Chapter 44: Between the Silence and the Spin

Summary: What begins with victory turns into chaos the moment an unexpected visitor crosses a line that should never have been touched. Between cold warnings, emergency phone calls, and one very flustered Bunny retreating upstairs, the team scrambles to restore balance. But in the quiet that follows—over lunch, soft laughter, and slow steps across a living room floor—something even more lasting begins to take shape. Not just a promise. A future.

Chapter Forty-Four

The next morning dawned with a rare kind of quiet across the ZGDX base, the aftermath of a clean two-round sweep settling into the air like the cooling edge of victory. Most of the team had slept in, with only a few stirring early—Pang muttering about coffee filters in the kitchen, Lao Mao already out for a run, and Yue suspiciously absent, probably hiding from their mother after last night's comments.

In the sleek quiet of his office, Lu Sicheng sat behind his desk, one leg folded over the other, coffee mug in hand. The warm scent of dark roast lingered in the air as he scrolled through game reviews on his monitor, his fingers moving with lazy precision across the mouse. He had the kind of peace that only came after thoroughly crushing an opponent. Until his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then answered without hesitation, recognizing the name. "Kun Hyeok." he said smoothly, sipping his coffee.

On the other end, his best friend's voice came through low and dry as bone-dry sandpaper soaked in sarcasm. "So. Did you have to destroy my pain-in-the-ass little brother like that?"

Sicheng didn't even blink. "Yes."

There was a pause.

Then Kun Hyeok groaned long and loud. "He invaded my base last night."

Sicheng's brow lifted slightly in amusement. "That's unfortunate."

"He showed up unannounced," Kun Hyeok continued, deadpan, "sobbing like someone kicked his puppy and collapsed on my couch. And then my shoulder. I had to bribe him with leftover barbecue and a promise not to replay the match highlights."

Sicheng took another slow sip of his coffee, entirely unmoved. "I told you to keep him in check."

"I said I'd handle it. I didn't mean I wanted you to emotionally assassinate him in front of a national audience!"

"Then you shouldn't have let him run his mouth." Sicheng leaned back in his chair, tone cold and completely unapologetic. "He disrespected my team. He disrespected my Bunny."

Kun Hyeok sighed. "I warned him."

"I warned you."

Another pause.

Then, in his usual sarcastic drawl, Kun Hyeok added, "I have a stress headache. Your fault."

"You're still welcome."

"He's still in my kitchen," Kun Hyeok snapped. "He cried twice. He ate my snacks. And now he's talking about retiring and becoming a travel blogger because 'pro play is too cruel.' "

Sicheng snorted quietly, the edge of a smirk ghosting over his lips. "I'd read that blog. 'Life Lessons from Getting Your Ass Kicked by Lu Sicheng.'"

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

There was another sigh on the line, the kind that said I put up with you because no one else would survive you . 

Then Kun Hyeok muttered, "I told Yao she's the only one who can leash you. Clearly, I was wrong. You're just feral with better taste now."

Sicheng's tone dropped, lower, smug. "She called me Baobei yesterday."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Kun Hyeok groaned like his soul was leaving his body. "I'm hanging up now."

Sicheng didn't bother to stop him. The line went dead with a soft click. He set his phone down slowly, took another measured sip of his coffee, and turned back to his screen. The day had started beautifully. And Hang Suk? Well, he'd earned every second of it.

An hour later, with the morning sun flooding in through the base's large front windows, the atmosphere still hummed with the quiet thrill of their latest victory. Yao moved down the stairs, her steps light, platinum hair caught in a half-braid that bounced against her back as she held her tablet to her chest. Her hazel eyes sparkled with excitement—Coach Kwon had just confirmed her updated tactical review was going to be used in an upcoming OPL analyst broadcast, and she couldn't wait to tell Sicheng.

Only—

As her bare feet hit the bottom step, her words froze in her throat.

Standing just inside the lounge, Lu Sicheng loomed beside the coffee table, his jaw tense and his hands clenched at his sides, the mug in his grip visibly trembling as if barely restraining the urge to hurl it. His eyes weren't on her. No—his deadly amber gaze was trained with laser focus on the two males standing across from him. Kun Hyeok looked entirely too casual, one hand in his pocket and an expression that could only be described as mischievous satisfaction curling at the edge of his mouth. And next to him? Hang Suk. FNC's overly confident, recklessly dramatic Jungler. And the very same idiot who had made the mistake of dedicating a win to her.

"Please, just let me meet her!" Hang Suk practically whined, glancing around eagerly. "Hyung said she's adorable, and I swear I wasn't trying to insult you yesterday—"

"Try again," Sicheng growled, the threat in his voice deep enough to freeze the air. "You walked into my lane, ran your mouth, and then made her the subject of your performance. You think you get access to her after that?"

