Chapter 46: Tribute and Truce

Summary: A morning announcement turns into celebration, but beneath the cheers and luxury gifts lies something quieter—pride, possessiveness, and the delicate balance of knowing when to speak and when to be still. One sulking captain, one fiercely loyal kitten, and a team of very loud witnesses turn a simple morning into a battleground of feelings and forgiveness. And by the end of it all, love wins—with tuna.

Chapter Forty-Six 

The next morning, the air in the base was buzzing in that quiet, anticipatory way it always did before a heavy scrim block—everyone awake, dressed, half-fed, and just barely on the right side of functional as they gathered in the lounge, nursing coffees and pretending not to be waiting on instructions.

Yao, still dressed in her usual soft hoodie and leggings with her platinum hair loosely braided over one shoulder, padded in with Xiao Cong perched on her shoulder and Da Bing trailing just behind like the shadow he always was. She looked more rested than she had in days, her cheeks carrying a faint healthy glow and the sleepiness in her hazel eyes now replaced with a trace of nervous energy. She cleared her throat once—quietly, but enough to earn glances from the scattered team.

Rui looked up from the tablet in his hands.

Ming arched a brow.

Yue tilted his head dramatically, already preparing to say something inappropriate if given the opening.

But it was Pang, who had been halfway through a steamed bun, that blinked at her first and tilted his head. "What's up, Xiao JieJie? You look like you've got something serious to drop."

Yao fidgeted, chewing on the inside of her cheek before clearing her throat again and straightening just a bit more. "I got the email yesterday," she started slowly, "but I waited until this morning to confirm the date with my advisor."

Sicheng, who had just stepped into the room with his own coffee in hand, immediately paused mid-step and turned toward her.

Yao swallowed and pushed forward. "My dissertation defense is scheduled," she said, voice soft but steady now. "It's set for next month. Second Monday. Nine a.m. sharp. At Tsinghua."

There was a pause.

A beat of silence as the boys stared at her—

And then—

Lao Mao let out a loud, dramatic whoop, slapping Lao K on the back hard enough to make the man wince.

"We're throwing a damn party afterward!" Yue leapt up from the couch with his arms raised.

Pang immediately started muttering about food planning while gesturing at his phone.

Ming actually cracked a real smile, slow and proud.

And Rui?

Rui leaned forward, took off his glasses with the kind of gravity only he could pull off before saying, "We're all going with you."

Yao blinked, wide-eyed. "W-what?"

"You think we're not showing up?" Yue scoffed dramatically. "You're our Tiny Boss Bunny. This is the final boss battle of academia. We're bringing signs. I'm talking about banners. Balloons."

"Absolutely no balloons," Rui cut in flatly to the mischief-making brat..

"I'm wearing a suit," Pang declared, looking way too serious.

"You don't own a suit," Ming replied without looking up from his phone.

Sicheng said nothing at first, just watched her, his gaze fixed and unreadable. But then, as Yao's eyes flicked toward him uncertainly, he stepped forward, coffee forgotten, and reached out to tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear. "We're all going. You're not doing this alone, Xiǎo tùzǐ." he said simply, like it was fact, unchangeable and absolute. 

Yao, face flushed, tried to hide behind Da Bing, but the big cat just huffed and refused to let her escape the moment as Xiao Cong pawed at her. Because she wasn't alone. Not anymore. And she never would be again.

Yue, who was now half-sprawled across the lounge chair with a banana in one hand and his phone in the other, gave a dramatic snort loud enough to pull everyone's attention. "You better tell Ma, or I swear to god, you're not going to get a single night of sleep. She'll be calling you at all hours to ask if you need moral support, snacks, or a new outfit."

Yao's eyes went wide as she flushed instantly, opening her mouth to respond—

Only for Sicheng, seated beside her with one leg stretched out and his arm resting lazily along the back of the couch, to quietly pluck her phone from the table. Without a word, he tapped the screen, holding it up just long enough for her to see Aunt Lan lit up in bright letters. He pressed speaker before Yao could even think of objecting. "You skipped lunch yesterday," he said lowly, glancing at the untouched bowl of fruit he had cut up for her earlier. "You're not skipping breakfast. Eat."

Yao, still stunned and now visibly flustered, glanced from him to the phone just as it began to ring.

It barely made it through half a ring.

"Yao-Yao, sweetheart," came the smooth, familiar voice of Lan, already filled with warmth and unspoken curiosity. "Is everything alright, darling?"

"U-um," Yao stammered, trying to speak while also shooting Sicheng a look that said she was going to crawl under the couch. "Yes, Aunt Lan… I just wanted to… tell you that my dissertation defense is scheduled. Next month. Second Monday. Nine a.m. at Tsinghua."

A beat of silence followed.

Then—

"Shèng a!" came a distant shout in the background, unmistakably Lu Sheng's voice, followed by the sharp sound of a chair scraping against the floor. "She's defending next month? That's my future daughter-in-law right there—tell her she's not flying coach like some pedestrian student—tell her she's taking the Lu jet!"

"Here we go…" Yue groaned as he dragged a hand down his face.

Lan's voice returned, smooth as ever but now clearly layered with barely hidden amusement. "Well, sweetheart, you've just triggered your Uncle Sheng's dramatics. He's already demanding the staff prep the jet."

"I'm not—I mean I don't need—" Yao tried to protest, cheeks now absolutely burning.

"She's using the jet!" Lu Sheng called again in the background, his voice booming like an emperor giving a decree. "My favored child is not flying on some commercial airline. "

Yue turned, eyes narrowing at Yao's phone as if it had personally betrayed him. "Favored child? Seriously? I've been his son for twenty-three years and he still hasn't let me look at the jet."

Sicheng let out a slow, weary sigh as he rubbed a hand down his face, fingers dragging across his mouth. "I told you not to let him find out."

"I didn't tell him!" Yao whispered harshly.

"You didn't have to," Yue muttered. "He's probably got the house bugged for dissertation updates."

Lan laughed softly on the line, her tone pleased and laced with fondness. "Well then. It's settled. We'll be there, sweetheart. And don't you even think of refusing the jet. You're family."

"Exactly!" came Sheng's triumphant voice once more. "Now someone tell the staff to chill the sparkling wine—this is a celebration!"

Yao just covered her face with both hands and whimpered.

Da Bing, unimpressed, curled tighter at her feet.

