Chapter 38: Meant for One

Summary: Wrapped in the comfort of shared silence and soft light, the night unfolds not with fanfare, but with purpose. Every detail speaks of care, of memory, of something built slowly between two people who no longer pretend this is temporary. And when a small box is offered with no strings, only meaning, what lingers isn't expectation—it's the quiet, steady certainty of someone choosing her.

Author's Note: Next steps and progress being made. Chessman is determined to do right by his Tiny Boss Bunny

Chapter Thirty-Eight

By the time the sun had long dipped below the skyline and the soft ambient glow of her apartment lit the room in warm, golden hues, the scent of garlic, scallion, and gently steamed cod lingered in the air, subtle but comforting, with the trailing notes of ginger syrup just beginning to simmer on the stove. 

Tong Yao, dressed in one of her softest peasant skirts and a loose, flowy top that shifted easily with every movement, moved with the quiet precision of someone who had rehearsed every step, every placement, every detail, multiple times in her head. Her platinum hair, freshly brushed and trailing in soft waves just past her waist, shimmered faintly beneath the lights as she carefully spooned a ladle of ginger syrup over the black sesame rice balls in a delicate porcelain bowl. The jasmine rice was fluffed to perfection, the steamed cod plated with crisp scallions glistening in the light sheen of garlic oil, everything placed just so on the small two-person table she had cleared just for tonight.

She glanced at the clock, still a bit early, but she was too restless to wait much longer. Wiping her hands on the soft towel hooked near the stove, she picked up her phone, biting her lip lightly before thumbing open her messages and tapping on his contact.

ZGDX_TinyBossBunny: Dinner's ready. And I picked out the movies for tonight… so you get to choose. 

She hesitated for half a second before sending it, then quickly placed the phone face down as if that might lessen the weight of her nerves. She hadn't told him what she was making. She wanted it to be a surprise. Wanted to see if the soft flush of pride and maybe something gentler crossed his face when he realized she had remembered. Or more truthfully, that she had asked. Because she hadn't known what his favorite meal or dessert was until Lan had told her—not just in passing, but with a fond smile, recounting how Sicheng had loved black sesame glutinous rice balls since he was five and that whenever she made steamed cod with garlic scallion oil, he always asked for extra ginger syrup, even if the dishes didn't traditionally go together. And that was exactly what she had made. Not to impress him. Not to prove anything. But because she wanted to. 

Because Monday nights were theirs. And for the first time in a long time, she wanted him to sit down to something that reminded him not just of home—but of someone who cared enough to make it for him . Now all that was left was to see his face when he walked through her door. And quietly, shyly, she hoped it would be worth it.

The screen of his phone lit up with the soft chime he'd come to recognize instantly—ZGDX_TinyBossBunny. The name alone was enough to draw his attention even if the world around him had been on fire, which, thankfully, it wasn't. Not tonight. He swiped the screen open without hesitation.

Dinner's ready. And I picked out the movies for tonight… so you get to choose. 

A small breath huffed from his nose—half a laugh, half something softer—as his thumb hovered briefly over the glowing text before locking the screen again and pushing to his feet. His leather jacket was already in hand. He'd meant to grab something from the convenience store before heading up, but that thought had long since evaporated. She'd made dinner. Which meant she'd been thinking of him. By the time he reached the door to her apartment—the private space that had become a quiet kind of haven for both of them—he didn't bother knocking. He'd long since stopped pretending he was a guest in this space.

He stepped inside. 

The first thing that hit him was the scent. Warm, fragrant layers of garlic and scallion, subtle wisps of jasmine rice, and the rich, unmistakable sweetness of ginger syrup lingering in the air like memory. 

Sicheng blinked, a small shift flickering behind his amber eyes as he took in the sight of her. She was standing near the table—plating something, maybe adjusting it for the third time, because she was like that. Her platinum hair spilled down her back in soft waves, and the peasant skirt she wore brushed lightly against her bare ankles with every subtle movement. She wore a flowy loose top to go with it. She hadn't seen him yet. And in that moment, he didn't say a word. He watched. Watched the small, quiet ritual she had created just for him. The delicate care in the table setting. The way her brows furrowed ever so slightly as she double-checked the steam rising off the rice. The tiny smile she allowed herself when she thought no one was looking.

That's when it hit him. The ginger syrup. The glutinous black sesame rice balls. The steamed cod. She asked. She cared enough to ask and find out what his favorite meal and dessert were. His chest tightened slightly, the kind of pressure he never voiced aloud. Instead, he walked in fully, letting the quiet sound of the door closing behind him announce his presence.

She turned, eyes widening just slightly, cheeks coloring in that way they always did when she hadn't fully braced herself for his attention.

He didn't speak right away. Just shrugged off his jacket and set it over the back of her small couch, his gaze sweeping once more over the table before settling on her again—unmistakably, unreadably warm. "You made my favorite." he said at last, voice low, steady.

"Aunt Lan told me… I wasn't sure if it would turn out right." She nodded, shy and uncertain but brave enough to meet his eyes.

Sicheng stepped forward until he was close enough to reach out, close enough to touch—but didn't. Not yet. He didn't need to. Because in that moment, the weight of what she had done—quiet, thoughtful, entirely for him—settled somewhere deep in his chest like a promise. "Looks perfect," he said. And he meant it. Because anything made by her hands always would be.

Tong Yao stood across from him, silent, watching, clearly trying not to fidget. 

Then he took the first bite.

The cod was soft, flaky, layered with the rich warmth of garlic and scallion oil, the flavor precise, clean, with just enough ginger to cut through the richness. The rice was perfect—just enough chew, just enough fragrance. He took another bite. And another. He didn't say anything at first. Didn't lift his head. But when he did?