"She's not even a player!" Hang Suk argued, utterly failing to read the room.

Yao's entire body went rigid.

Sicheng's hand shifted, setting his mug down slowly, and Kun Hyeok—finally realizing that this might've been a terrible mistake—raised a hand and muttered, "Maybe we should've done this somewhere not in range of you being arrested."

But it was too late.

Because Sicheng had stepped forward, barely controlled, voice like ice cracking under pressure.

"She's mine, you little pest."

Yao blinked, panic snapping her out of her frozen state.

Nope.

Nope.

She slowly inched back up a step, careful not to draw attention.

Then, the moment her back hit the banister, she bolted silently back upstairs, tablet hugged to her chest like a shield, braid whipping behind her.

In less than a minute, she was in her apartment, locking the door before she dove for her phone and pressed speed dial.

"Please answer—"

The call picked up after one ring.

"Yao? What's wrong—"

"Jinyang," she hissed, voice a whisper of urgency and terror, "*I need help. I need backup. I need a fire drill, an earthquake, anything."

There was a pause.

"…What happened?"

"Your idiot ADC—" she hissed.

"You mean Kun Hyeok?"

"Yes! He brought that Jungler—Hang Suk—here. To ZGDX! And now he's downstairs begging to meet me, and I saw Cheng-ge, and he looks like he's about to throttle both of them and hide the bodies under the damn practice room!"

"Oh my god— " Jinyang burst out laughing. "He brought Hang Suk to the lion's den?"

"This is not funny!" Yao squeaked, clutching her phone tighter. "I was going to tell Cheng-ge something important and now I'm trapped up here because that Jungler wants to flirt! He said I was his type! I heard him say it last night during the match!"

"Alright, alright," Jinyang wheezed through her laughter. "I'll fix it. Just stay up there. Do not engage."

"I wasn't planning to!"

"I'll have Kun Hyeok drag him out before your man commits homicide."

"Thank you. I owe you food. A whole week of takoyaki. Whatever you want."

Jinyang's voice was smug. "Damn right."

Yao ended the call and threw herself face-first into the couch pillow. From downstairs, faintly through the vents, she could still hear Sicheng's voice, cold and lethal.

"If you ever say her name again in my presence, I swear—"

She groaned into the pillow. Next time? She was just going to email or text him the news. Safer that way.

The front door of the ZGDX base slammed open with a force that made Lao Mao, seated nearby and peacefully sipping water, flinch hard enough to nearly drop his bottle. Everyone turned. And there she was. Chen Jinyang. YQCB's current owner. Tong Yao's best friend. 

And the only woman alive who could match Lu Sicheng's sheer lethal presence with just a pair of heels and a business coat flaring behind her. Her eyes were narrowed, her jaw sharp, and her rage cloaked in absolute disappointment, which, in true Jinyang fashion, was infinitely more dangerous than fury.

The air chilled.

Kun Hyeok, still standing near the lounge with one hand loosely in his pocket, froze like a teenager caught throwing a party in his parent's house.

"What in the ever-loving hell were you thinking?!" she snapped, storming directly toward him without even glancing at anyone else.

"Jinyang—"

"Don't Jinyang me!" she shot back, heels echoing sharply on the tile. "You brought Hang Suk into ZGDX. Into this house. After that stunt he pulled yesterday. Did you lose brain cells between bootcamp and breakfast?!"

Hang Suk, who had been hiding behind Kun Hyeok like a confused puppy, peeked out. "But I just wanted to—"

"No." She whipped around so fast he audibly squeaked. "You don't get to want anything. Do you know who this is?" She gestured wildly to the room. "This is ZGDX. This is Lu Sicheng's base. And you came here, after insulting his Intended on live broadcast, with hopes of flirting? Have you finally lost whatever crumbs of sense Kun Hyeok managed to teach you?!"

Sicheng stood off to the side now, arms crossed, a low dark smirk curling on his lips as he watched the entire takedown unfold like a well-executed gank.

"He begged me." Kun Hyeok grimaced, running a hand over his face.

"You should've said no," she hissed. "Or better yet, smacked him with a keyboard."

"I thought it would be funny," Kun Hyeok muttered.

Jinyang's expression turned lethal. "Funny? You thought watching your baby brother cry on your shoulder because Lu Sicheng psychologically dismantled him was funny?"

Pause.

"Well, when you say it like that—"

She spun on her heel and jabbed a perfectly manicured finger in his face. "You have five minutes to get him out of this house before I call your mother and tell her what you've done."

"No—not Mom!" Hang Suk audibly gasped. 

"Then move!" she snapped.