Xiao Cong gave a small, sleepy meow as if to echo the exhaustion.

And Sicheng?

He picked up a grape from her bowl, popped it into his mouth, and smirked like this was the most entertaining breakfast he'd had all week.

The knock on the base's front door was sharp, professional, and far too precise to belong to any delivery service the team normally dealt with. Lao K had been closest to the entry and opened it with a half-muttered, distracted, "Yeah?"

Only to freeze.

There, standing as if straight out of a luxury catalogue, was a sharply dressed courier in an all-black designer uniform holding several sleek, high-end black-and-gold boxes stacked with surgical precision.

"Delivery for Miss Tong Yao," the man announced coolly, holding out the tablet for a signature and gesturing behind him toward a second assistant who stood holding a garment bag with the Gucci logo printed subtly but unmistakably in bold silver lettering.

Lao K blinked. "Uh…"

Yao, hearing her name, padded into the hall barefoot, dressed in her oversized hoodie and leggings, hair braided down her back, and very much not expecting the red-carpet-level delivery she now found herself facing.

The courier smiled politely and gestured to the boxes. "From Lu Lan and Lu Sheng."

The second assistant bowed slightly as he stepped forward, handing over the Gucci garment bag with a practiced elegance.

Yao took it, stunned. "They… what?"

Within seconds the living room was a flurry of movement, all the boys crowding around as Yao, wide-eyed and hesitant, slowly set the boxes down on the coffee table, peeling back the lids one by one.

First: her favorite spiced dark chocolates, the kind Jinyang had brought her back from her trip to Paris with her mother as she could not go because of Finals—clearly imported, perfectly preserved, and tied with a silk ribbon.Next: The Rosa. Deep red, imported, and unmistakably rare.

Yue let out a low whistle as he leaned in to inspect the label. "That's the kind people fight over in auctions," he muttered. "She's not even legal to drink it yet and Ma sends her this."

Then came the heels—sleek, black and blood red Gucci stilettos with rubies glinting like embers along the arch of the heel. 

Pang actually sat down hard on the arm of the couch. "Those are like… 30 thousand yuan minimum." he muttered, eyes wide.

"She's wearing those to her dissertation defense?" Lao Mao asked, completely awed.

"Correction," Ming said, glancing up from his phone, "She's probably gonna own the university by the end of the defense."

The matching handbag followed, rich black leather with an inlaid ruby-studded clasp, then the bracelet—delicate white gold strung with rubies and diamonds, resting in a black velvet box with a handwritten note tucked neatly inside.

Lan's handwriting, elegant and sharp, read: This once belonged to me. Now it belongs to you. Carry it like armor, not decoration.

The last box revealed the outfit itself: a high-end, custom-tailored black pencil skirt, a blood-red silk blouse, and a fitted blazer that exuded power and precision. Another card sat atop it, this one written in both Lan and Lu Sheng's hands.

For your defense. Knock them dead.

 —Lu Lan & Lu Sheng.

Yao stood frozen, cheeks flushed, one hand clutching the garment bag while her other hovered over the bracelet box as if she were afraid to touch it.

Sicheng stepped beside her, one brow raised, but his voice low, tinged with dry amusement. "So... favored child."

Yue threw his hands up. "I told you! We're just accessories now. She gets jewelry. I get yelled at for not doing laundry."

Lao K sighed dramatically. "I didn't even get a hello text last time I visited their house."

"Guys," Pang added solemnly, "I think we just witnessed a royal coronation."

"I'm not royalty." Yao groaned, trying to hide behind the garment bag. 

Sicheng leaned down, lips brushing against her ear with a smirk. "No. But you're mine. And apparently the Lu family is just making that known to the rest of the world."

She squeaked.

Yue immediately aimed his finger at Sicheng. "If you ever cheat on her, I swear I'll let Ma loose on you with a bottle of that Rosa and a flamethrower made of emotional disappointment."

"I'm standing right here," Sicheng said, deadpan.

"And she's wearing your hoodie," Yue shot back. "You win, but the rest of us lost everything."

Yao, cheeks still flushed and fingers delicately wrapped around the garment bag like it was something sacred, turned slowly toward Yue with narrowed hazel eyes and that exact expression she reserved for when the boys were skating, the very edge of her tolerance. Her voice, when it came, was soft but carried that subtle, precise weight that only she could make feel like a lecture in velvet gloves. "Yue," she said with a small frown, "why would you even say something like that?"

Yue, who had been dramatically draped across the back of the couch with a hand over his heart, immediately blinked and straightened. "What? I wasn't saying he would, I was just saying if he ever did—" 

"Cheng-ge is not that type of person," she said gently but firmly, cutting him off as she stepped slightly to the side so she was no longer hiding behind the garment bag. "He wouldn't even think about doing something like that. Not now. Not ever." Yue opened his mouth again, only to freeze as she added, with absolute sincerity, "I trust him. And you should too."

The room shifted, just slightly, as the weight of those words settled over them. Not a challenge. Not defensive. Just quiet, unshakable truth.

Lu Sicheng, who had been standing beside her with one hand loosely in his pocket and his gaze fixed on the unfolding drama with a raised brow, felt his chest tighten faintly. Not from pride—though it was there—but from the sheer gravity of what it meant to have someone like her say that in front of everyone.

"I'm just saying," Yue mumbled after a pause, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat back down, "you never know with some guys, and he is terrifyingly attractive."

"That's nice," Sicheng drawled. "But I'll be keeping my terrifyingly attractive ass where it belongs."

Yao flushed harder and made a soft sound of exasperation, muttering something under her breath about the entire Lu family being built out of smug and chaos, before Da Bing hopped up onto the coffee table with a thump and glared pointedly at Yue, like even he was unimpressed.

"Traitor." Yue muttered at the cat.

Xiao Cong sneezed from his spot beside the couch.

And Pang, still seated with his mouth halfway open in awe at the sight of the heels, finally muttered, "I feel like I just watched a court hearing where Cheng got declared innocent and got a kiss from the judge."

"He didn't get a kiss," Ming added mildly.

"Yet." Sicheng smirked, glancing sidelong at Yao.

She whirled on her heel and headed for the stairs, clutching her gifts tightly and muttering something about murdering him in his sleep if he didn't stop talking. But the smile on her lips betrayed her long before she reached the landing.