His eyes were dark, unreadable—but his voice gave it away, low and sure. "This is better than any restaurant I've been to."

She blinked. "Really?"

He met her gaze fully then, his expression softening into something that wasn't quite a smile, but settled deep behind his eyes. "You made this for me."

It wasn't a question.

She nodded once, biting her lip.

He set his chopsticks down and leaned back in the chair, watching her. "Come sit. Before I change my mind and keep you standing just so I can look at you like that a little longer."

She flushed crimson but obeyed, crossing to the seat beside him and settling in quietly, tucking her hair behind one ear. And when she lifted her chopsticks and offered him a bite from her plate, murmuring that she didn't mind sharing, he didn't hesitate. He leaned in, took the bite, and let his lips brush against the tips of her fingers. Because it was Monday. Because it was her. And because, for the first time in years, he had come home to something more than food. He had come home to her.

Sicheng didn't hit play.

The remote sat idle in his right hand, his thumb resting against the corner of the button, but he made no move to press it. His gaze was steady, not on the screen but on the woman curled beside him, her frame soft and quiet against the solid length of his side. He could feel the light brush of her braid where it touched his arm, could hear the faint rhythm of her breathing, even and calm but laced with that subtle edge of anticipation she never quite knew how to hide. Without a word, he set the remote aside and shifted just enough to reach into the blanket folds beside him. When his hand reemerged, it held a small box—velvet-lined, weighty not in size but in meaning. He didn't offer it with ceremony or flourish. Just turned toward her and held it out in the space between them, his fingers curled under its base.

Her eyes, already watching him with quiet curiosity, lowered to the box as her brows drew faintly together.

He said nothing.

Only waited.

Yao sat up slightly, her posture still relaxed but cautious, and took the box from his hand with both of hers. She didn't open it immediately. Her fingers were careful, precise, handling it like she already understood that whatever lay inside wasn't ordinary. And when she finally lifted the lid, the faintest hitch of breath caught in her throat.

She didn't speak.

Her fingers didn't reach inside.

They hovered just above the contents.

The necklace lay nestled against the dark lining, the chain delicate, almost weightless in appearance, a gleaming thread of white gold that shimmered faintly in the glow of the nearby lamp. But it was the medallion, smooth, round, crafted from the same white gold and rimmed with perfectly set rubies—that caught her gaze and held it. At the center, unmistakable in its carved precision, was the Lu family crest surrounded by small rubies. She stared at it, unmoving, her expression unreadable but her silence deepening. He knew she was reading it the way she read everything, by detail, by texture, by quiet deduction rather than reaction. Her thumb brushed against the medallion's face, not lifting it from the box, only touching the surface with the gentleness of someone learning the shape of something unfamiliar yet significant.

Then, his voice—low, quiet, and sure—cut through the silence.

"Turn it over."

Yao blinked, glancing up at him once, eyes wide, still unsure, then down again. Her hands moved carefully, reverently, her fingers slipping beneath the fine chain just enough to rotate the medallion within the box without removing it from its place. The motion was slow, measured, and as the back of the pendant came into view, her breath caught again.

Etched into the smooth white gold in ancient script, one reserved only for Lu family commissions, were the words:

What we claim. We protect.

What we protect. We never relinquish.

The decree sat heavy in the space between them.

She blinked, her throat working to swallow something down, and only then did she tilt her face toward him, her hazel-colored eyes wide, dark with confusion and something else—something unspoken but trembling just beneath the surface. "Cheng-ge…" Her voice was quiet, not hesitant, but laced with the gravity she always reserved for things that mattered. Her thumb brushed once more over the engraving before she looked at him fully, her question unvoiced but unmistakable in the weight behind her gaze.

Sicheng didn't speak at first. He waited, watched as her thumb brushed once more over the engraved words, slower this time, lingering not out of curiosity, but because her silence had shifted. Her posture hadn't changed, but something inside her had. He could feel it in the way she held the box, how she cradled it as if she already understood that accepting it meant stepping into something that could not be undone. Only then did he speak, voice low, even, but edged with the unmistakable weight of intent. "In the Lu family, this doesn't go around your neck unless it's meant for good." His eyes remained fixed on her, but softer now, as if watching her hold something far more fragile than gold. "It's not a proposal. It comes before that." He let the words hang for a moment, not because he doubted her understanding, but because he knew she deserved the space to feel their weight fully. "It means you are my Intended," he said quietly, without pressure but without hesitation. "Not casually. Not temporarily. Not in name only. It's a vow—one given without a ceremony. Worn before rings, before paperwork, before public declarations. Once this goes on… it doesn't come off."

Her lashes lowered, the depth in her eyes unreadable as she looked once more at the medallion lying still in the velvet. But she didn't close the box. Didn't push it away. She simply… held it. Like the words were still sinking in.

And Sicheng, true to everything he had promised with that one gesture—waited, his hand now resting behind her once again, but closer this time. Still not touching, still not urging.

The silence had stretched, not uncomfortably, but with the kind of gravity that came when neither of them were rushing to fill it. Yao sat still, the velvet box open in her hands, her hazel eyes fixed on the medallion like it held not just weight, but meaning she hadn't dared let herself believe in until now. Her thumb ghosted once more across the back of the pendant, brushing lightly over the Lu family decree, her pulse a steady hum beneath the stillness.

She swallowed hard. It wasn't the kind of swallow that came from nerves, or confusion, or even fear—it was heavier, rooted somewhere deeper, tangled in the quiet ache of someone who had learned, too young, how to survive without asking for permanence.