As the two scurried like scolded dogs toward the door, Jinyang turned and addressed the lounge with crisp authority. "To all of ZGDX: My apologies on behalf of YQCB. Our ADC's little brother the Jungler for FNC, temporarily forgot how to behave in civilized society. It won't happen again."

Sicheng raised a brow. "You're letting him live?"

She paused.

Then glanced up the stairs knowingly. "I promised a certain Bunny I'd stop a bloodbath," she muttered. "Doesn't mean I won't maim him later."

"Fair." Sicheng gave her a slow nod of approval.

The door clicked shut behind Jinyang, her sharp heels fading as she herded the idiotic Jungler for FNC and Kun Hyeok off ZGDX property with the full weight of a disappointed CEO and a protective best friend in professional mode. The rest of the team let out a collective exhale, tension bleeding from the lounge like air from a balloon. Pang collapsed dramatically onto the couch, muttering about living through two wars before lunch. Lao K simply shook his head and resumed reviewing game footage.

But Lu Sicheng didn't stay. Not with the storm that had just passed. Not with the one person upstairs who had clearly run from it the second it began. His fingers twitched at his side, jaw tight with residual irritation—not at her, never at her—but at the fact that his Bunny had been chased back into hiding in her own damn home because some over-eager punk thought her name was something he could toss around like a charm.

Without a word, Sicheng turned from the others and climbed the stairs.

Two steps at a time.

Not fast.

But not slow.

Measured. Intentional.

When he reached her door, he didn't knock immediately. He just stood there, hand raised, listening. It was quiet, too quiet, which meant she was probably curled up somewhere with a blanket over her head, hugging her tablet like a shield, avoiding eye contact with anyone who wasn't named Da Bing or Xiao Cong.

He sighed, the sound quiet and deep, before finally rapping his knuckles gently against the door.

"Yao."

Silence.

He knocked again, this time softer.

"Xiǎo tùzǐ… open the door."

There was a small scuffle from inside. A pause. Then the door creaked open barely an inch, revealing the faintest peek of platinum hair and wide hazel eyes peeking up at him. "You didn't kill him, right?" she asked, voice tiny.

Sicheng arched a brow. "Do you think Jinyang would've let me get blood on her shoes?"

Her lips twitched, just a little.

He lifted a hand and rested it against the frame above her head, leaning in slightly—not looming, just close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the steady presence that had never once faltered when it came to her. "You alright?" he asked, voice low, careful.

She hesitated… then opened the door wider and stepped back, her bare feet padding softly against the wood floor as she retreated to the couch. Her tablet was on the side table. Xiao Cong was snuggled into a throw blanket, and Da Bing was sprawled across the backrest like a judgmental feline guardian. "I was going to come tell you something exciting," she admitted, pulling her braid over her shoulder, "and then I saw your expression and Hang Suk's face and decided…I valued peace."

Sicheng stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Smart decision."

She peeked up at him as he walked toward her, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. "I tattled on them," she whispered, as if confessing to a crime. "To Jinyang."

He chuckled low under his breath. "Yeah, I gathered that around the time she threatened to call Kun Hyeok's mother."

Yao flushed. "Was it that bad?"

Sicheng didn't answer right away. He sat down beside her, one arm resting across the back of the couch, his gaze steady and warm. "He wanted to meet you."

She frowned. "Why?"

"Because you're mine," he said simply. "And people always want what they can't have."

She looked down at her fingers. "I didn't ask to be wanted."

"I know." He reached out, brushing his thumb under her chin, tilting her face up toward his. "But you are. And he needed to learn a very clear lesson about the consequences of that."

Her lips parted slightly, breath catching. "And what lesson was that?"

Sicheng leaned in, voice like velvet and smoke. "That no one touches what's mine and walks away smug."

She flushed bright pink. Then slowly, softly, she reached out and laced her fingers through his. "I wanted to tell you," she murmured, "Coach Kwon submitted my tactical breakdown to the league's analyst committee last week."

He blinked. "You didn't tell me?"

"I wanted to make sure it went through first…" Her voice grew quieter. "They're using it next weekend."

He stared at her for a full heartbeat. Then cupped her jaw, tilted her face up, and kissed her.

Slow.

Certain.

Because his Tiny Boss Bunny?

Had claws. And a mind sharper than any blade on the map. And no matter how many Junglers wanted her attention. She was his.

Yao stayed close, her fingers still curled around his as his thumb brushed along the edge of her jaw, her skin warm beneath his touch, her eyes hazel and searching as if the words she wanted to say had been carefully balanced on the tip of her tongue. She didn't pull away. She didn't rush. She simply stayed right there with him, quiet and steady, until the moment finally pressed softly between them. "I know it's Sunday," she whispered, voice hesitant, cheeks flushing with gentle color as her gaze flicked away and then returned to him shyly, "and not our usual date night…" Her fingers curled a little tighter in his. "But… would it be okay if we just stayed here today? Just… the two of us. No going out. No noise. Just…" she trailed off, her lips twitching in the faintest smile, "quiet. In my apartment. Together."