Lu Sicheng followed quietly, his steps soundless on the stairs as he trailed just behind her, not because he was trying to sneak up on her—she would have felt him long before he said a word—but because there was something in the way she held herself right now, careful and reverent, that made him instinctively quieter. Less a shadow trailing her than a presence anchoring her.

Yao moved through her apartment with slow, deliberate motions, arms wrapped carefully around the garment bag and her expression focused in that way she only got when handling things that mattered. It wasn't the price tag. It never had been. It was what those things meant. She slid open the closet and smoothed out the hanger before securing the garment bag in the far end, her fingers brushing over the fine fabric once more before she gently tucked the hem behind the others, protecting it from dust and touch as if it were something sacred. The shoes remained in their box, untouched save for the single lift of the lid when she'd first inspected them—those heels, so unlike anything she normally wore, but striking and hers now all the same. She turned them slightly within the box until they were perfectly aligned, then gently secured the lid and lifted the box onto the top shelf of the closet. The handbag followed, zipped into its protective dust bag, nestled right beside the shoes with a quiet finality that spoke volumes about the way she viewed gifts—especially from people who meant something.

Sicheng leaned against the frame of her doorway, arms crossed loosely as he watched her, the faintest crease in his brow as her hands moved next to the small vintage jewelry box resting on her dresser. It wasn't fancy—not by any stretch of the imagination—but he recognized it immediately.

Her mother's.

She'd told him, once, in that soft hesitant voice she used when talking about the things that still hurt, that it was one of the only things she had been able to keep from that time. That it had survived the move, the years, the silence, and the distance. And now—now it held her most treasured pieces.

Yao lifted the white gold bracelet with its rubies and diamonds from its velvet box, turning it in her hand once with a thoughtful expression before opening the small jewelry case. She gently set the bracelet inside, right beside the delicate silver chain and fox charm—her mother's necklace—the one Lan had returned to her that day at lunch without fanfare but with unmistakable intention.

The box clicked softly shut as her fingers lingered on the lid.

She didn't say anything.

She didn't have to.

Sicheng stepped into the room, slow and measured, his presence folding into hers as he came up behind her, gaze falling briefly to the closed jewelry box before shifting to her face. "You always put things away like they're precious," he said quietly, his voice low and even. "Even when no one's watching."

Yao, startled but not surprised, glanced at him from the corner of her eye, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. "Because they are."

Sicheng didn't reach for her. Didn't need to. He just stood there, watching the way her fingers remained still against the worn wood of the jewelry box, the way the light caught on her braid, the way the room itself seemed to feel warmer simply because she was in it, surrounded by things that now belonged to her—not out of pity or obligation, but because she had earned them. Because she was loved. "Good," he said after a moment, his voice even quieter now. "Because you're precious too."

Yao's breath hitched and when he reached out—finally—and rested his hand gently at the small of her back, he felt the slight tremble of her exhale. But she didn't pull away. She never did.

Sicheng's hand at the small of her back remained steady, warm and grounding, and for a long, quiet moment he simply stood there, eyes fixed on her profile as she looked down at the jewelry box, unaware of the storm quietly building behind his gaze. He'd heard her words downstairs—every syllable spoken with unwavering conviction, every soft-spoken truth delivered not for praise but because she believed it with every fiber of her being. She hadn't said it to prove anything. She hadn't tried to make a scene. She had simply stood there, in her quiet strength, and reminded everyone that she trusted him.

Not blindly.

Not foolishly.

But wholly.

And something about that belief—so pure, so unguarded—sparked something deeper, heavier in his chest. Something he hadn't even realized had settled there until she'd stood up for him so effortlessly, so instinctively, as if it were just a fact of the world.

He moved before he even realized he had. His other hand came up, fingers brushing the side of her jaw as he turned her gently in his arms, slow and unhurried. Yao blinked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted slightly in surprise, that ever-present shyness just barely peeking through as she instinctively reached out, her hands resting lightly against his chest.

"Cheng-ge?" she whispered, confused by the sudden shift in his expression.

But he didn't answer her with words. He simply leaned in and kissed her. Not with urgency or fire—but with depth. With want. With knowing. His mouth met hers in a kiss that started slow, grounding her, anchoring her as his hand slid up from her back to cradle the back of her head, threading through her platinum braid and holding her there—not to trap her, never that—but because he needed her to feel it.

The gratitude.

The pride.

The sheer ache of wanting something so utterly, so fiercely, that it made his chest feel too tight.

She made a soft, breathless noise against his mouth, her fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt as her eyes fluttered closed, the slight tremble in her exhale giving away how deeply she felt every movement, every brush of his lips against hers. His thumb swept over her cheek as the kiss deepened, his control never wavering, but the heat behind it undeniable. She whimpered softly, leaning into him, and he swallowed that sound with reverence, pressing her closer, needing her nearer.

Because she had stood for him and this was how he stood for her. Not in front of the world. But here. In the quiet. With no audience and no need for proof. Only truth. Only them.

Sicheng didn't break the kiss, not even for a second, as his hand slid from the curve of her jaw down to her waist, his fingers pressing in with firm, anchoring intention, steady and sure as always. He moved slowly, deliberately, walking her backward with every step, his mouth never leaving hers, the depth of the kiss pulling her in, unraveling her piece by piece with every breath stolen between them.

Yao followed instinctively, her heart pounding, her hands fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt, the steady warmth of him seeping into her skin, grounding her even as it set her ablaze. When the backs of her knees brushed the edge of her bed, she let out the softest gasp, not in fear but in surprise, her balance shifting just slightly and he was there, catching her, guiding her down with gentle but absolute control, coaxing her to lie back against the bed as his lips continued to explore hers, coaxing, deepening, igniting.

He shifted with her, one knee sliding between her thighs—not fully, not aggressively, but enough to part her legs slightly, to settle there with presence and weight, the heat of his body pressing into her as one hand gripped her waist, fingers flexing as if grounding both of them in the intensity of what was happening. His other hand braced beside her, holding some of his weight off of her, never fully pressing her down, always giving her space, but refusing to let her drift from him either.

Yao's breath caught as he nibbled lightly on her bottom lip, that same teasing pressure she was starting to recognize now—the one that asked without needing to speak. She opened for him instinctively, her lips parting with a soft, breathless sound as he deepened the kiss further, his tongue sweeping past her lips in a slow, sensual glide that sent a shiver racing down her spine. She whimpered softly into the kiss, her hands moving, one curling behind his neck while the other settled at his shoulder, anchoring herself to him as her legs shifted slightly around his bent knee.

