Chapter 45: Quiet Claims and Soft Surrenders

Summary: Amid the hush of a quiet evening, warmth blooms in silence as trust deepens between two hearts learning how to rest in each other. Boundaries are honored, promises are kept, and in the stillness of shared spaces, something unspoken begins to take root. Not everything needs to be said when every touch already speaks volumes.

Chapter Forty-Five

The Sago family returned to their house in silence, the kind that didn't come from peace but from humiliation, from the choking realization that the empire of lies they'd built had already crumbled beneath their feet. The house was dark, not because the sun had set, but because they'd cut the power. The front lawn was overgrown, the once-manicured hedges untrimmed and wild. And the door, when unlocked, creaked like a warning. Their daughter stormed inside first, heels clicking angrily on the hardwood, snapping something sharp about the bank being out of their minds, about her school still refusing to reinstate her. The aunt followed behind, pale and tired, no makeup, no pearls, only a faded cardigan and the faint smell of fear clinging to her skin. The uncle brought up the rear, shoulders tight, his phone still clenched in his hand though no one had returned his calls in days. The silence from the embassy. The silence from the board. From their friends. Their contacts.

There was nothing left.

No calls. No credit. No friends. No funds.

They hadn't yet noticed the open study door. 

Not until the uncle turned the corner, intending to retrieve the last of his personal files—only to stop dead in the doorway. His wife followed, then their daughter, all three halting as if they'd struck an invisible wall.

Because someone was already sitting at the desk.

Not a thug.

Not a cop.

But something much, much worse.

The man behind the desk wore no expression, only a black suit tailored with silent precision, gloved hands folded neatly as if he had been waiting for hours—or days—with the kind of patience that only came from knowing there would be no escape. Not anymore. He didn't stand. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The weight of his presence filled the room like smoke.

And then—

He stood.

But only because she had arrived. The sound of her heels came first. Slow. Perfectly spaced. Measured like the drumbeat of execution.

Chen Kaya entered dressed in all black, not a hair out of place, a long coat buttoned to her throat and a stillness in her movements that could make shadows run. She removed her gloves one finger at a time as she stepped into the study, her presence consuming the room in full silence. She nodded once to the man at the desk—the man who had eliminated the threat that had come for Tong Yao months ago and had done it so quietly, so effectively, that the Tongs had never even known they were already being watched. They knew now. They could see it in her eyes. 

Chen Kaya did not come to warn them. She came to end them. "I see the electricity's been shut off," she said softly, setting her gloves across the desk. "How unfortunate. It's always hard to say goodbye when you can't see what you're losing."

The uncle took a breath, trying to find his footing in the collapse. "You—You can't—"

"I already did." Her voice was calm, smooth, carved of precision. "The money is gone. The houses—gone. The overseas accounts you thought were hidden? Gone. Your daughter's enrollment? Canceled. The loans you took to hold onto your image? Defaulted. And the only reason you're not in prison is because this... is personal. "

The daughter began trembling, chest hitching in shallow gasps.

The aunt fell back against the wall, eyes wide, mouth open.

Chen Kaya stepped forward, tilting her head slightly. "You tried to destroy someone under my protection. You helped orchestrate an assault against her. You planned to ruin her body, her mind, and take what her mother left her. You would have had her institutionalized so you could claim her trust." She leaned forward just slightly, her voice now nothing but steel under silk. "You didn't fail because you were sloppy. You failed because someone got there first. One of ours —a man far quieter than me. A man who made sure your hired monster never walked out of that studio. And Yao never even knew."

The cousin whimpered.

Kaya turned her eyes to her and the temperature in the room dropped further. "You wanted to be someone in her place. But you were never her. And you never will be." No one spoke. No one breathed. "Do you know what the difference is," she began, her voice soft and composed, "between people like you and people like me?" None of them answered. "I remember what I owe," she said. Her fingers moved with quiet grace, reaching inside her coat, pulling free the sleek black pistol already fitted with a silencer. She didn't lift it yet. She didn't need to. The sight of it was enough to unravel them.

The aunt staggered back first, lips trembling. "W-Wait—please—we didn't mean for—"

The cousin dropped to her knees. "I didn't—I didn't know what they were doing! I was just trying to help—please—I didn't touch her—I never—!"