Her voice, when it came, trembled softly at the edges—not from doubt in him, but from the enormity of what he was offering her. It was careful, barely above a whisper, like if she said it too loudly, the moment might break apart. "Cheng-ge…" Her fingers curled slightly tighter around the edge of the box. "Are you sure?" Her eyes lifted then, hazel depths flickering with something raw and painfully human. Not panic. Not rejection. Just the sharp, quiet fear of someone who had never been chosen this way before. "Are you really sure that… this is what you want? That something that binding—" she hesitated, her voice catching slightly on the weight of the word "—with me… is what you're certain of?"

She didn't pull away.

She didn't close the box.

But the question was real.

Pressed from the part of her that had always been logical, always calculating, always precise—and now found herself holding a vow too vast to measure. Because this wasn't a promise made in passing, or a gesture for show. It was a vow carved into metal, backed by legacy, and worn not as decoration, but as declaration. Her lips parted again, then closed. She didn't flinch when his hand moved—only lifted her gaze to meet the full burn of his amber eyes as he shifted closer, slowly, deliberately, his voice as calm as ever but low, almost rough with the intensity behind it.

"Yes," he said simply, but not lightly. "I am sure." And there was nothing casual in that answer. Only certainty. Because he had made his decision long before he ever had the necklace made. And nothing in her tremble, or her quiet question, changed that. Not one bit.

The box in her hands trembled just slightly, not from fear, not from rejection, but from the tension that always came when something mattered too much. Yao's eyes searched his face one more time, as if trying to memorize every detail, every flicker of certainty in the sharp amber gaze that never once looked away from her. His voice still lingered in the space between them, calm and absolute, his answer grounding her in a way nothing else ever had.

Yes. I am sure.

Her breath wavered. Then, without a word, she shifted. Carefully, reverently, she moved the open box from her lap and extended it back toward him with both hands, still open, still cradling the necklace as it had before, the medallion gleaming faintly in the low light. For a breath, for just the briefest flicker of time, Sicheng thought she was giving it back.

That she was turning him down.

That maybe the weight of it, of what it meant, had been too much.

But then—

Then she rose from the couch without explanation, turning slowly until her back faced him. The soft fabric of her skirt brushed against his knee as she stepped forward only a pace, her movements fluid but tentative, and as she came to a gentle stop in front of him, her hands lifted. Her fingers reached back, gathering the long, shimmering fall of platinum hair in one smooth motion. She lifted it, baring the nape of her neck, her shoulders drawn inward slightly—not in rejection, but in the quiet, deliberate stillness of someone offering something sacred. Her voice came barely above a whisper, laced with soft vulnerability, laced with the unmistakable warmth of someone trying to be brave through the tide of feeling surging beneath her skin.

"…Will you put it on me?"

Her cheeks were flushed pink, her ears dusted crimson, but her hands didn't tremble as they held her hair up, her back straight but shy, her posture steady despite the storm still fluttering inside her chest.

Sicheng stared at her for a long moment, something sharp and raw blooming beneath his ribs, pressing hard into the part of him that didn't do soft, that didn't do ritual or ceremony—and yet, for her, it came as easily as breath.

He stood.

Took the box from where she had placed it in his hands. Lifted the chain with the same care she had held it with, his fingers slow, reverent, unhurried. As he stepped closer, the scent of her, that soft warmth of vanilla, the faintest trace of lavender from her evening lotion—wrapped around him like memory. And then, in one smooth, silent motion, he slipped the chain around her neck.

The medallion settled just above her collarbone, resting in the hollow where her heartbeat lived.

His fingers brushed the back of her neck lightly as he closed the clasp, the cool touch of metal meeting her skin, and the slightest tremor passed through her frame—but she didn't lower her hands. Didn't move away.

She just waited.

Letting him finish.

Letting it be real .

And when it was done, when the necklace was secured and his hand lingered just a moment longer against the curve of her neck, his voice dropped low behind her ear, the words soft but firm.

"You're mine now, Xiǎo tùzǐ."

Not because he demanded it.

But because she had chosen it.

Her hands lowered slowly, fingers brushing against her skirt as if to find something to anchor herself with, but the moment the necklace clasped at the nape of her neck, her body went still. The cool weight of it settled against her skin, delicate but unyielding, and she could feel the medallion resting just above her heart, where the warmth of her skin began to rise to meet it. She didn't move at first. Didn't breathe for a second.

And then, with deliberate care, Yao turned. Not quickly, not in a rush, but with that same careful, hesitant grace that always surfaced when her emotions threatened to slip past her composure. Her head turned first, then her shoulders followed, the soft fabric of her skirt brushing lightly with the motion. And when her hazel eyes lifted to meet his, they shimmered—not with tears, but with the weight of everything she was still trying to understand, still trying to believe she was allowed to have.

She didn't smile.

Not yet.

Her gaze flicked up to his face, dropped for a second to his collar, then returned again to his eyes, as if checking to see if he was still there, still him , still hers. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, unmistakable red, a warmth that crawled up from her neck to the very tips of her ears, and her fingers—usually so precise, so measured—fidgeted softly with the hem of her sleeve. The edge of her thumbnail caught briefly in the stitching before she let go, only to twist the fabric again. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, eyes dropping for a heartbeat before flicking back up through her lashes. "Is it… does it look okay?" she asked quietly, the words barely audible over the soft hum of the world around them, but they carried more than just uncertainty—they carried hope.

Not about the necklace.

But about what it meant.

About whether he still wanted her now that it was real, now that she had turned and faced him with the full weight of her vulnerability laid bare.