Sicheng didn't answer right away. He just looked at her. Really looked at her. The girl with the platinum braid falling over her shoulder, hazel eyes wide and hesitant, her voice soft but sure in the way it always was when she was asking—not for indulgence, but for time. For space. For him. And something deep inside his chest just… settled. "Yao," he said, voice low and even as he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to hers, "anytime you ask me to stay, I'm going to say yes." A breath of relief left her lips, barely there, and he felt it—felt her relax, the tension melting away from her shoulders as if she hadn't even realized it was there. He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. Then murmured, "Besides… Monday or not, you're my priority."

She blinked, eyes glassy for a heartbeat, lips parted like she wanted to say something else—something more—but couldn't quite find the words. So instead, she nodded once and leaned in, wrapping her arms gently around his middle and burying her face in his chest.

Sicheng's arms closed around her instantly, one hand threading into her braid, the other settling across her back as he pulled her against him. There was no rush. No plan. Just them. And in the soft quiet of her apartment, where the world was reduced to nothing but warmth and calm and the scent of her skin, Lu Sicheng leaned back against the couch and held her close. Because it didn't matter what day of the week it was. He would always, always choose her.

A few hours passed in the gentle quiet of her apartment, sunlight slanting through the soft linen curtains and casting warm golden pools across the floor. The television had long since stopped playing anything either of them had been paying attention to, the screen frozen on the end credits of a movie they never finished, not because it wasn't good—but because simply being curled together on the couch, with Yao tucked under Sicheng's arm and her head resting against his shoulder, had been the kind of peace neither of them was in a hurry to break.

But eventually, Yao stirred.

Carefully, she untangled herself from the blanket and from him, whispering something about making food before he could stop her. Her fingers brushed along his chest as she stood, and he let her go—barely—his eyes watching her with quiet intensity as she stretched, smiled sleepily, and disappeared into the small kitchen.

He didn't follow. Not yet.

But he listened.

And watched.

Barefoot, her steps light across the polished floor, she moved with the kind of effortless domesticity that was rare in their world—quiet, flowing like a soft breeze in early spring, her long peasant skirt brushing gently against her ankles with every motion. The light blue fabric shifted and swayed, paired with a soft white top that clung just loosely enough to drift with the rhythm of her movements as she pushed her sleeves up and opened the cupboards.

She hadn't pinned her braid again, so her platinum hair fell in gentle waves down her back, shifting every time she reached for something. She worked in silence, grabbing ingredients with easy familiarity—bone broth, some fresh vegetables, a little bit of chicken—assembling it all with quiet precision as she brought a small pot of soup to a gentle simmer on the stovetop.

The scent began to fill the space slowly—warm, savory, comforting.

She moved to prep sandwiches next. Nothing fancy, just a blend of roasted meats and vegetables, a little melted cheese, toasted slices of soft bread. She hummed to herself as she worked, a faint melody under her breath that didn't carry far, but was enough to make Sicheng's fingers twitch where he still sat on the couch, half-tempted to grab his phone and record the moment just so he could replay it later.

He didn't.

He just watched, his expression unreadable but his amber gaze softening as she moved about her kitchen—their kitchen, now, really—completely at ease. And for a moment, all he could think was that there was something breathtaking in the simplicity of it.

Of her.

Of this.

Of the woman who had taken down pro teams with her tactical mind, who could silence a room with a data sheet and a glare, now barefoot and humming, making lunch like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. And maybe, in that moment, it was.

Sicheng remained on the couch, one arm resting over the back, the other draped lazily across his stomach, long fingers idly tapping against the soft fabric as his gaze followed every motion she made in the kitchen. There was no crowd noise, no echoing sound of keys and commands, no audience watching for missteps—just the gentle clink of utensils, the low simmer of broth, and her soft, steady presence drifting around the space like something familiar and warm.

She moved so effortlessly in her own little world, platinum hair loose down her back, bare feet nearly silent as she padded from one counter to the next. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows now, wrists delicate but sure in motion as she stirred the soup with one hand and reached for the bread with the other.

And as he sat there, amber eyes half-lidded, face resting in his hand, it hit him—

The image.

Not like a vision, not something imagined in passing, but something real. Tangible.

Not tomorrow.

Not next year.

But a few years down the line.

Her, standing there in that same kitchen, hair a little longer, maybe braided again like she did when she was stressed. Him, coming home from a long day, jacket draped over one arm, watching her from the doorway just like now.

But she wouldn't be alone.