The uncle opened his mouth to shout something—excuse, threat, plea—but he never finished it.

Because Kaya raised the gun.

One shot.

Straight through his forehead.

He crumpled without grace, slamming into the corner of the desk before collapsing onto the carpet.

The aunt screamed.

She turned next.

One shot.

Clean. Centered.

The woman dropped like a puppet with her strings cut, landing in a silent heap beside her husband.

And then the cousin, sobbing now, crawling backwards until she hit the wall, hands raised, shaking her head, "I didn't mean it—I didn't—please, I swear—I'll disappear—no one has to know—!"

Kaya's expression never changed. There was no hate in her face. No thrill. No cruelty. Only precision. Only the finality of duty. One more shot. The girl slumped forward, cheek pressed to the carpet.

Kaya stared at them all for a long, still moment, then turned and slipped her pistol away, the motion smooth, practiced, and undisturbed. She stepped back, retrieved her gloves from the desk, and slid them on with the solemnity of ritual. Not a hair out of place. Not a tremor in her breath. Then she turned to the silent man at her side. "Burn everything," she said softly. "Nothing of value is left." And then she walked out. Not once looking back. Because the Sagos weren't ghosts anymore. They were ash.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The fire would be seen from the road in less than ten minutes. But no one would trace it. No one would question it. No one would even know where to begin.

Chen Kaya stepped through the front door without a single speck of ash on her coat, her gloves smoothed and buttoned into place, her expression composed and untouched. The soft breeze outside brushed past her like the world itself knew better than to linger in her presence. And as she reached the sleek black car waiting at the curb, the driver stepped out, opened the door in complete silence, and bowed his head with respectful precision.

She slid inside with all the poise of royalty stepping into her carriage. The door closed behind her with a soft, definitive click. Inside, the leather interior was quiet and cool. She adjusted the seat, crossed her legs, then pulled her phone from her coat pocket and tapped her husband's number first.

The call connected after one ring.

Chen Kazemi's voice, deep and rich, laced with that familiar warmth that only she ever saw, answered smoothly, "You done?"

"It's handled," Kaya replied, tone calm and clipped but threaded with that faint intimacy that only surfaced with him. "I'm on my way home."

There was a pause, and then a chuckle rumbled through the line. "I take it no mess?"

"None. No noise, no evidence. And I expect dinner waiting," s he said, voice dipping with unmistakable promise. "Something decadent. Red meat. Something expensive. And wine. A proper vintage."

He laughed. "Anything you want, Kaya."

"I know." she murmured, lips curving slightly before she ended the call. Without missing a beat, she tapped in a second number.

This one rang longer.

Then connected.

Lu Sicheng's voice, sharp and alert despite the hour, came through the line. "You calling to tell me it's done?"

"They're finished," Kaya replied, gaze flicking lazily to the burning silhouette of the house in the rear-view mirror as the car pulled away. "All three of them. No suffering. Just silence."

There was a pause.

Then a low exhale from the other end. "Did they beg?"

She tilted her head slightly. "They tried."

"Didn't work, did it?"

"You know better." she said simply.

Silence stretched for a moment, then his voice came back low, edged in finality. "Good.

Lu Sicheng stared at the screen for a long moment after the call ended, the soft ping of the line disconnecting hanging briefly in the air before silence settled around him. The weight of those final words lingered—all three of them, no suffering, just silence. He leaned back in his chair, let his phone drop lightly onto the desk, and shook his head once, a quiet breath pushing through his nose. Not out of surprise exactly—Chen Kaya was a force he'd long respected from a distance—but still, it was something else entirely to know she had taken this into her own hands. Not for him. Not for the Lu family. But for Yao. His fingers tapped once against the wood, slow and thoughtful.

Of all the people in the world, his sweet, shy, easily flustered Xiǎo tùzǐ had her in her corner. Kaya, the woman who could walk through a room of killers and never flinch. The woman who had once been a whispered name in the darker circles of international business and underground loyalty. The one married into the Chen family not just by name, but by power. And she had done this for Yao. No deal. No contract.