And Sicheng, standing before her, didn't need to speak immediately. He didn't smirk. Didn't tease. His amber eyes simply held her—steadily, intently, like she was the only thing that mattered in that room, and maybe the only thing that ever had. His gaze dropped once, just briefly, to where the medallion rested against her chest, gleaming soft and solid in the light. Then back to her face. It wasn't just okay. It was right. And she had no idea how breathtaking she looked wearing something that carried his name without ever needing to say it out loud.

His gaze didn't waver. Not for a second. She stood in front of him with her fingers fidgeting softly at the edge of her sleeve, her cheeks glowing the color of rose quartz under the weight of his eyes, and that question—so quietly asked, so full of hope and unspoken fragility—hung between them like a delicate thread stretched taut. Does it look okay? 

His lips parted and then his voice came, low and rough at the edges, a quiet rumble that seemed to pull straight from his chest, not just his throat.

"Perfect."

One word. That was all. But it hit like a promise. And before she could respond, before another flicker of doubt could even think about forming in those hazel eyes, he moved. Not with urgency. Not with the hunger of need. But with the gravity of someone who had already chosen and had been waiting—patiently, steadily—for her to choose him back. His hands found her waist first, warm and certain, fingers curling just enough to ground her without overwhelming, to steady her in the space where words were no longer needed. And then, slowly—deliberately—he pulled her closer, the small space between them collapsing like it had never really existed to begin with.

Her breath caught.

And then his lips met hers.

It wasn't rushed.

There was no fumbling, no sharp edge, no desperate pace. Only slow, sensual pressure—like he had all the time in the world to taste her, to make her feel it. His mouth moved against hers with the kind of focus he gave only to the things that mattered most. He kissed her like she wasn't just his, but claimed —not for the world to see, but for himself to know. Her hands, startled at first, rose between them, one landing lightly against his chest, the other lifting toward his collar as her eyes fluttered closed and the last of her hesitation melted under the heat of his touch. She leaned into him without meaning to, her fingers tightening ever so slightly, the way she always did when her emotions threatened to spill over.

And Sicheng?

He deepened the kiss. Let it stretch and smolder, his thumb brushing along her waist, coaxing her even closer until there was no air between them—only the slow, deliberate burn of something that had always been inevitable. Because she had said yes. Not in words. But in the way she turned. In the way she let him put the necklace on. In the way she now stood in his arms, trembling not from fear, but from the unfamiliar weight of being wanted this much. And he kissed her like he intended to make damn sure she never forgot it.

She didn't mean to make a sound. It slipped out—soft, barely audible, more breath than voice—but it carried the raw tremble of emotion she couldn't suppress, couldn't control. A soft, aching whimper that left her lips the moment his kiss deepened, the second his fingers pressed more firmly into her waist, the moment his mouth told her that no part of this—no part of her —was being treated lightly.

And for Lu Sicheng, that single sound shattered the last of his restraint. It lit something deep in his chest, fire threading through his blood with a heat that surged too fast, too hard, and left no room for hesitation. His grip tightened, arms strong and steady as he pulled her flush against him, and before she could fully process the shift in his energy, he moved.

He lifted her.

Smooth, fluid, certain.

Her soft gasp escaped as the world tilted and spun beneath her feet, her hands instinctively tightening in the front of his shirt, her hazel eyes flying wide in surprise. Her cheeks, already pink, deepened into a fierce, unmistakable red as she found herself settling across his lap, straddling him as he lowered himself into the couch with a slow, measured ease that made it feel entirely intentional—because it was. She wasn't just seated—she was placed. Cradled into the space his body created for her, where her legs now bracketed his hips and her skirt fanned softly around them, the fabric a quiet barrier that did nothing to cool the heat radiating from every inch of him. Her breath came faster now, short and uneven as she stared at him, her lips parted in a stunned silence that barely lasted longer than a heartbeat—because then his hands moved again.

One stayed low, curling around the curve of her waist, anchoring her, keeping her steady. But the other—

The other slid up.

Fingers threading into the soft fall of platinum hair, burying themselves at the base of her skull with a slow, almost reverent pressure. He didn't tug. Not yet. He just held her like that, steady and close, as his mouth brushed hers again—once, lingering, before trailing lower. Down to the corner of her lips. Then along the soft line of her jaw. And lower still. Her breath stuttered as he found the slope of her neck, warm and exposed, her pulse fluttering beneath skin that tasted like warmth and tension and everything she never meant to offer but had given him anyway.

His mouth moved slowly. Deliberately. Trailing soft heat along the line of her throat before his teeth grazed lightly against the delicate skin there, and then—

He nipped.

Not hard. Not to hurt. But to claim. To remind her, with every press of his lips, every whisper of breath against her neck, every curl of his fingers in her hair, that she had given herself to him—silently, fully—and he had no intention of letting her forget it. Not tonight.

Not ever.

Her body gave a small, involuntary shiver, the kind that started deep—far beneath skin and bone—and worked its way outward in slow, unrelenting waves that left her breathless in its wake. It wasn't cold. It wasn't fear. It was something else entirely. Something she didn't have a name for. Or rather, something she had never dared name before.

Only with him.

Only when it was his hands on her waist, holding her like the world outside didn't exist, like she was something he had every right to claim. Only when it was his mouth pressing heat against her skin, tracing slow, dizzying patterns that made her feel like her thoughts had scattered somewhere far beyond reach.

Only with Lu Sicheng had she ever felt like this. And it had never been like this with anyone else. Her lips parted as her lashes fluttered shut, her arms wrapping more securely around his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. She pressed closer—almost instinctively—her body molding to his without hesitation, her heart thudding in her chest like it was trying to keep pace with the slow, steady burn flooding her veins.