There would be a small body hugging her leg, another little one seated on the counter giggling as she tried to sneak bites of cut fruit or warm bread. The sound of laughter, the hum of comfort, and the feeling of this—this safety, this certainty, this quiet that didn't need words.

Their kids.

Theirs.

He could see the soft smile on Yao's lips as she leaned down to kiss a small forehead. Could hear her voice, gently chiding but full of affection. He could see himself stepping into that kitchen, pressing a kiss to her temple and picking up one of the little ones mid-run, lifting them into the air just to hear them laugh. And she would laugh too. The way she did when she forgot she was shy. When she was at peace.

He blinked once, slowly.

Then again.

Because that image? That thought?

It didn't scare him. It didn't make him feel like he was giving something up. It made him feel grounded. Like for the first time in his life, the future wasn't a battlefield or a boardroom—it was a space where she existed, and where he would willingly, gladly, build something with her from the ground up.

Not because it was expected.

But because he wanted it.

With her.

He leaned his head back, eyes still on her, letting a slow breath pass through his chest. And as she turned, her skirt catching the light, holding two plates in hand and a faint smile on her lips, Sicheng knew—

This wasn't a daydream.

It was a promise.

Yao moved with her usual quiet grace, setting the plates down gently on the coffee table with practiced care, but as she straightened, smoothing her skirt down over her knees, something about the way Sicheng was watching her made her pause. His coffee sat untouched on the side table now, forgotten entirely in favor of the way his gaze had settled on her—not just in the present, not in amusement or teasing fondness like usual, but in a way that felt weighted, like he wasn't seeing just the moment in front of him but something beyond it. Her fingers fidgeted at the edge of her skirt. She didn't sit right away.

Instead, she glanced up at him, cheeks already warming as her eyes searched his expression. "What?" she asked, the word soft and tentative, a nervous little flutter tucked into her voice as her teeth caught briefly on her bottom lip. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Sicheng didn't answer at first. He just sat up a little straighter, one arm resting over the back of the couch, his amber eyes still trained on her with that same unreadable heat—not intense in a way that overwhelmed, but in a way that held a depth she wasn't used to seeing outside of their quietest moments. He tilted his head, his voice low when he finally spoke. "Just thinking," he murmured, "about what our future might look like."

Yao blinked, her breath hitching as if his words reached down and wrapped around something fragile in her chest. Her hands gripped the fabric of her skirt, her hazel eyes going wide as she stood frozen there between the kitchen and the couch. "…Our… future?" she repeated, voice breathless, as a flush bloomed quickly up her neck and across her cheeks. "W-With me?"

Sicheng's lips curled just slightly at the corners, not teasing, not cocky—just steady. Sure. "With you," he confirmed, his voice dropping to something deeper, warmer. "Kitchen full of little feet, you scolding them while they raid the fridge, me coming home just to steal you away for a minute before they get jealous. You… wearing skirts like that and calling me Baobei while holding one of them on your hip."

Yao's entire face turned scarlet. She looked like her brain had officially bluescreened. "Wǒ de tiān a—" she whispered, covering her face with both hands as she sank down beside him on the couch, hiding behind her braid as she curled inward. "Y-You can't just say stuff like that while I'm still trying to exist—"

He leaned over, resting his chin on her shoulder, his voice laced with that husky amusement that only came when she was like this—shy, flustered, and wholly unaware of how completely she had ruined him just by being. "But it's true," he murmured beside her ear. "You. Me. A future. I see it, Yao. I see us."

She let out the tiniest sound—half squeak, half whimper—and buried her face deeper into her hands. And even though she was mortified beyond words, even though her mind was spinning, a small, helpless smile still curved along her lips, because somewhere underneath all that fluster? She saw it too.

Still trying to recover, Yao let out a small, high-pitched sound that might've been the verbal equivalent of a flail as she shook her head, braid swaying, and buried her face deeper into her hands. Her ears, neck, and cheeks were entirely crimson now, a flush so deep it could've rivaled the warmth of the soup she'd made.

Sicheng, for his part, looked utterly at peace, chin still propped on her shoulder, one arm casually stretching along the back of the couch, his fingers ghosting just barely against the edge of her top. He wasn't teasing, not this time—he was watching her like she was the only thing he needed to see today. And the weight of it, the truth in it, made it harder for her to breathe than any teasing nickname ever had.

After a long pause, her voice finally emerged from behind her hands—small, muffled, and desperate to change the subject. "E-Eat your food," she mumbled, the words barely audible. "It'll get cold." He didn't move. She peeked at him from between her fingers, still a mess of blush and nerves. "…Please?"

At that, he smirked just enough to make her groan and duck her head again, pressing her forehead to his shoulder this time instead of hiding behind her hands.