Sicheng growled low into her mouth, the sound rumbling from his chest and vibrating against hers, pleasure and restraint tangled tightly together in every motion. He didn't rush. He never did. But every inch of him was there, completely focused on her, on her reactions, on the heat blooming between them as the space narrowed and her world—quiet, sweet, protected—was filled with nothing but him. His lips left hers with a slow, heated drag, the breath between them thick and warm as he trailed his mouth along the curve of her jaw, each press of his lips calculated and deep, dragging out every small shiver he could feel rolling off her body. Her skin was already warm beneath his mouth, her breath coming uneven as her hands clenched lightly at his shoulders, not pulling him back, but holding on as if to tether herself. And then he reached that spot. The one he'd discovered before. The one just beneath her jaw, where her pulse fluttered and her body always trembled the moment his mouth found it. He didn't hesitate. He opened his mouth against that sensitive stretch of skin and drew her in with a slow, deliberate suck, the tip of his tongue flicking lightly against her pulse before his teeth grazed her, a teasing nip that sent a full-body shudder rippling through her.

Yao gasped—soft, breathy, high-pitched—her fingers tightening in his shirt as her hips shifted slightly beneath him, a small reflexive motion that she didn't even seem aware of. Sicheng felt it. Every bit of it. And it only pushed the desire deeper, the hunger stretching under his skin like a fire barely leashed.

He licked over the same spot again, slower this time, his tongue warm and wet against her flushed skin as he hummed low in his throat, a sound of satisfaction, of control, of intent. He was learning her reactions, and each one added fuel to the storm building behind his amber gaze. The way she arched her neck just slightly to give him better access. The small, desperate sound that slipped from her lips when he sucked harder, when his tongue traced just beneath the bruise blooming there. The quiet, broken way she whispered his name like it was both a plea and a prayer.

Sicheng gripped her waist tighter, grounding her, steadying her as he drew back just slightly, letting his lips hover against her skin, her scent, her warmth wrapping around him like a tether. "You feel everything so deeply," he murmured against her throat, voice low and dark with reverence and heat. "I can hear it in every sound you make." And he would learn them all. Every gasp, every tremble, every whisper of want that her shy body didn't yet know how to name. Because she trusted him. And this —this was how he would prove she was right.

Sicheng didn't move at first, didn't rush her or push, his breath warm against her throat where he'd just left a trail of fire and memory. His hand at her waist remained steady, thumb moving in small soothing circles, grounding her even as her pulse raced beneath his touch. He could feel the tension in her body, not from fear—but from anticipation, from nerves, from the shy vulnerability that came with offering something of herself she had never trusted anyone else to see. He lifted his head just enough to look at her, his gaze meeting her flushed face, her lips parted, her eyes dark and swimming with hesitation and want. "How far do you want to explore, Xiǎo tùzǐ?" he asked softly, his voice deep, steady, and wrapped in every ounce of the care he always reserved just for her. "You tell me. I follow your lead."

Yao's breath hitched, her lashes lowering for a moment as she swallowed hard. Her hands tightened slightly on his shoulders before she looked up at him through the fringe of her platinum hair, those hazel eyes wide, soft, and trembling with the effort of figuring out how to put something so shy, so private, into words. "Not as far as yesterday," she whispered, her voice so small it was nearly carried off by the quiet between them. "But… I don't mind… over the clothing." Her cheeks burned a deeper shade of red as the words left her, and she darted her eyes away quickly, turning her face to the side, lips pressed together as if worried she'd said the wrong thing.

But she hadn't.

Not to him.

Never to him.

Sicheng exhaled slowly, the tension that had been in his own chest easing into something molten and reverent. He leaned forward, brushing his lips to her temple, letting them linger there before murmuring softly, "Thank you for trusting me." He could feel the way her shoulders relaxed just slightly, the way her breath evened out in the wake of his quiet, steady presence. And then, with the same slow patience that he always held for her—like every moment between them was something worth savoring—he began.

A few hours later, the base had fallen into its usual rhythm—the kind that pulsed with the muted intensity of a team deep in training. Keyboards clacked in rapid bursts, mice clicked with mechanical precision, and the occasional low-voiced command floated through the shared space like background noise. The five boys were locked into scrims, headsets on, eyes narrowed at their screens.

Just a few feet away, seated at her desk in the corner of the open living area, Yao was quietly typing, posture relaxed yet focused, her platinum braid draped over her shoulder as she glanced between her laptop and her notes. The space might've been shared, but the invisible wall between her and the team during moments like this was one everyone respected without question.

She paused, chewed lightly on her lower lip, then clicked open her message thread with Jinyang and began typing.

To: Chen Jinyang

From: Tong_Yao

 Defense is set. Second Monday of next month. 9:00 a.m. sharp.

Tsinghua confirmed the room.

…If I die, avenge me with snacks.

With a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips, she hit send and sat back slightly, stretching her fingers. Xiao Cong dozed nearby on the corner of the desk, while Da Bing lounged on the cushion behind her chair, his tail flicking with occasional interest at the voices behind him.

Sicheng was seated barely six feet away from her, in his usual spot at the head of the training lineup, his back straight, posture relaxed—but his mind was far from the scrim. Because his eyes kept drifting sideways. Not at her screen. Not at her hands. At her neck. More specifically—the absence of something.

That mark.

The one he'd left on her with his mouth and teeth hours ago, when she'd gasped his name and twisted in his arms, breathless and trembling as she broke apart under his hands. The one that had been faint but visible when she padded into the room earlier, flushed and in his hoodie, distracted but glowing.

Gone.

He blinked once, slow.

Then again.

His jaw twitched.

The back of his neck warmed.

Covered. She had covered it. With makeup, most likely, and carefully done—because it wasn't faint or fading. It was deliberately, strategically concealed. He said nothing. But his hand stilled on his mouse, his brow ticked just slightly, and the sharp edge of possessiveness stirred low in his chest.

She'd hidden it.

His mark.

The one he had left not just in passion but as quiet, intimate proof of what they shared. And now, it was tucked away beneath foundation and powder, erased from view as if it hadn't been there at all. Not because she was ashamed—he knew better. Yao wasn't the type to feel shame in love.