She wasn't thinking.

She was feeling.

Every brush of his breath against her neck. Every graze of his fingers against her back. Every subtle shift in his hold that pulled her tighter, deeper into the space only he could occupy. And then, when his lips found the place just beneath her ear and his teeth grazed her again, she let out a sound that was barely more than breath—but it was there.

A soft, quiet whimper.

"Cheng-ge…"

His name left her lips not in question, not in hesitation, but in surrender. It was low and tender and full of the unspoken, trembling at the edges with need she didn't understand and warmth she couldn't contain. She didn't open her eyes. She didn't need to. Because she already knew where she was. She was in his arms. And that was the only place that had ever truly felt like home.

The moment her voice—soft, breathless, wrapped in that fragile whisper of his name—slipped into the air between them, Sicheng's entire body locked down. His eyes slammed shut. His breath caught low in his chest, held there with a force that trembled along the edges of restraint he had never in his life needed to summon so fiercely. His arms tightened around her, not possessively, but protectively, grounding her against him as the warmth of her body curled deeper into his lap, fitting like she was meant to be there.

But God , it was too much.

The sound of her. The feel of her. The way her voice—so full of something new, something raw, something she didn't even know how to hold yet—shaped his name like it belonged to her and her alone. That single whispered "Cheng-ge" wasn't just breath, it was trust, and that trust hit him like a blow to the chest. Because it was real. Because she had no idea. No idea what she did to him when she said his name like that. No idea how her soft whimper, the flush of her cheeks, the tremble in her fingers as they curled tighter into his shirt—all of it pushed him closer to a line he couldn't cross. Not yet.

Not with her.

Because aside from the kisses they had stolen here and there—those sweet, aching brushes of mouths in quiet corners and soft shadows—his Intended was completely, undeniably innocent. She had never been here before. Had never let anyone this close. Had never felt like this for anyone else.

And that mattered.

She mattered.

So he didn't move. Didn't kiss her again. Didn't let his hands wander the way they so badly wanted to. Instead, he held her. Tight. Firm. Solid. Like he was her anchor and she was his breath, and if he lost either, the world would fall out from under them. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in slowly, deliberately, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he whispered her name—low and rough and reverent.

"Yao…"

Just her name. No promises. No pressure. Only everything. Because tonight wasn't about rushing. It was about her. And he would wait as long as she needed. For a long moment, the room held only silence—thick and warm, wrapped in the sound of their breaths, the steady thrum of two heartbeats tangled too tightly to pull apart. His arms hadn't loosened, and hers hadn't let go, her fingers still curled into the front of his shirt like she didn't quite know how to let go of him. Not now. Not when the world felt like this—close and soft and terrifying in the way it mattered.

And than she spoke. Her voice was barely there, more breath than sound, each word a soft, deliberate act of courage drawn from somewhere deep within her ribs, from that fragile but unyielding core that only surfaced when something truly counted. "Cheng-ge…" The whisper brushed against his skin like the ghost of a kiss, trembling, but steady enough to catch his full attention. "I'm not… I'm not ready to sleep with you." Her body tensed the moment the words left her, her breath hitching as if bracing for the shift, for some reaction, some ripple of disappointment or withdrawal—but none came.

He didn't flinch.

He didn't move.

He only listened.

"I just…" Her fingers gripped his shirt tighter, her hazel eyes staring at the spot just below his collar, as if she couldn't quite look up yet, not for this part. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to feel all of this at once. It's new, and loud, and… kind of overwhelming." She swallowed hard, her cheeks burning red again, but still—she didn't pull away. "But…" Her voice dropped further, so soft he had to lean in to hear it, and when he did, her breath was right there, trembling against his jaw. "I wouldn't mind… exploring a little. If you're willing to teach me."

The words hit him like an arrow straight through the chest—not from desire, not from lust, but from something far more dangerous.

Trust.

She was handing herself to him in pieces, unsure and nervous and still learning how to speak this language of closeness, and yet—she was offering. Not everything. Not yet. But enough. Enough to crack open the parts of him that had always been locked down tight, because she wasn't saying yes to what he wanted.

She was saying yes to him.

To them.

Sicheng pulled back just enough to see her face, to watch her expression, and when her eyes finally lifted to meet his, the flush was still there—vivid and warm—but her gaze didn't waver. Not this time. He exhaled slowly, the sound deep and quiet, his hand still buried in her hair as his other arm drew her even closer, anchoring her fully against his chest. "I'll go as slow as you need," he said, his voice low and rough and steady like stone worn smooth by years of restraint. "There's nothing you have to rush, Yao. Nothing you owe me. Not tonight. Not ever."

Her lips parted, but he wasn't done.

"And if you want to learn," he murmured, brushing his lips gently against the edge of her cheek—not rushed, not demanding, just there —"then I'll teach you." His nose grazed the shell of her ear, his breath warm as he whispered, "Only what you're ready for. Only what you ask for." And then, softer still, "I'll never take more than you give." Because she was his. And he would teach her gently. Every step. Every kiss. Every quiet truth she didn't know how to ask for yet. All she had to do… was stay right where she was. And let him show her.

Her breath trembled as it left her lips, her cheeks flushed such a vivid red that it almost looked like it burned beneath her skin, and her hazel eyes—wide, hesitant, impossibly brave—searched his face as if looking for the space between permission and invitation, unsure where one ended and the other began. Her fingers were still curled into his shirt, knuckles pale from how tightly she held on, not out of fear but to keep herself grounded. To steady the flurry of newness that threatened to sweep her up entirely. This was more than nerves. This was her, standing at the edge of something she didn't yet know how to name, and still… choosing to take a step forward. She lifted her face, only slightly, and her lips parted again, voice barely audible, soft enough it might have disappeared entirely had he not been so completely attuned to her. "…Then teach me," she whispered.