But when she spoke next, her voice was quieter. Less panicked. Less flustered and more… thoughtful. "I've… thought about it too," she whispered, her fingers curling slightly in the hem of his shirt where she had unconsciously gripped it. "What it could look like."

He stilled, his amber eyes locking onto the curve of her cheek, the way her lashes lowered as she spoke.

"A little girl," she said softly, barely above a breath, "with my hair and your eyes." She hesitated, her voice shrinking further. "…Or a little boy with your hair and my eyes. Or… the other way around."

Sicheng didn't speak. He couldn't. Because there was something about the way she said it—not dramatic, not bold, but in that quiet, vulnerable voice that only she ever used when speaking from the very center of her heart—that hit him harder than anything else ever could. She wasn't just flustered. She wasn't just imagining it in passing. She meant it. She had thought about it. Them. A family. And in that moment, with her curled into him, face turned away, too shy to meet his gaze, Sicheng reached out slowly, turning her gently to face him. His fingers brushed along her jaw as he lifted her chin just enough to meet her eyes. "You want that?" he asked quietly, voice deep and steady.

Her lashes fluttered once, and then she nodded. Still flushed. Still shy. But with a strength that never wavered once it mattered. "Yes," she whispered.

And this time, when he kissed her, it wasn't teasing or slow—it was reverent, sure, full of that quiet promise he had seen earlier in his own thoughts. A promise that whatever future she saw? He was going to make it real.

Yao's breath caught softly as his lips met hers again, not rushed or coaxing but firm and full, as if this kiss—this moment—wasn't just a reflection of what they felt now, but a quiet seal on everything they had whispered about without ever daring to speak it aloud. She leaned into it without hesitation, lips parting against his just enough to return the warmth he offered, her fingers clutching lightly at the front of his shirt where her knuckles brushed his chest, grounding herself as the last of her anxiety melted into the strength of him. But even in the middle of that sacred stillness, even with her heart thudding so loudly in her chest she swore he could hear it, she was still her.

So when she pulled back, slowly and just barely, her forehead bumping softly against his as her breath stuttered and her cheeks flushed a deep, unmistakable red, she didn't retreat far. She lingered, too shy to hold his gaze for more than a beat—but too stubborn not to deliver the order anyway. "E-eat your food," she mumbled, voice cracking just slightly as she fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve instead of looking up at him. "I made it. So you better eat it."

The last part came out more defensive than commanding, her words tripping over themselves as she stubbornly tugged her braid over her shoulder and twisted it between her fingers—because of course she had to redirect before she said something even more embarrassing. Her skirt shifted with the motion as she sat straighter, hazel eyes glancing at the sandwich like it suddenly became the most fascinating object in the room.

Sicheng, of course, didn't move right away. His gaze stayed locked on her, amusement and heat dancing in equal measure in those sharp amber eyes. But he knew better than to press when she was this flustered—so instead, he leaned back just a little, reached forward, and picked up the sandwich in perfect obedience. "I'm eating," he rumbled with a small smirk as he took a bite. "See?"

Yao peeked at him from beneath her lashes, still bright red, still flustered. But her lips curved, soft and warm, just the same.

Yao nestled back against the couch, the soft rustling of her long skirt folding beneath her as she reached lazily for her tablet where it had been resting against the armrest. Sicheng, legs stretched out with a mug balanced against his chest, barely glanced up from his phone, though his eyes flicked her way every few seconds—always watching, always tuned in to the smallest change in her posture or the curve of her expression. She wasn't looking for anything in particular. Just sorting through her inbox, idly swiping away junk emails with one finger, trying not to think about how full her calendar was beginning to look for next month.

And then her screen lit up.

From: Tsinghua University – Doctoral Committee

Subject: Final Defense – Confirmation of Date and Time

Her heart lurched.

She sat up straighter, tablet suddenly gripped in both hands as her eyes scanned the message.

Miss Tong,

We are pleased to confirm that your final dissertation defense for your Ph.D. in Data Analysis and Technology with a specialization in Strategic Gaming Systems has been scheduled for Monday, the 10th of next month at 9:00 AM in Hall C, Room 407.

Kindly arrive no later than 8:45 AM. We look forward to your presentation.

 —Tsinghua Graduate Office

The air left her lungs in a stunned exhale.

It was real.

It was happening.

"Sicheng…" she whispered.

He looked up immediately, expression shifting in an instant as he sat up straighter. "What is it?"

She didn't answer right away. Just turned the tablet slightly, her voice soft, barely above a breath. "They scheduled it. My dissertation defense… next month. Second Monday. Nine in the morning."