Sicheng rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, lips twitching faintly, not in amusement, but in a kind of disbelief threaded with pride. His Xiǎo tùzǐ, with her long platinum hair and soft voice, who still flushed when he kissed the corner of her mouth or teased her too closely during their quiet evenings—she didn't even realize how the world bent subtly around her. How people noticed her not for her fire, but for her light. How they fell, slowly and helplessly, not in awe, but in wanting—wanting to know her, to protect her, to stand near that calm, grounded core that had held even him when he hadn't known he needed it. She didn't strut. She didn't demand. She simply was. And it was enough to make the most dangerous woman he'd ever met carve out retribution without a second thought. He picked his phone back up, absently turning it over in his hand, his gaze drifting toward the faint outline of the photo beside his monitor—the one Yao had taken without realizing, of Da Bing and Xiao Cong curled up on her desk, his jacket draped over her chair in the background.

His.

All of it.

Because somehow, without ever trying to be, she had become the center of everything. And if people like Kaya were her protectors? Well. They could get in line. Because he wasn't going anywhere.

It didn't take him long to find her. It never did. Not when it came to her. The base was quiet—too quiet for midafternoon, which told him Rui had either sent the team on errands or Kwon had dragged them into the meeting room to review footage, and either way, it meant he had time. Time he didn't plan on wasting.

Sicheng's steps were soundless down the hall, phone still in his back pocket, thoughts still lingering somewhere between the earlier call and the quiet thrum of possessiveness in his chest. A storm of quiet rage had already passed through his blood hours ago—cold, calculated, and handled with precision. Kaya's words still rang in his head, final and absolute. And yet it was only now, now, that the last of the tension in his shoulders began to loosen. Because he felt her nearby. That pull—silent, magnetic, undeniable. He reached the door to the gym, pushed it open with barely a breath of sound, and then—

There she was.

On the mat near the back wall, her hair swept into a loose high ponytail, wisps of platinum strands clinging to her neck and cheek, eyes closed in quiet concentration. Her arms were raised overhead, her back arching in a controlled stretch, and as she shifted fluidly into her next pose, one leg curled behind her in a graceful bend, foot held tightly by her opposite hand. Her breath was slow, rhythmic. Grounded.

She hadn't seen him yet.

And it took everything in him not to say anything. Not yet.

She looked… unreal.

The tight black leggings clung to her every movement like they were painted on, and that blood-red tank top—thin, almost gauzy—was barely keeping pace with the curve of her body. The sweat along her collarbone gleamed faintly under the recessed lights above, and as she inhaled, her chest rose with soft focus, her entire being folded into the pose, unaware, unguarded.

He could've looked away.

He didn't.

Sicheng took a step forward, slow and quiet, not out of hesitation but out of respect—because as much as her presence always lit something low and hot in his gut, it was her peace that made him still. She moved like she belonged to the air itself, delicate and balanced, and yet stronger than anyone gave her credit for.

His Xiǎo tùzǐ.

Stillness wrapped around her.

And all he could think was that the world had no damn clue what it had almost destroyed. And what it had failed to touch. He leaned against the doorframe, one arm crossing his chest, watching her with unreadable eyes, not saying a word. Not yet. Because there was something sacred about watching her like this. Unaware. Untouched. Completely and utterly herself. His breath caught, low and sharp in his throat. The moment her body arched back, hands steady on the mat and feet grounded, her torso lifting upward with quiet, impossible grace, Lu Sicheng went utterly still.

Her head tilted back slowly, the line of her throat fully exposed, the curve of her neck bared with absolute trust, with her eyes still closed and breath smooth—deep and even, completely unaware of the way she was unraveling him one slow, devastating second at a time. Her skin was flushed faintly from exertion, a soft sheen of sweat catching the light across her stomach as it stretched with the motion, ribs expanding beneath that clingy, crimson top that had no business being that thin or that tight.

His fingers twitched at his side, jaw tightening, heat pooling low in his gut. She had no idea. No idea what she looked like in that exact moment—folded back, hair cascading like molten silver toward the floor, her chest rising with every breath, her throat exposed like a mark of surrender, and not for anyone but him. Not for the world. Just for the air. For herself.

And yet—

All he saw was his.

That small, brilliant, dangerous woman who could tear down his walls with a single word and who still blushed like she didn't know the power she held in the crook of her pinky finger. His eyes darkened fully, amber glowing molten under the soft lights. It wasn't just want—it was claiming . It was the storm of possessiveness he always kept chained, coiled deep under his skin, roaring now in silence because that stretch of bare skin, that soft sound of breath, that fragile curve of her throat…

Yao straightened slowly from her pose, her spine uncurling with practiced ease, arms sliding down as she exhaled softly through parted lips, the faintest bead of sweat trickling down her temple. Her eyes blinked open—

And froze.