He stilled.

"I mean—" she swallowed hard, eyes darting away briefly before returning, breath catching again as her hands curled tighter into the fabric at his chest "—not everything. Not… a lot. Just… something. Slow."

And there it was.

The vulnerability.

The courage.

The trust so complete, so wholly unguarded, that it made his heart ache.

Sicheng didn't speak. He couldn't—not right away. Not when her voice still lingered against the space between them like something sacred, not when she was looking at him like that , flushed and trembling but still here. Still asking. So instead, he moved. His hand, still resting at the back of her head, slid slightly deeper into her hair, the platinum strands silken against his fingers. He tilted her face up to him with the gentlest pressure, giving her time to move away, to hesitate, to breathe. 

She didn't. She leaned in. So he kissed her. Slowly. Not demanding. Not rushed. Just slow. His mouth brushed against hers with the kind of reverence only he could offer—like she was something rare, not just to be kissed, but understood. His lips pressed, softened, moved with a steady patience that made her forget everything but the feel of him—warm, steady, overwhelming in a way that didn't frighten her but wrapped her up and made her feel safe to feel. He kissed her again. Deeper this time. Still unhurried, but firmer, his hand guiding her closer with each breath until there was nothing between them but the rhythm of this moment—her fingers sliding up his chest, her breath hitching softly, her lashes fluttering shut as his other hand curved against her back. And when he finally broke the kiss, just enough to speak, his forehead resting gently against hers, he whispered— "We'll go slow." His thumb brushed her jaw. "This pace?"

She nodded—small, shy, and achingly real. A soft sound escaped him, something between a breath and a smile. "Then I'll teach you," he said again, quieter this time, as his lips found hers once more. And he did. Not with words. But with a kiss so patient, so careful, so deeply tethered to her . That she finally understood. This was how it began.

She didn't speak.

She couldn't.

Her breath was caught somewhere between her ribs and her heart, suspended in that fragile space where trust and unfamiliar sensation met for the first time. Her eyes remained closed, her body still, every sense tuned to him —the heat of his palm at her lower back, the gentle strength in the way his fingers held the back of her neck, the slow burn of his mouth against hers. And then his lips hovered just above her own, not pulling away, not pressing in again, but lingering with the kind of deliberate patience that made her stomach twist and her skin flush deeper. And when he spoke, his voice wasn't teasing, wasn't coaxing—it was low and husky, rumbling from deep in his chest, wrapped in velvet and heat, every syllable meant only for her.

"I'm going to show you how I like to start," he whispered, his breath ghosting across her lips, and she felt her fingers twitch against his chest. "Slow kisses first," he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of her jaw, tracing the curve beneath her ear. "Not rushed. Not messy. Just enough to feel everything."

He leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers again—soft, measured, a kiss that lingered just long enough to make her breath catch, then retreating only to kiss her again, and again. Each one just a breath apart, each one warmer, deeper, more insistent—but never too much. Her lips parted naturally for him now, shy but eager, and he rewarded the small trust with a kiss that stole the ground out from under her—a slow drag of his mouth across hers, one hand anchoring her against him as the other shifted, brushing up along her side, fingers careful, reverent, as they trailed just beneath the fabric of her loose shirt to rest at her waist.

Then his voice came again—deeper, rougher. "I'm going to touch you here," he said, his palm spreading warm and steady against her skin, not exploring, not searching, just being there , letting her feel the weight and heat of him. "Just your waist. That's all for now. I want you to feel what it's like to be held."

Yao whimpered softly at the honesty in it—the clarity of his words, the way he spoke each one like a vow. There was no darkness in his touch, no pressure. Just him, showing her. Letting her feel.

"Still okay?" he asked, voice barely audible, like the question itself might shatter the spell if not delivered carefully.

She nodded, flushed deep, her breath shaky as she whispered, "Yes…"

He kissed her again, slower this time, more deeply, and when she shifted against him—instinctively, unsure, yet wanting more—he groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her lips, sending shivers down her spine. "I'm going to open your mouth for me," he said softly, and the roughness in his tone deepened. "And I'm going to teach you how to kiss with more than just your lips."

Her breath stilled. And then his tongue brushed the seam of her mouth—gentle, unhurried, waiting. She let him in. And that was where the real lesson began. Her lips parted on instinct—part shyness, part trust, but mostly him —because his voice had wrapped around her like silk, low and steady, each word guiding her forward like she was being led somewhere deeper without ever being pulled. And when his tongue brushed against hers, coaxing rather than claiming, the soft gasp that escaped her throat wasn't one of shock but discovery.

He kissed her slowly.

Deliberately.

Showing her how to respond not just with movement, but with feeling.

"Good girl…" he murmured against her mouth, the words raw velvet, spoken like praise and permission all at once. "That's it… just like that…"

Her body pressed closer without her realizing, the lines between her and him growing fainter with every breath, every touch. She wasn't just learning the shape of his mouth or the rhythm of his kiss—she was learning sensation , how it bloomed low in her stomach and rolled outward in waves that made her skin tingle and her thoughts scatter.

His hand slid higher—not far, not fast—just enough to rest just beneath her ribs, fingers splayed wide, his palm hot against the warm skin beneath her shirt. And when she whimpered softly at the contact, not in protest but in sensation, his breath hitched. "I'm going to keep touching you here…" he murmured into the corner of her lips, pressing soft kisses between words. "So you learn what it's like… to be wanted without being rushed." His thumb stroked lightly along her side, the smallest motion, but it made her breath catch and her hands curl tighter against him. She was flushed, skin burning, but it wasn't panic. It was newness . And he could feel it in the way she trembled just slightly in his arms, but didn't pull away. "Still with me?" he asked again, his voice rougher now, huskier, because she was unraveling him too.

