burn out fast if that's your angle. Respect is earned in this league. You don't see me, Kun Hyeok, or even that brat Ai Jia running our mouths before a match because we don't need to. We let our gameplay do it for us." He leaned down slightly, amber eyes sharp and unwavering. "And next time you decide to take a swing at my team? You better make damn sure you can land it."

The words hung in the air like smoke—final, cutting, undeniable.

Then, with a short glance toward the hallway Yao had disappeared into, Sicheng straightened and turned without another word, his long strides taking him out the door and down the hall. Because the conversation was over. And the lesson? Delivered.

Sicheng had almost cleared the hallway, the cool click of his boot sole echoing down the polished corridor, when the voice called after him—tentative, young, but no longer sulking.

"Chessman."

He didn't stop immediately. Just paused, his back still to the room, a muscle in his jaw ticking once before he slowly turned his head, brows lifting just slightly in that aloof, practiced way that made even veteran players second-guess their words.

A'Guang, still wiping faint remnants of frustration from his eyes, straightened just enough to meet the Captain's gaze. His voice was softer now, stripped of bravado and bluster, the honest tone of a rookie who had been thoroughly humbled. "Could you… could you thank Miss Tong for me?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean it. What she said—I appreciated it."

The words weren't smooth. They weren't polished. But they were real.

And Sicheng?

He stared.

Because there it was again.

That look.

That stupid, shy, completely smitten look.

And he felt it.

That faint, barely restrained twitch in the corner of his eye. The one that only ever surfaced when he realized, with startling clarity, that his girlfriend—his fiercely brilliant, socially anxious, soft-spoken, terrifying-when-riled-up girlfriend—had somehow managed to add yet another damn one to her collection.

Ai Jia.

Him.

The rest of ZGDX.

His best friend, who'd spent the last few weeks smugly amused.

His best friend's little brother, who hadn't even met her and was already sighing over her like a lovesick schoolboy.

The entirety of YQCB at this point.

And now— this punk.

His eye twitched again.

Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.

"She's not collecting fanboys," he muttered under his breath, voice low and annoyed as he turned back toward the hallway, "She's collecting goddamn stamps."

The bus rumbled along the highway, the warm hum of post-match exhaustion settling over the team like a thick, contented fog. Seats were reclined, headphones were on, a few half-hearted conversations trickled between teammates while the rest either scrolled their phones or drifted toward sleep. The overhead lights were dim, the windows tinted with the golden tint of a late afternoon sun beginning its descent—but beside Tong Yao, Lu Sicheng was twitching.

Not dramatically.

Not in a way anyone else would notice.

But she did.

Of course she did.

His arm, resting on the back of their shared seat, kept shifting ever so slightly. His other hand was clenched just tight enough on his phone to make the leather of his case creak. And every once in a while, his lips would move—quietly, subtly—but she could tell he was muttering .

Yao blinked.

Puzzled.

She tilted her head slightly, noting the faint crease between his brows, the way his jaw was tight even though his posture looked relaxed. It wasn't anger. No. That wasn't it. This was…something else. Tentatively, she reached out, her fingers brushing gently against the sleeve of his jacket, just above the bend of his shoulder.

"Cheng-ge?" she asked softly, voice barely louder than a whisper, "Are you… okay?"

He turned.

And she immediately regretted asking.

Because his gaze swung to her with an intensity that had her spine stiffening and her breath catching—eyes narrow, mouth tugging into a sharp frown, and then—

"You," he said, voice low and accusing, "need to stop collecting stamps."

Yao blinked.

Once.

Twice.

"…Huh?"

Sicheng glared at her like she was the one making no sense. "Stamps, Yao. You're collecting them."

Her eyes widened further, expression fully confused now, her voice high and flustered. "Stamps? I—I don't collect stamps! I don't even like stamps! They're—they're small and sticky and paper and—what?!"

His jaw ticked. "Ai Jia. Kun Hyeok. Hang Suk. The entirety of YQCB. And now A'Guang? Who asked me to thank you like you'd personally saved his puppy from a burning building. That's a whole damn binder's worth."

Yao stared, stunned, cheeks blooming with rapid pink as she gaped at him. "I—I wasn't doing anything!" she sputtered. "I was just talking! And he was crying! I didn't invite him to look at me like that!"

"You scolded him and made him cry," Sicheng grumbled, dragging a hand through his hair. "And then he looked at you like he was ready to defect from his team and sign his soul over to ZGDX's Tiny Boss Bunny regime."

"Oh my god. I didn't—Cheng-ge!" Yao made a sound like a kettle whistling, hands flying up to cover her face.

But he wasn't done.

He leaned closer, dropping his voice just enough so the others wouldn't hear, but not enough that she could miss the low, simmering edge in his words. "I'm not joking, Yao-er. You walk into rooms like sunshine, say two words, and they fall like dominoes. You don't even notice , but I do. And now? Now I've got a kid calling me to thank you. "

"I didn't tell him to do that!" she squeaked, utterly mortified. "I didn't do anything!"

"You existed," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "That's the problem."

She stared.

He sighed, leaning back against the seat with all the frustrated weight of a man absolutely, devastatingly besotted and not even a little bit okay about it. "Next time? Just stomp your foot once and let me handle the rest."

Yao, still pink and flustered, peeked at him through her fingers.

And even though he was grumbling, and twitching, and muttering about stamps and sunshine and rookie Junglers with heart eyes.

She couldn't stop the small, helpless smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth. Because she'd never seen him jealous before. And maybe—just maybe—it was her favorite thing.