Lu Sicheng stood in the doorway, half-shadowed, one arm still crossed against his chest, the other braced against the frame, watching her with an expression that sent a jolt of déjà vu crashing straight through her.

That look.

That exact look.

She knew that look.

It was the same one he'd worn the last time he had caught her doing yoga. The same slow, smoldering, devastating heat that turned molten gold into something darker, heavier, hungrier. It wasn't angry. It wasn't urgent. It was inevitable. Her breath hitched. And just like that—she moved.

Fast.

Spinning on the ball of her foot, she darted across the gym floor, barely sparing a second to snatch her towel from the bench. "Nope. No, not again!" she muttered under her breath, already reaching for the hallway door.

But behind her?

Footsteps.

Measured. Intentional. Following.

She squeaked—a soft, high-pitched sound that she would absolutely deny making later—and picked up speed, bare feet slapping against the tile as she made a break for her apartment. Her heart thudded, not with fear but with anticipation she didn't know how to manage, and it only accelerated as she reached her door, threw it open, slipped inside—

The door slammed shut behind her, the click of the lock catching under Sicheng's hand. He was there. Right behind her. His palm rested flat on the door above her head as his body blocked the only exit, every inch of him close enough to feel, his heat pouring into the space between them like a living thing.

She groaned softly, both hands gripping the edge of the door as her forehead dropped forward with a muttered, "I knew it. I knew it."

His voice came low and warm behind her ear, amused and dark, the sound sending heat curling down her spine. "You really shouldn't run, Xiǎo tùzǐ," he murmured, eyes glinting as they drifted down the line of her neck. "You make me chase you, and I stop thinking clearly."

Her cheeks flushed crimson as she slowly turned to face him, pressed between the door and him. And she wasn't sure if she wanted to escape…

Yao's breath caught as she stared up at him, her back pressed to the closed door, every inch of her body hyper aware of the man standing so close in front of her. Her hazel eyes were wide, lashes fluttering as the intensity in his gaze seemed to crawl across her skin like fire—slow and consuming. She could feel the warmth of him even without him touching her, could see the way his golden-amber eyes darkened just slightly as he looked at her, as if holding himself back with every ounce of discipline he possessed.

Then he leaned in, close enough that she could feel the faintest brush of his breath against her temple, his voice low, rough, but steady. "Yao," he murmured, his tone carrying that quiet weight that always slipped beneath her defenses. "You tell me to stop, anytime. You so much as flinch, whisper no, look unsure—I stop. No hesitation." He paused, his hand rising slowly to rest flat against the door beside her head, his body not touching hers, but so close she could barely think straight. "Everything," he said quietly, "is in your hands, Wǔ xiān."

Her cheeks burned as she swallowed hard, heart thudding like a drum against her ribs. She could barely breathe, her fingers tightening slightly at her sides as her eyes darted to his lips for the briefest second before she dropped her gaze. Her bottom lip pulled between her teeth, and she gave a small, shy nod before her voice came out soft, trembling but sure. "Then…" she whispered, barely audible, "can you… teach me again? Like before?"

Her words hung between them, delicate and hesitant, but not uncertain.

He stilled.

Completely.

And then—

His eyes darkened further, and something in him shifted, low and possessive, like a current beneath the calm. He didn't speak immediately. But his body did. His hand slid gently from the door and curled around the back of her neck, his thumb brushing just beneath her jaw, steady and grounding. And then he leaned in closer still, his voice a low rumble against her ear, his control taut but laced with something deeper—something reverent. "I'll teach you," he whispered, "exactly like before." His lips grazed the shell of her ear. "We'll go slow."

Lu Sicheng didn't move right away. His thumb continued its slow, steady stroke just beneath her jaw, his body carefully restrained, every inch of him humming with tension—but not the dangerous kind. This was something older, deeper, heavier than want. It was the kind of restraint that only came from reverence, from intention, from holding something precious and knowing just how fragile it was. His eyes searched her flushed, beautiful face, her cheeks burning with color and her lashes lowered, but her voice was clear when it came—soft, shy, but steady.