Sicheng rose to his feet and crossed to her without hesitation, taking the tablet from her hands gently as he read the message, jaw tightening just slightly—not from worry, but from how damn serious he became the moment anything touched her career, her future, her. When he looked back at her, his eyes were burning. "You're ready," he said simply, low and firm. "They'll never forget your name after this."

She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again as her hands fidgeted in her lap, fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve before she laughed softly—more nerves than amusement. "I thought I'd have more time," she admitted. "To review the numbers again, to sharpen the comparative breakdown between the top-tier regional strategies—"

"You've rewritten your data sets eight times."

Her lips twitched, caught.

"You rebuilt your adaptive predictive algorithm from scratch."

"I added the delayed pressure-response calculations three weeks ago."

"And that's why your simulation model for mid-to-late game decision trees scored higher accuracy margins than their own published benchmark," he reminded her, eyes narrowing with fierce pride. "Yao, your defense isn't a test. It's a formality. You've already proved it works. They just haven't seen the full picture yet."

She inhaled shakily, nodding once, her voice a little softer. "I still can't believe it sometimes… that it's almost done."

He handed the tablet back, then reached out and gently cupped her face, thumb brushing across her cheek. "You've earned every step of this," he murmured. "Every late night, every data stream, every sleepless week you buried yourself in analysis. And when you walk into that room, they won't be meeting a student." She looked up at him, eyes wide and bright. "They'll be meeting the future of this field." Her eyes flooded, not with tears, but with something even heavier—certainty. And then, quiet and reverent, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her brow. "Come that Monday," he whispered, "you'll be Doctor Tong Yao. And I'll be the idiot who gets to say you used me as your case study."

That finally made her laugh. Soft, warm, a little bit breathless. "Which is the only reason you're supportive, right?" she teased faintly, still blushing.

"Of course," he replied, smirking. "Nothing boosts a man's ego like being academically dissected by the woman he's in love with."

She flushed scarlet. Then promptly shoved his shoulder and muttered, "Eat your leftovers, Baobei." And as he smirked and returned to the couch, she sat back down too, her eyes on her screen, but her heart no longer racing from nerves. It was still surreal. But now… it was real.

As the sound of the toilet flushing drifted from down the hall, Lu Sicheng sat on Yao's couch, one hand cradling the edge of her cooling mug while the other scrolled absently through his messages. His eyes, however, were focused on nothing in particular—still fixed somewhere in the lingering mess of what had exploded earlier that week when his Intended, in the middle of casually sipping tea in a hoodie and blanket, had tilted her head at his mother and stated with total, unshaken clarity: "I thought Yue was dating Lee Kun Hyeok? I saw them kissing in the garden last week after practice."

She had said it so plainly. So matter-of-fact. As if she were talking about the weather. Not as a tease, not with judgment, and certainly not to stir anything. She had just wanted to confirm a piece of her mental puzzle. That was it. No hesitation, no accusation. Just an observation delivered from her usual place on the couch, eyes sharp even beneath the haze of a fading fever.

Yue had nearly flipped the entire tray of cut fruit he'd been holding. Lan had blinked, lifted her cup of tea, and taken a single, very slow sip. And Sicheng—still trying to process whether he was impressed or mortified—had done the only thing he could do: file it away until he could get Kun Hyeok alone. Now, with the memory still burning a hole in his brain and the woman in question currently using the bathroom, he pulled up his messages and scrolled to the contact he needed.

To: Hierophant

From: Chessman

You absolute dumbass.

Another message followed immediately.

Chessman: You brought your brother into my base uninvited, after he publicly ran his mouth about "dedicating a win to Yao," and you knew she didn't want to see him. She hid, Kun Hyeok. In her own home. You owe her an apology. Don't care how. Just do it.

Then, after a pause:

Chessman: Also. We need to talk. Because my Intended, mentioned to my mother that she saw you and Yue kissing in the garden. Full-on kiss. Your hand on his waist. She said it like she was confirming a math equation. Yue nearly choked on his protein shake. Lan hasn't stopped staring at him since. And I didn't know any of it.

The read receipt appeared almost immediately.

Then the typing bubble.

It paused.

Restarted.

Paused again.

Finally—

Hierophant: …so that's what she saw. Great. In my defense— That was supposed to be private. But yeah, she saw it. I figured she thought we were maybe talking close? Arguing? I didn't think she'd see everything. Yue's been spiraling for days. He thought he got away with it. This is… not ideal

.Another message came through right after.

Hierophant: I'll apologize.

Sicheng snorted softly, the edge of a grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. Just as the bathroom door clicked open and Yao stepped out, still brushing her platinum hair over one shoulder, cheeks a touch flushed but her eyes clear. She didn't say anything as she passed him, just moved to sit beside him again, reaching for her now-lukewarm tea. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was fine. And now that Kun Hyeok had been properly warned? Everything else would be handled.