But she was private.

Shy.

Introverted in ways that made her guard her body the same way she guarded her emotions—tight, cautious, and rarely letting the outside world glimpse what was meant to be hers alone. Still… that didn't mean it didn't sting a little. That didn't stop the slow, simmering sulk from settling across his expression, or the faint scowl that began to pull at the corners of his mouth. He didn't say a word. But his silence was loud.

Yue glanced over from the side of his monitor, blinked, and whispered to Pang, "Why is he brooding like someone stole his motorcycle?"

"I think," Lao K muttered, not looking up, "our Captain just realized his bite mark got concealed."

Yue made a soft noise of understanding. "Tragic. Should've gone lower."

Sicheng didn't respond. He was already thinking the same damn thing.

Yao, completely oblivious to the quiet emotional storm brewing just a few feet away, had taken advantage of a lull in her own work to order milk tea for the whole team. It was her quiet ritual, her way of keeping everyone fueled and, frankly, civil during long training blocks—and she'd even remembered each of their favorites without needing to double-check. The delivery had arrived ten minutes ago. She was now making her way across the base, barefoot and relaxed, a tray in her hands with six neatly labeled cups, steam gently curling from the sealed lids. "Milk tea time," she chirped softly, placing a cup beside Lao Mao, who didn't look up but raised a fist in thanks. Lao K gave a brief nod as she passed his, and Pang—true to form—grabbed his like it was a sacred offering, mumbling something dramatic about "tiny boss angel energy."

Yue, still smirking from the earlier scrim win, shot her a grin. "Are you putting extra sugar in mine because you know I deserve it?"

She didn't answer—just handed him his and moved on, the final cup still warm in her hand.

It was for him.

She walked the few steps toward Sicheng's desk, her steps light, braid bouncing gently against her back, the smile on her face as natural as sunlight. But the moment she got close enough to really see him—really feel him—she paused. He hadn't looked at her. Not once. Not when she came into view. Not even when she stepped right up beside his chair.

He was hunched slightly over his desk, mouse still under his hand, screen lit with numbers and cooldowns, but his jaw was tense, his expression distant, his gaze fixed a little too intently on the match replay on screen.

She blinked, tilting her head just slightly. He was sulking. She could tell by the way his fingers tapped absently against the mouse and the subtle downturn to his mouth, like he was trying very hard not to be irritated but failing miserably. She extended the milk tea carefully, holding it out like a peace offering and peering down at him with furrowed brows and a puzzled expression. "Did…" she started, hesitant and genuinely confused, "…did Coach Kwon ban your favorite Shikigami again?"

That got a reaction.

Sicheng's eyes slowly lifted to meet hers, and the full, wide-eyed innocence on her face—utterly pure, completely unaware of what had caused the storm cloud over his head—made something in him tighten and nearly snap at the same time. He stared at her for a beat, lips parting as if he were going to say something, then closing again with a slight twitch of his jaw. He took the milk tea from her hand in silence, the tips of his fingers brushing her wrist a little longer than necessary. His voice, when it came, was low. Tightly reined. "No," he said, gaze narrowing on her like she'd just personally offended gravity itself. "He didn't."

"Then… what's wrong?" Yao blinked again, more confused now. 

Sicheng didn't answer. He just sipped the tea. Brooding harder. Because she really didn't know. And that somehow made it worse.

Yue watched all of this unfold from three feet away, slurping loudly from his straw. "Should someone tell her?"

Ming didn't even look up. "Nope."

Pang leaned in toward Lao Mao. "Twenty yuan says he marks her collarbone next time."

"Fifty says he goes behind the knee. No one ever thinks to cover there."

"I don't have a death wish from either." muttered Lao K as he shook his head at his partner and Pang with a resigned sigh.

Yao, meanwhile, still baffled, hovered uncertainly at Sicheng's side, completely unaware she was the reason the Captain of ZGDX was currently calculating in millimeters where to leave a mark that wouldn't be concealed.

He was still brooding, still sipping his milk tea in silence like it had personally betrayed him, when he felt it—the soft press of a small finger poking at his shoulder. He didn't move at first, jaw still tight, eyes still narrowed at his screen in a way that said he was more focused on the phantom of a memory than any actual data.

But then her voice came.

Soft.

Curious.

And for the first time—ever—he heard it laced with something new.

"Cheng… Ge-Ge?" she said gently, the name unfamiliar on her tongue, like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to use it but had decided to try anyway. "What's wrong?"

His fingers stilled. The straw in his drink stopped halfway to his lips and slowly, his head turned. She was standing beside him with the most innocent, genuinely worried expression on her face, eyes wide and soft, her brows pulled together slightly like she was afraid he was upset about something important—something big. And she had no idea. No clue at all that it wasn't the match review, or a team performance issue, or even a scrim loss. It was her. Or more specifically, her neck. Which had been unmarked, untouched-looking, covered, when he had kissed it with heat and hunger and slow, dragging reverence hours ago.

But now?

Now she was staring up at him like he was some wounded animal, calling him Ge-Ge in the softest voice imaginable, and he could feel the war inside himself fraying at every edge. She had no idea what she'd just done with that one word.

Sicheng set the milk tea down with more care than necessary and exhaled slowly, dragging his eyes away from her just long enough to collect himself before he turned fully in his chair to face her. She was still waiting, still confused, her fingers now nervously fidgeting at the hem of her sleeve.

"What's making you brood like that?" she asked again, quieter now. "Did something happen?"

He stared at her a moment longer, and then—his voice low, dry, and barely veiled—he muttered, "No."

"You're lying," she said, lips pouting slightly now.

"I'm not," he said, too fast.

Her brows lifted.

He sighed. Slowly. "It's stupid."

"No, it's not." She stepped closer, resting her hand lightly on his arm. "Tell me."

He looked down at her hand. Then back at her. And when he spoke again, it came out in a low, rumbling grumble of suppressed territorial energy. "You covered the mark I gave you."

Yao blinked. "…What?"

"The one on your neck," he said, narrowing his gaze at her again, like she was being deliberately obtuse. "The one I put there."

She flushed instantly, her hand dropping from his arm as she straightened in surprise. "I—I didn't—I wasn't hiding it, I just… we're at the base and I had work and Rui was going to—" 

He arched a brow.