"I… I think I'd be more comfortable…" she began, her words trailing off for a moment as she bit down on her lower lip again. "In my bedroom… on the bed. Laying down. Just us… I trust you, Cheng-ge. I do. I know you'll stop if I need you to…" She paused, her eyes flicking up to his with quiet vulnerability. "I'm not ready to go all the way… but… I still want to learn. I still want to be close to you. I just…" Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible, as she added, "I'm just… not ready for that part yet."

He inhaled slowly through his nose, the breath deep, steady, measured. Not because he was frustrated. But because her words—I trust you—hit deeper than anything else ever could. His hand moved from her neck to gently cradle her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing beneath her eye, then over her flushed skin. He leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to hers, his voice soft and warm, the kind of warmth that didn't burn, but wrapped around her like a shield. "Bedroom it is," he murmured. "We lay down. We go slow. Nothing more than what you ask for. Nothing less than what you want." His lips brushed her temple, reverent. "I'll take care of you, Xiǎo tùzǐ. Always." And with her soft nod and quiet breath, he took her hand in his—fingers lacing carefully with hers—as they turned together toward her room. Because it wasn't about want. It was about trust.`

The moment they stepped into her room, the soft scent of lavender and something unmistakably Yao wrapped around him like silk. It was quiet, warm, and dim, the soft light from the corner lamp casting a muted glow across the space that had become hers, filled with her presence, her things—her soul etched into every corner. She had let her hair down. He noticed it instantly. The platinum strands spilled like moonlight over her shoulders, framing her face, catching light in a way that made her look like a painting brought to life. She barely had time to react before his hands shifted, one at her waist, the other behind her thighs.

And then she squeaked. He picked her up easily, lifting her with that same infuriating ease he always had—confident, careful, and just a bit smug. She gave him a wide-eyed look that was part flustered and part indignation as he lowered her gently onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her as her platinum hair fanned out across the pillow. He leaned over her, one knee braced on the edge, his amber eyes gleaming with warmth and something darker, something deeper, but still held back behind all the control he wielded so naturally.

"You squeaked again." he murmured, a teasing smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"Did not." she whispered, cheeks already flushing as she avoided his gaze.

His smirk widened just slightly. "Did too." And then he didn't give her the chance to argue.

He kissed her.

Deep.

Slow.

Sensual.

His mouth moved against hers with deliberate precision, lips brushing, claiming, teasing. His hand came up, fingers tangling gently into her loose hair as he tilted her head, deepening the kiss. When her breath caught and her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, he nipped her bottom lip, drawing out the softest gasp—one that sent fire racing through his blood. But he didn't lose control. Instead, he pulled back just enough to trail his lips along her jaw, slow and languid, before dipping down to the smooth curve of her neck. He kissed her there—once, then twice—before his teeth grazed lightly along the spot just beneath her ear, earning the faintest shiver from her. "You're beautiful," he murmured against her skin, his voice low, rough, and threaded with something far more tender than she'd expected. And he meant every word. Because laid out beneath him, her hair scattered across the pillow, her body warm and soft, her breath unsteady and cheeks flushed—there was no word in any language strong enough to describe what she was to him. But beautiful would do for now.

Lu Sicheng lingered at her neck, the tip of his nose brushing softly along the curve just beneath her ear, where her pulse fluttered quick and erratic. Her breath caught again, delicate and uneven, and he could feel the way her fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt, trying to ground herself as the tension in her body tightened in ways she didn't fully understand yet—but he did. He knew exactly what her reactions meant.

And he planned to teach her everything .

Slowly.

His lips ghosted down the line of her neck, breath warm and mouth barely there, before he pressed a kiss—soft, firm, right at the place where her shoulder and neck met. She let out a small, trembling sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, her body arching ever so slightly. "Yao," he murmured, the sound of her name rasping from his throat like it belonged only to him, "remember what I said. You tell me if you want me to stop."

She nodded, her voice soft, shy. "I know… I remember…"

"Good," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, and then he kissed his way slowly down again, stopping at the hollow of her throat.

Her breathing picked up—light, almost shaky.