Her voice was barely audible, a fragile whisper against the line of his jaw as she nodded. "Still with you…"

He kissed her again, deeper now, his tongue brushing against hers as his fingers threaded more fully into the fall of her platinum hair, cradling her head as if she were something breakable—not because she was fragile, but because she mattered. "I'm going to teach you how to ask for more…" he breathed against her lips, his forehead resting gently against hers, his eyes half-lidded, heavy with restraint and something deeper. "But only when you're ready. Only when you want it."

Yao blinked slowly, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks, the haze in her eyes unmistakable now—not confusion, but want. Curiosity. A rising need she didn't know how to name but could no longer deny. Her voice trembled, but there was no fear in it when she whispered— "Then teach me that next…"

His breath caught at that. Not because her words were bold or loud—nothing about Yao ever was when it came to this. It was the opposite. It was the way she said it, barely more than a whisper, lips swollen from his kisses, her cheeks still flushed a deep, tender red as her hazel eyes lifted to meet his with something unguarded and trembling just beneath the surface.

Then teach me that next…

Lu Sicheng felt his jaw tighten slightly, not with tension, but with restraint, the kind that clawed deep under his skin because every instinct in him wanted to give her everything she asked for, everything he'd been holding back since the moment she had first kissed him with nothing more than trust and trembling hands.

But she was learning.

And he had to teach her.

Slowly.

Right.

He exhaled, low and slow through his nose, and nodded, brushing a soft kiss against her temple, lingering there, his lips warm against the place where her pulse fluttered. "Alright," he murmured, voice rough and unsteady now, not because he was unsure—but because she undid him. Every word she whispered, every inch she gave, peeled back a part of him he hadn't known how tightly he'd locked away. "I'm going to teach you how to ask," he continued, shifting slightly so he could better cradle her against him, one hand sliding back beneath the fall of her hair, the other still firm at her waist, anchoring her. "But first… I'm going to show you how it feels when I ask you for something."

Her breath caught again, chest rising softly, eyes locked to his as he leaned in, not to kiss her mouth, but the hollow just beneath her jaw, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there with a slow drag that made her spine arch, just a little, just enough.

"I want to kiss your neck again…" he whispered, voice barely there, all warmth and low, rumbling control. "Do you want that?"

Yao hesitated for only a second—only long enough to swallow back the tangle in her throat—and then she nodded.

But that wasn't what he asked. He pulled back, just slightly, and waited.

Her eyes widened faintly as she realized, and then slowly—so quietly he almost wouldn't have heard it if he wasn't waiting—she said, "Yes… I want that."

His lips curved faintly, something soft and devastating flashing through his expression, and without another word, he pressed back in—mouth grazing the slope of her neck, trailing warmth along her skin before he kissed the same spot again, slower, deeper, open-mouthed this time.

Yao shuddered, her hands tightening against him as her breath stuttered out in a soft sound she couldn't suppress.

He kissed lower. Then higher, tracing the line beneath her ear, his voice dragging out in a rough whisper that brushed heat straight through her bloodstream. "Good," he said, "That's good, Yao… Say it like that… Say yes when you want more."

Her fingers fisted into the fabric at his shoulders, her forehead resting briefly against his as she tried to breathe, tried to think through the flush spreading across her skin, tried to feel what he was showing her. Then her voice came again, smaller, more fragile, "Can I… ask for something too?"

He stilled, drawing back just enough to look into her eyes, his thumb brushing lightly along her jaw. "Always."

And she whispered, almost inaudibly, "Can you… touch me somewhere else now?"

The moment she said it—soft, trembling, almost too quiet to hear—Lu Sicheng felt the world narrow down to just the sound of her voice and the feel of her in his arms. It wasn't the words themselves. It was what they carried. The weight of her trust, the vulnerability wrapped so tightly in every syllable, the courage it took for her to say them aloud when he knew how new all of this was to her.

Can you… touch me somewhere else now?

He didn't move.

Not at first.

Because what she had just done—what she had just asked—meant more than any act that could follow. It was the step forward. The invitation. The want. And she had given it freely. His fingers curled more securely around her waist, and he leaned in, his mouth brushing the corner of hers, lips warm and lingering, his breath threading softly against her cheek. "Tell me where," he murmured, voice low and gravel-smooth, not pushing, not teasing— guiding. "You ask, I follow. That's the rule, Yao."

Her fingers fidgeted slightly against the fabric of his shirt, her breathing uneven as her hazel eyes blinked up at him—wide, luminous, full of questions and quiet, coiling want. Her lips parted, her blush deepening as she struggled to form the words, her voice barely more than a breath. "I… I don't know," she admitted, her lashes lowering. "Just somewhere that… makes me feel more…" Her eyes fluttered open again, searching his, flushed with uncertainty but not fear. "Closer to you."

That broke something in him. Not control—but distance. Whatever line he'd drawn in the sand to keep from going too far, whatever wall he kept in place to keep her from being overwhelmed—it cracked.

Sicheng's hand slid from her waist, slow and sure, up her side beneath her shirt, his palm trailing heat in its wake as his fingertips brushed the soft curve just beneath her ribs, careful, reverent, waiting. "This is okay?" he asked, his voice rumbling low as his lips pressed a kiss just beneath her ear, his nose brushing her temple. She nodded once but he didn't move. "I need to hear it, Yao."