She immediately looked down at her feet, mumbling, "It was just a little makeup…"

"You erased it," he corrected flatly.

"I covered it," she whispered, face now scarlet.

Sicheng leaned forward, eyes narrowing just enough to be felt, not seen. "Next time, I'm going to put it somewhere you won't cover." he said lowly, his voice sliding across her skin like velvet laced with heat.

Yao squeaked and practically ran back to her desk, nearly tripping over Da Bing in the process.

Yue, watching it all unfold with glee, took a loud slurp of his tea and muttered to Pang, "Told you he'd go lower."

"Should we be concerned?" Pang whispered.

"Nope," Ming said, not even looking up. "We should be taking notes."

"I don't have a death wish and neither does Mao-Mao." muttered Lao K as he gave his partner a sharp look as the man went to open his mouth.

"Behave idiots." muttered Kwon as he shook his head at the boys as they were asking for it.

Yao all but bolted back to her desk, flustered to her core, cheeks glowing a shade of red that rivaled the interior of Pang's emergency hot sauce drawer. She nearly knocked over her chair as she sat down, clutching her milk tea like it was a ward against demons.

Da Bing, ever loyal, gave her a look of mild concern before promptly hopping up onto her desk and settling himself like a white, judgmental cloud, curling his tail around her laptop as his blue eyes shifted lazily toward the group of men still grinning and pretending not to be listening.

Yao, clearly still seething from embarrassment, muttered just loud enough for those closest to hear, "Perverted hooligan men…"

Sicheng, still seated just a few feet away, lazily arched a brow, utterly unapologetic as he sipped his milk tea like he hadn't just made her short-circuit in front of the entire team.

Yao shot him a glare, only to immediately avert her eyes when he smirked in that slow, possessive way that made her feel far too warm for someone wearing a hoodie indoors. "…all banned from my apartment," she mumbled to herself, stabbing her straw into her drink with unnecessary force. "I'll sleep on the stairs before I let one of you hooligans inside again." Da Bing let out a soft, approving chirp, stretching with one paw as if volunteering to enforce that ban. "I'll personally ask Da Bing to terrorize you all," she added under her breath. "Especially you , Cheng-ge."

Yue snorted from across the room, barely restraining a cackle. "Wait, you got marked up by my brother, covered it , then called him the hooligan?"

Pang leaned over, stage-whispering, "I feel like we're watching an indie romcom with emotional violence."

Ming looked up from his monitor, deadpan. "She already has him by the collar and the throat. It's honestly impressive."

Sicheng didn't say a word. But he did glance over at Yao, his gaze dragging over her frame before meeting her eyes, heavy-lidded and knowing. And when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—just loud enough for her to hear, and no one else. "You're not banning anyone, Xiǎo tùzǐ ," he murmured, darkly amused. "Not after the way you moaned into my mouth last night."

Yao choked on her tea so hard, Da Bing immediately sat up and placed a paw on her arm like he was bracing for her to faint. She slapped a hand over her face with a small, muffled, " I hate you ."

Sicheng only smirked. "Mm. No you don't."

The moment those last words left Sicheng's mouth—smug, low, and far too pleased with himself—there was a beat of silence.

Then a sound.

A tiny, high-pitched growl.

It came from her desk.

Sicheng didn't even have time to blink before Xiao Cong , her fluffy gray-striped menace of a kitten, rose from his plush bed atop her desk like a storm cloud given life. His tail fluffed to double its normal size as he stomped— actually stomped —toward the edge of the desk, tiny paws hitting the wood with the most dramatic little thuds a kitten his size could possibly manage.

And then he hissed.

Loud. Fierce. Outraged.

At Lu Sicheng.

Yao blinked, startled. "Xiao Cong?"

The kitten bared his baby teeth with what he clearly thought was an intimidating snarl, his whole body puffed and trembling with righteous fury, as if he'd just witnessed the worst insult to her honor that the world had ever known.

Sicheng turned his head slowly, brow arching.

The kitten hissed again, louder.

Then let out a tiny, furious yowl .

Yao immediately cupped her hands over her burning face and muttered through her fingers, " Oh my god. "

Da Bing looked vaguely impressed.

Yue burst out laughing so hard he nearly dropped his headset. "He's defending her honor! That's your son, Yao!"

"That's our furry menace," Pang whispered dramatically.

"I think he just challenged Sicheng to a duel," Lao Mao added, eyes wide.

Sicheng stared at the furious fluff-ball, entirely unamused. "You've got to be kidding me."

Xiao Cong took one threatening step closer to the edge of the desk and swatted the air with one paw—tiny, ineffective, but full of attitude.

Yao finally dragged her hands down her face and gave the kitten a helpless look. "Xiao Cong, he's not an enemy. He—he brings you snacks, remember?"

The kitten hissed again as if snacks would never undo such dishonor.

Sicheng narrowed his eyes. "You're lucky you're cute." he muttered, staring the kitten down. "But you better remember who taught you how to use the automatic feeder."

Xiao Cong bared his teeth again, unimpressed.

"I live with lunatics." Yao groaned and slumped forward over her desk. 

Da Bing curled back up on the edge of the cushion with the air of someone who had seen too much and was simply tired .

Yue wiped tears from his eyes. "This is the best thing I've ever seen. I want this printed. Framed. Put on a commemorative shirt."

Sicheng slowly sipped his milk tea again, glaring at the kitten over the rim.

Xiao Cong hissed one final time before turning his back on Sicheng entirely, tail high, fluffed with defiance.

The war had begun.

The rest of the day at the base turned into something straight out of a war drama—one where the smallest, fluffiest soldier had declared the battlefield, drawn the line, and stood his ground with all the righteousness of a knight sworn to a single queen.

Xiao Cong, the deceptively adorable Maine Coon kitten with a noble heart and murder in his tiny eyes, had officially declared his mama off-limits.

To everyone .

He had chosen his post with purpose—curled into a crouch at the edge of Yao's desk, tail wrapped tightly around his oversized paws, ears perked, pupils narrowed to judgmental slits. And anyone— anyone —who came within one step too many of Yao's chair or dared lean in her direction, was immediately met with a low growl that sounded suspiciously like the warning rumble of a tiny motorcycle engine.

And the hissing?

Frequent.

Unapologetic.

With all teeth on display.