And his hand began to move. He let his palm settle low at her waist, fingers splayed wide, warm against the fabric of her leggings. Then, slowly— painfully slowly—he trailed his hand upward, his fingertips barely skimming along her ribcage before gliding up and then down again, tracing the same path in reverse, again and again. Never rushing. Never pressing too hard. Just enough. Just enough to make her body react before her thoughts could catch up. She whimpered softly. A sound that hit his gut like lightning. "There…" he rumbled, voice thicker now, edged with something darker, "you feel that?"

She nodded again, more breath than voice, eyes fluttering as her body trembled under his touch.

"Every time you make a sound like that, Xiǎo tùzǐ, " he murmured against the base of her throat, "I learn something new about you." His hand skimmed higher again, dragging lightly over her side, fingertips brushing the swell of her rib before he moved back down, tracing every inch of her waist like she was a map he was learning by heart. "You're ticklish here," he said lowly, brushing one particular spot that made her squirm and half-laugh through a gasp, flustered beyond reason. "And sensitive here…" he trailed a kiss just beneath her collarbone, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of her skin before his teeth grazed gently, pulling another soft cry from her lips. He grinned faintly against her skin as she shivered beneath him, her hands fisting tighter in his shirt. "Good girl," he murmured. "Keep making those sounds for me. Let me learn all of you…" His mouth didn't leave her skin. Not for a second. Not even as his hand, the one that had been trailing so carefully along her waist, began to shift—upward, slow and deliberate, testing boundaries, not with impatience but with the kind of control that came from experience and intention.

Yao gasped softly, barely audible, her body responding before her mind could catch up as he moved with an almost unbearable slowness. His fingers brushed up her side again, trailing heat through the thin fabric of her tank top, this time not stopping at her ribs.

Instead, his palm glided higher—across the flat of her stomach, up the center of her torso—and then paused, hovering just for a moment. "Tell me if it's too much," he murmured against her throat, his voice low, strained, but still steady, still hers. "If you need me to stop, you say it , Yao."

She didn't speak right away. Just nodded—shy, eyes wide, lips parted, but no fear in her gaze. Only trust. And a kind of vulnerable curiosity he didn't take lightly. So he moved, his palm finally cupping her through her top and the soft compression of her sports bra, fingers splayed warm and steady as he applied the gentlest pressure, not groping, not claiming—just holding.

Feeling.

Letting her feel.

She trembled beneath him, her breath hitching again, lashes fluttering as her hips shifted ever so slightly, her body unsure how to process the sensation. Her hands, still tangled in the front of his shirt, flexed tightly—once, twice—and then his name slipped from between her lips on a breathless whisper. "Cheng-ge…"

That was all it took.

His mouth moved lower, teeth grazing the side of her neck now—just the edge of his canines scraping skin, enough to sting lightly, enough to burn . Then his lips soothed the spot with another kiss, slow and sensual, before he dragged his tongue down the line of her throat again, the contrast of sharp and soft pulling another faint whimper from deep in her chest. He adjusted his grip slightly, brushing his thumb in a slow arc over the fabric, and she let out the quietest gasp, hips jerking involuntarily. "You feel that?" he murmured, his breath warm against her collarbone. "That heat? That ache?"

She nodded, her voice catching. "Y-Yes…"

His lips curved against her skin, just the faintest smile, dark and full of quiet praise. "Good girl." His breath was hot against her skin, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he stayed close, the weight of his body a warm, grounding presence above hers. His hand remained where it was—gentle, unmoving now, simply resting against the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she tried to catch her breath, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, her body trembling with sensation she hadn't even known she was capable of feeling. And then his voice came, low and husky, a rumble so deep it sent another shiver down her spine as he spoke directly into her ear. "I know you've never dated," he murmured, voice slow, coaxing. "Never been with anyone else. But tell me something, Xiǎo tùzǐ…" He paused, letting her feel the heat of his breath. "Have you ever touched yourself? Explored a little? Tried to figure out what you liked—what felt good?"

The effect was immediate.

She froze.

Her entire body went still, breath catching as her hazel eyes snapped open wide, the color in her face turning from rose-pink to full crimson in less than a heartbeat. Her mouth opened once, then closed, then opened again as her brain scrambled for a response. She squeaked softly, a choked noise of pure mortification escaping her as she twisted her head away slightly, biting hard into her lower lip. And then, in the tiniest, barely audible voice, she murmured, "N-No…"

He blinked, just once, pulling back a little to see her face more clearly. "No?" he asked gently, not mocking, not teasing—just confirming, surprised by the truth of it.