Her breath hitched. "Yes," she whispered, shy and sure. "That's okay."

His hand moved again, further this time, splaying wide against her back, fingers stroking softly across bare skin, learning the shape of her slowly, as if she were a secret no one else had ever been allowed to know.

She shivered under his touch—not from cold, but from the pulse of awareness blooming inside her, that new, dizzy feeling that made her press closer, wanting more without knowing what more even meant yet.

His voice, huskier now, grazed the edge of her jaw as his thumb moved in slow, gentle circles along the small of her back. "Good," he breathed. "That's how it starts." Then his lips found hers again, slow and deep, his tongue stroking against hers with the same deliberate patience as before— teaching her, guiding her, giving without taking. "You keep asking," he murmured between kisses, "and I'll keep showing you."

Her breath trembled against his mouth, her fingers still clenched softly into the fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, all she could feel was the dizzy warmth of him—his hands moving slowly along her body, his lips guiding hers with unyielding patience, his voice anchoring her every time she got lost in the heat curling beneath her skin. But it wasn't enough. Not anymore. Something deep in her chest whispered louder than logic, louder than hesitation, and it pushed past her lips in a voice so quiet it almost vanished between kisses.

"…More."

Lu Sicheng stilled, just for a breath, as if absorbing the word completely before responding—not with words, but with touch. "More," she whispered again, just barely.

His lips curved faintly against hers. "Then hold on," he murmured, low and velvet-rough.

And she did and she gripped tighter, clutching his shirt as his hands moved higher under her top, still careful, still measured, but bolder now. His palms caressed the slope of her back, tracing the line of her spine, his thumbs brushing the delicate space along her ribs just beneath her chest, never crossing the edge, always asking without saying a word. She gasped softly against his lips, her body leaning into the sensation, into the warmth of being touched like this —with reverence, with restraint, with this aching kind of attention that made her feel more real than she ever had before.

But then—

It happened so fast.

She shifted, her hips rolling down ever so slightly in his lap—just enough, just a little, and she felt him. The moment her body pressed fully into his, the solid heat of him beneath her, unrelenting and entirely there , the entire world seemed to freeze. Her breath caught. Her heart jumped. And her face…. Her cheeks flushed instantly, turning a crimson so fierce it crawled down her neck and up to the tips of her ears. Her eyes went wide, her body tensed, and her mouth opened only to close again, helpless and wordless in a way that made everything inside her twist with unfamiliar heat. She turned her head quickly, averting her eyes as if that could erase what she'd felt, what she now knew —and when she finally found her voice again, it was scattered and broken. "I-I didn't mean to—I wasn't trying—" Her words tumbled out in a breathless stammer, her lower lip catching between her teeth as she twisted her fingers into the hem of her shirt now instead, her gaze firmly fixed on anywhere but him. "We should stop now. I'm sorry. I just… I didn't mean to do that…" She bit down harder on her lip, her entire body frozen in place, waiting—unsure if she had ruined everything, if she had crossed some line she hadn't known was even there, if he would be upset, if—

Sicheng's hand moved. But not in anger. Not in rejection. His fingers brushed along her jaw, slow and grounding, guiding her face gently back toward his. His voice, when it came, was soft. And unshaken. "Yao," he said quietly, his thumb brushing the edge of her lip, easing it free from between her teeth, "look at me."

She hesitated, chest rising with another shallow breath, then slowly—nervously—lifted her gaze to his. What she found there wasn't anger. It wasn't frustration. It was warmth. And something deeper. Something patient.

He leaned in just enough for their foreheads to touch, his voice nothing more than a rumble between them. "You didn't do anything wrong." And the way he said it—so calm, so certain—unraveled every knot in her chest. "I'm not upset," he added, softer now, as his thumb stroked her cheek. "You're learning. We're learning." Then, even lower, almost reverent— "And I'm proud of you." Because nothing about what just happened had pushed him away. It had only pulled him deeper.

The silence that followed was no longer laced with tension. It was full. Full of breath. Full of warmth. Full of the quiet, echoing thud of her heart as she looked up at him, her hazel eyes still wide, her cheeks still flushed a deep and unshakable red—but this time, there was no fear. Just the raw pulse of being seen , and not turned away. And then, without another word, Lu Sicheng leaned in and kissed her. One last time. Not rushed, not driven by heat or hunger or the low simmer he kept carefully reined in—but slow.

Reverent.

A kiss that held everything they had just shared, everything she had just trusted him with, and all the things he had not said but promised anyway. His lips moved against hers like a vow, like a tether, like he was anchoring this moment so it would never be forgotten. When he finally pulled back, his breath lingered against her cheek, his hands steady at her waist as he shifted—just slightly—guiding her with gentle hands until she was no longer in his lap, but nestled softly beside him.

The movement was careful, unrushed.

Deliberate.

She didn't resist. She followed. Her body folded easily into his side, her knees tucked beneath her, the curve of her shoulder settling beneath his arm like it was always meant to rest there.

He reached for the remote.

Pressed play. The quiet flicker of the screen lit the room once more, color blooming in soft tones across the wall, and the familiar hum of music began to fill the space they shared—but his focus wasn't on the movie. Not yet.

He turned his head slightly, lowering his mouth to the crown of her head, his lips brushing the silk-soft strands of platinum hair. He pressed a kiss there—firm, lingering, and grounding. And when he spoke, it wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. "I've got you." The words rumbled from his chest into her bones, low and steady and warm. "I'm not going anywhere."

And she believed him. Because in that moment, surrounded by warmth and quiet and the slow pulse of something too big to name, she knew he meant it.