Yao had tried to reason with him, her hands gently cupping his furred cheeks as she whispered, "Xiao Cong, baby, I promise I'm okay," only for the kitten to let out the softest chirp of protest and headbutt her chin before returning to his guard post, unbothered and unmoved.

The team?

Not so lucky.

Yue made the mistake of leaning over the back of Yao's chair to peek at her screen—once—and barely dodged a swipe to his face. "He went for my nose!" he shouted, half-laughing, half-staggering back. "He actually tried to remove my nose!"

"He's protecting his Empress," Pang said solemnly, perched at the edge of the armrest like he was observing a sacred ritual. "We are but peasants now."

"I'm fine with being a peasant if it means not getting clawed," Lao Mao muttered as he moved in a wide arc just to get around her side of the desk.

Lao K, ever the quiet one, merely nodded at the kitten with genuine respect and offered a low, approving "zhàn shì," under his breath. Warrior.

But the real twist?

Da Bing had joined him. The massive white cat had taken up position directly behind Yao's chair—sphinx-like, eyes narrowed, tail slowly flicking back and forth like a living metronome of judgment. Every once in a while, when Xiao Cong let out a growl, Da Bing would add a low, approving trill, clearly giving his apprentice full support.

And Lu Sicheng?

Sicheng was sulking.

Visibly.

He didn't even try to hide it. Seated across the room, arms folded, legs stretched out, sipping his fourth milk tea of the day like it had personally offended him, he glared at the back of Yao's head like she had orchestrated the entire kitten-led military coup. She had not. And yet here she was. Curled slightly over her desk, shoulders hunched, her ears pink with embarrassment as she tried to type while Xiao Cong stared down Pang for daring to sneeze too close to her.

"I don't know what's happening anymore," she whispered.

Ming, seated nearby, still reviewing footage, didn't even look up. "You're being protected by two cats, one of whom has declared open war on all males within a five-foot radius."

Yao sighed. "But I didn't ask them to."

"They don't care."

Sicheng narrowed his eyes. "I feed that little menace. I bought him fresh salmon. This is how he repays me?"

As if summoned, Xiao Cong turned and hissed at him.

Loudly.

Twice.

Yao immediately clapped a hand over her face and groaned, while Da Bing, ever loyal, sat silently behind her and blinked at Sicheng with ancient judgment.

Lu Sicheng, dethroned, crossed his arms and muttered into his drink, "Fine. This is how it's gonna be."

The tension was thick. Not the kind that came from actual arguments or the ever-present competition between egos during training sessions—but the ridiculous, slow-simmering standoff that could only come from one stubborn, territorial Captain and a kitten with main character syndrome.

Sicheng sat slouched at his station, arms folded across his chest, sipping moodily at his lukewarm tea like it had wronged him in a past life. His jaw was tight, his brows drawn low, and he hadn't looked over at Yao—or her feline guard squad—in over fifteen minutes. Not because he wasn't aware of her.

He was.

Very much so.

But she hadn't looked his way once, and her kitten was still glaring at him like he owed someone rent.

The soft clack of keys filled the air again as the others tried to ignore the absurdity, until Lao K—calm, measured, always just on the edge of fed-up with everyone's nonsense—finally muttered without looking up from his keyboard, "Just apologize."

Sicheng blinked. "What?"

Lao K's tone was dry. "You're sulking like a hooligan over a makeup-covered love bite. Apologize to her."

"I'm not sulking—"

"You are sulking," Pang interjected, not even hiding his grin.

Yue chimed in without missing a beat, "And definitely a hooligan."

"I'm not—"

"You said you were gonna bite her somewhere she wouldn't be able to cover," Lao K added smoothly, finally glancing over at him. "Which is the textbook definition of hooligan."

Sicheng opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Looked away.

Da Bing, still settled in silent guard mode behind Yao's chair, blinked slowly at him like he too was judging. Xiao Cong let out a soft but ominous growl, barely louder than a purr but full of disdain.

"I brought him salmon." Sicheng muttered sulkily.

"He remembers," Yue said cheerfully. "Every time he hisses at you."

Lao K exhaled. "Just walk over there, apologize for being a sulking hooligan, tell her she looked beautiful this morning even without the mark, and maybe— maybe —Da Bing will lift the ban."

Sicheng stared down at his desk. His pride was loud. But her silence? Louder. And when he glanced up—just once—his eyes caught on her profile. The way she was curled slightly toward the screen, still typing, utterly focused. The soft braid over her shoulder. The pink curve of her ear.

Yeah.

He was definitely going to have to apologize.

Even if it meant negotiating with a kitten.

The silence had stretched long enough that even Ming, who rarely got involved in their antics unless absolutely necessary, finally sighed—a deep, resigned sound that came from the core of someone forced to live among emotionally constipated idiots and their war-waging pets. He rose from his chair with a slow push, already shaking his head. 

Crossing the room without a word, he made his way to the fridge, pulled it open, and retrieved the small container labeled 'Da Bing / Xiao Cong – DO NOT TOUCH – SERIOUSLY, I'M NOT KIDDING – YAO.'

Inside it?

Fresh tuna. Cut perfectly. Chilled. The good kind.

The kind they only got as a treat.

The kind that made Da Bing purr loud enough to shake the walls.

Ming shut the fridge, turned, walked past the training row, and stopped directly in front of Lu Sicheng, who was still slouched in his chair, still refusing to move, still sipping tea like it was his only friend in a cruel, unfair world. Without a word, Ming placed the container of tuna down in front of him on the desk.

Dead center.

With a look that could only be described as dry judgment incarnate .

"Tribute." he said flatly.

Sicheng blinked.

Ming didn't elaborate, just stood there, arms crossed.

" Oh my god, we're actually bribing the cats now." Yue immediately choked on a laugh. 

Pang leaned in. "I mean… it might work."

"It's a peace offering," Lao Mao muttered. "Let it happen."

Lao K was already nodding solemnly. "It's a strategic surrender."

Sicheng stared at the container like it was a ticking bomb.

Ming raised a brow. "You want back in her apartment or not?"

Sicheng exhaled slowly through his nose, stared down at the tuna, then picked it up like it was a sacrificial relic. "Fine." 

And with all the grace of a man swallowing his pride in favor of winning back the favor of a kitten and his Queen, Lu Sicheng stood and moved toward her desk.

Carrying tuna.

Because love, apparently, came with claws.