Yao shook her head once, just a slight motion, still not meeting his eyes. "I never… I never saw the reason," she whispered, flustered and trembling and sweetly honest. "I didn't think about it. Didn't really… need to."

There was a silence between them then—long, stretched, not awkward but weighted.

And Lu Sicheng stared at her, a million emotions crashing through him in one slow, powerful wave.

Desire.

Possession.

Tenderness.

And something deeper still, something raw, something primal that rooted itself in his chest like a vow. Because she didn't even know what her body could feel. Didn't know the things he could give her. Didn't know what it meant for someone to worship her the way she deserved.

His voice dropped again, deeper now, and when he leaned in to brush his lips just beneath her ear, his words came like velvet steel. "Then let me show you," he murmured. "Let me teach you everything, beautiful. Let me be your first in everything you choose to feel."

Yao's breath came out in a shaky rush, her chest rising beneath his palm where it still rested over her heart, the weight of his gaze holding her pinned just as firmly as his body above her. She swallowed hard, throat working around the lump of nerves, anticipation, and something far more tender that twisted up inside her with startling intensity. Her fingers, still clutching weakly at the fabric of his shirt, trembled. And then, slowly—so very slowly—she nodded. A single motion. Small. Shy. But certain. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, high and flustered, her words breaking in the middle. "H-How… how do we start?" Her cheeks flamed an even brighter red the moment the question left her lips, her eyes widening in silent horror at herself.

Sicheng didn't laugh. Didn't smirk. Didn't even move for a long breathless beat. Instead, his amber eyes darkened with something reverent. Something that burned. "Like this," he murmured, voice low and husky, the vibration of it slipping across her skin like silk. And then his hand, the one that had been gently cupping her through her shirt, slid downward—fingers trailing with aching slowness down the curve of her torso, past the dip of her waist, pausing only when he reached the band of her leggings. His knuckles brushed the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up, and she sucked in a breath as the warmth of his touch sent a shock of sensation through her. He didn't move further. Not yet. Not until he looked at her again. Not until his voice came, softer now, serious beneath the desire. "One last time, Xiǎo tùzǐ," he said gently, eyes searching hers. "Tell me. Do you want this? Do you want me to keep going?" And his fingers, warm and slow, dipped just barely under the waistband, teasing the edge of her skin—no pressure, no rush. Just the quiet, agonizing promise of what could come next.

Her breath shuddered in her throat. And then—eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flaming…. She gave the faintest, trembling nod. "Y-Yes…" she whispered. "Please…"

And that one word—

Please—

Lit something in him that no fire ever could.

Lu Sicheng moved slowly—every inch, every breath, every brush of his skin against hers steeped in the kind of reverence that spoke to just how much she meant to him. He never rushed. Never pushed. Because this wasn't just physical for him. This was her—his Xiǎo tùzǐ—laid bare beneath his hands, offering not just her body but her trust, her vulnerability, and he would treat that gift with nothing short of worship. His hand dipped beneath the waistband of her leggings, fingers slipping past the soft cotton of her underwear, moving with a slowness that made her breath catch in her throat and her hips tense beneath him. He kept his eyes on her face as his fingertips brushed the soft, delicate folds of her core, tracing the shape of her with a featherlight touch, not invading, not pressing—just learning.

And then—

A low, deep rumble left his chest. His lips, already pressed against her neck, curved as he kissed a trail from the hollow of her throat down to her shoulder, lingering there as his breath stirred her hair. "You're already wet for me," he murmured, voice thick with heat and something darker, something that wrapped around her like silk and sin all at once. "So sensitive, beautiful…"

She gasped softly at the sensation, her hands now clutching at his shoulders as her body arched without conscious thought, hips shifting, her breath stuttering.