As the credits faded from the screen and soft music hummed beneath the rolling names, Lu Sicheng shifted beside her, stretching out his long legs before rolling smoothly to his feet. Yao blinked up at him, blinking away the cozy haze that had settled around her during the movie, still curled into her side of the couch, a blanket tossed across her lap and one socked foot barely poking out. She had been warm, content, and perfectly at peace. Which should have been her first warning. Without a word, he leaned forward, picked up the remote, and turned off the screen, letting the soft silence settle before tapping his phone, scrolling through his playlist. A second later, slow instrumental jazz laced with soft piano and mellow strings filled the room, warm and intimate.

Yao frowned slightly, lips parting to ask what he was doing, but he was already sliding the coffee table to the side with the ease of a man on a mission. She sat up straighter, suspicious now, especially when he turned back to her with that smirk—the one that always spelled trouble.

"Up, Xiǎo tùzǐ." he said simply, voice low and infuriatingly calm as he extended his hand to her.

She stared at it like it was a trap.

Because it was.

"I'm not dancing," she muttered, shrinking back a little into the couch, though the color had already begun to creep into her cheeks.

He arched a brow, that teasing glint flashing through his amber eyes. "You are. You said you'd learn."

"That was once," she argued, flustered, still not moving. "You already got your one lesson."

"And this," he said, fingers curling gently but insistently around her wrist as he tugged her up, "is your second."

"But I—"

"No excuses, Xiǎo tùzǐ," he murmured, low and smooth as he pulled her into his arms, one hand sliding to her waist, the other catching her smaller one. "You're not getting out of it this time."

Her cheeks were blazing now, her fingers twitching nervously where they rested against his shoulder. "You didn't even ask if I wanted to."

"I did," he said, amusement soft in his tone. "With my eyes."

"That doesn't count."

"It always counts."

She huffed, clearly trying to hold on to her logic as he began to sway them gently to the rhythm, guiding her with ease, his movements slow and steady, making sure she didn't trip over her own feet—or worse, his. The first step was awkward. The second was better. By the third, her fingers had curled more firmly into his shoulder, her eyes still wide but no longer darting nervously. Her lips parted to breathe out a quiet protest, but it didn't come. Not when he shifted slightly closer, not when he looked down at her with that patient intensity that never demanded—but always expected.

"You're getting better," he murmured, voice low beside her ear. "Still stiff. But better."

"I'm not stiff." she muttered automatically, before nearly stepping on his foot and squeaking as she caught herself.

His low laugh vibrated through his chest. "Sure you're not."

She narrowed her eyes at him but didn't pull away. Didn't ask to stop. Because she was learning. Slowly. Carefully. One step at a time—just like everything else with him. And maybe that was why, when he leaned down to brush a kiss to her temple as they moved together, soft and unhurried across the living room floor, she didn't duck away.

Instead, she leaned in.

Feeling the rhythm settle between them like a second heartbeat, and catching the way her body had finally started to relax into his hold, Sicheng's lips curved just slightly—not in mockery, not in triumph, but in something quieter, far more mischievous. His grip shifted, subtle but practiced, and before she could register the change in weight or his intent, he spun her gently beneath his arm, her hair flowing like silk behind her.

She gasped, startled, caught off guard by the sudden twirl, and before she could even recover her footing, his arm was already sweeping behind her lower back. With a smooth, precise motion, he dipped her backward, holding her effortlessly as her hair brushed toward the floor and her hazel eyes widened, blinking up at him. A breathless, slightly flustered sound escaped her lips—half protest, half laugh, and then the laugh broke free in full, soft and delighted, the kind of sound she rarely let out unless she forgot to guard herself.

And she had.

She'd forgotten.

And that laugh—his favorite sound in the entire damn world—rippled between them. No restraint. No hesitation. Just the soft, warm melody of her, unfiltered, open, his.

He stared down at her, taking in the flushed color blooming across her cheeks, the slight tremble of her fingers against his shoulder, the sparkle in her eyes that hadn't been there just moments before. The corners of his mouth twitched, the amusement warming into something deeper. "Much better," he murmured, his voice low and curved with that rare, quiet fondness. "You laugh like that more often, and I might forget what we were doing."

Her brows lifted, a little breathless and dizzy. "I thought we were dancing."

"We were," he said, lifting her slowly upright, keeping her close even as she tried to steady herself again. "Now I'm considering turning this into a tradition. Weekly dance lessons. Always ending with that sound."

Her eyes widened again, her lips parting with something halfway between a protest and a flush of flustered warmth. "You're insufferable," she mumbled, but there was no bite to it. Just color. And her smile—small and unguarded.

And Sicheng?

He counted that as a win.