As soon as Lu Sicheng rose from his seat, container of tuna in hand and all brooding pride temporarily buried beneath the weight of Operation: Earn Forgiveness from Kitten and Intended, the air shifted.

Yue was already perched sideways in his chair, arms crossed, looking far too invested for someone not directly involved. Pang had scooted his seat a full two feet closer to get a better view. Lao Mao was holding back a grin behind his energy drink. And Lao K was suspiciously quiet—the kind of quiet that always meant he was watching and mentally taking notes.

But Ming?

Ming had had enough. He turned, arms still folded, and swept a narrow-eyed look across the entire row of them. His tone was flat, clipped, and brooked zero argument. "Scram." Four heads turned toward him. "Now," he added. "None of you need to be here for this. None of you are helpful. You've all been narrating this like it's a soap opera for the last hour, and I'm two seconds from banning you from the lounge."

Yue opened his mouth.

Ming cut him a look so sharp Yue actually closed it.

Pang held up both hands. "Right, yes, totally inappropriate. We'll take our chaos elsewhere."

"I didn't even say anything—" Lao Mao started.

"Out."

"But I was sitting here first—"

"I don't care."

Lao K, unbothered, rose without a word and started walking. "I'm taking my coffee and my dignity." he muttered.

Pang grabbed Yue by the sleeve and started dragging him. "Come on, man. Let's go before Ming smites us."

"Smite me?" Yue huffed. "I was emotionally invested!"

"You can write fanfiction later," Pang replied.

Lao Mao sighed, shoving himself up. "Better than getting murdered by a dry-voiced Midlaner."

Within thirty seconds, the training area was clear—only the faint echo of Yue's dramatic groan fading down the hall.

And Ming?

Ming turned back toward Sicheng, who stood a few feet away with the tuna still in hand, expression unreadable. With a faint nod and deadpan tone, he said, "Good luck, Captain."

Then turned and left without another word. Because if anyone was going to restore balance to the base? It was the man with the tuna.

The quiet that followed the exodus of the others settled like a gentle hush across the base, broken only by the faint hum of electronics and the occasional soft click of Yao's keyboard. She hadn't noticed they'd all scattered. She was too focused—shoulders slightly hunched, one knee drawn up in her chair, her platinum braid falling forward as she worked, completely unaware of the silent war and the peace treaty being negotiated on her behalf.

And Lu Sicheng?

He stood there for a beat longer, container of fresh tuna in one hand, his pride bruised but not broken. Because this wasn't about ego anymore. It was about her. And the fact that he'd made her flustered, then sulked about something she hadn't even realized would upset him, then brooded like a silent storm in the same room until even the damn kitten turned on him.

Yeah.

He could admit, silently, to himself, that he might've acted like a possessive ass.

So he moved.

Crossing the short distance to her desk with quiet steps, not stomping, not smug—just present, deliberate. When he reached her side, he didn't speak right away. Just… paused, long enough for her to feel him.

And she did.

Yao glanced up, startled, then blinked. Her gaze dropped to the container in his hands. Then back up to his face. She frowned slightly, puzzled. "Cheng-ge?"

Sicheng exhaled, the sound low, and not quite a sigh. He set the container on her desk gently—right in front of Xiao Cong. The kitten looked at the offering. Looked at him and growled again. But it was softer this time. "I brought tribute," he said finally, voice dry, gaze shifting from Xiao Cong to Da Bing, who merely narrowed his eyes as if weighing the cost of forgiveness.

Yao blinked again, brow furrowing.

Sicheng turned back to her, hands slipping into his pockets. His voice dropped, lower now, quieter. Just for her. "And…" he added, "I may have acted like a sulking hooligan."

She tilted her head, clearly caught between suspicion and the urge to laugh. "May have?"

He exhaled again, this time more like surrender. "I was a sulking hooligan."

Her lips twitched, but she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to stay serious. "I'm not mad at you," she said softly, reaching out to gently pet Da Bing behind the ears. "I just… didn't think it was a big deal to cover it."

His voice was rough now, gentled only by the way he looked at her. "It wasn't about the mark."

She looked up, eyes curious.

"It was about you," he continued. "Standing up for me this morning. Believing in me like that. And then—hours later—pretending like none of it happened."

She flushed.

But he wasn't done. "I didn't want to be visible," he murmured. "I wanted to be remembered."

Her eyes widened just a little, her lips parting.

And then—

Xiao Cong gave a cautious sniff toward the tuna.

Took one bite.

Then settled down with a loud, dramatic sigh, tail curled neatly around his paws.

Truce accepted.

Sicheng looked down at Yao, one brow lifting. "Do I get to come near you again, or do I need to write an essay for Da Bing too?"

Yao smiled—shy, small, but full of warmth—and reached out, fingers brushing his. "You can stay," she said softly, cheeks pink. "But you still owe me dinner."

He smirked, leaning down just enough to brush a kiss against her temple. "Deal."

Sicheng had just started to turn, ready to head back to his station now that the tension had finally cooled and the kitten tribunal had accepted his offering, when he felt a soft tug at his fingers. He paused. Looked down.

Yao's hand was still wrapped gently around his, her smaller fingers curling into his with just enough pressure to hold him in place. She was still seated in her chair, her expression uncertain but her eyes warm, wide, and glowing with something quiet—something tender. He leaned slightly, just enough to meet her halfway, brow arched. And she rose up on her toes—just a little—gripping his hand tighter as she tugged him down the rest of the way. Then, with her cheeks flushed and her heart thudding wildly in her chest, she pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to his lips.

Just a whisper of a touch. But it was hers. When she pulled back, she didn't look away—not this time. She held his gaze, her voice soft but steady, and laced with something deeper than any declaration he'd ever heard. "You'll always be remembered," she whispered, her thumb brushing lightly along the side of his hand. "By me. Not because of anything you do. Or what anyone says. But because of who you are. And what you mean to me."

For a long, still moment, Sicheng just stood there, caught in the center of that truth. No teasing. No smirk. Just her. And the words she gave like they were pieces of her heart laid bare for him to hold. He leaned forward again, barely brushing his forehead to hers, his voice rough and low. "Then I'll never let you forget it." And with that, he straightened, gave her hand one last gentle squeeze and walked back to his station. Not because he was finished with her. But because he'd been given something he'd never ask for and would never, ever, take for granted.