"I haven't even started," he whispered, brushing his nose along her jaw, placing a kiss just below her ear. "And you're already trembling." His fingers moved with exquisite care, parting her folds slowly, drawing the lightest stroke along her most sensitive point. The noise she made was soft, high, involuntary—a breathy whimper that slipped past her lips before she could even think to muffle it. That sound. That sweet, innocent sound of hers. It nearly unraveled him. He pressed his lips to her pulse point again, trailing kisses down the line of her neck as he worked her slowly, his fingers memorizing every reaction—every twitch of her hips, every breathless gasp, every soft whine of his name like it meant something sacred. And to him? It did. Because this— she —was everything. He could feel it—the way her body tightened, trembled, clenched around his fingers with the slow, steady pull of something she didn't yet have a name for. Something that wasn't just pleasure. It was discovery. It was awakening. It was her body answering his hands, his mouth, his voice as if it had been waiting all along for him .

Lu Sicheng's breath deepened, the low rumble of it spilling against the shell of her ear as he pressed deeper, curling his fingers with a precision that was as instinctive as it was intentional, searching for that place— that exact spot —and when her hips jerked suddenly with a sharp gasp, he found it. "There it is," he growled softly, his voice dragging along the edge of restraint, thick with heat. "Right there, beautiful… that's yours. That's you ."

Her eyes flew open, hazy and wide, lips parted as her breath hitched again, her back arching off the bed with a sound that was nothing short of a desperate whimper. The pleasure was sharp now, overwhelming, pulling her under in waves she couldn't track. Her hands scrambled for him, one clutching his shoulder, the other tangling tightly in the front of his shirt like she might fall apart if she let go.

And then—

His thumb moved.

Slow.

Firm.

Circling the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her folds with the same patience, the same care, the same devastating precision as everything else he did. He didn't rush. Didn't change pace. He matched the rhythm of his fingers within her, curling with every roll of her hips, every broken gasp of his name on her lips.

"Ch-Cheng—!" she whimpered, her voice cracking as her body convulsed again, thighs trembling against his hips.

"That's it," he rasped, his thumb never pausing, never faltering. "Feel it, Xiǎo tùzǐ. Let yourself feel all of it. Don't hold back."

She was close.

So close.

He could feel it in the way her walls pulsed around him, clenching tight and fluttering helplessly, her body clinging to him, chasing something she didn't even fully understand, only knew that he could give it to her. He kissed her throat, her shoulder, the top of her chest where her shirt had slid aside, his lips hot and reverent as he moved with her, coaxed her, guided her to that edge. "You're going to come for me," he growled against her ear, his voice dark, deep, nearly undone. "Right here, right now, on my fingers. Let go, Yao. Let me give this to you…" And with a sharp gasp, her hips bucked, her entire body arched—and she shattered. Utterly. Completely. In his hands.

She was trembling, soft and warm beneath him, her chest rising and falling in uneven, gasping breaths as her fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. The flush of her skin was like fire beneath her pale coloring, cheeks glowing, lashes heavy as she tried—slowly—to make sense of what had just happened. Her body was limp, her muscles barely responding, still floating somewhere between pleasure and disbelief.

Lu Sicheng didn't move immediately. Instead, he nuzzled gently against the curve of her jaw, lips brushing just beneath her ear, his voice low and laced with warmth, with quiet awe. "You okay?" he murmured, a question—but also reassurance, reverence, a reminder that she was in control, always.

Yao blinked, her hazel eyes glassy as they fluttered open and tried to focus on his face. Her fingers tightened briefly in his shirt, and then loosened again as she gave the softest nod. "Yes," she whispered, voice barely there, but steady. "I… I'm okay." And that simple truth, spoken in the aftermath of something so new, so raw, hit him deeper than anything else ever could. He let himself look at her then, really look —at the flush still clinging to her cheeks and the dazed haze in her eyes, at the tremble still running along her thighs and the softness in her expression. She looked undone in the most beautiful way. Not broken.

Opened.

And all his.

Pride surged in his chest, tempered by something far deeper—something protective and possessive and devoted —as he leaned in, kissing the corner of her mouth with a reverence that bordered on holy. Then, slowly, deliberately, he shifted. With care, he drew his hand back, fingers gliding from where they'd been nestled inside her, slick and warm with her release. She whimpered softly at the sensation, a sound that caught in the back of her throat as her hips gave one final twitch, and he kissed her again—soothing, calming—before pulling back just enough to meet her eyes.

And then—

Still holding her gaze—

He brought his fingers to his mouth. Curled his tongue slowly around them. And cleaned them off. One finger at a time. With deep, deliberate strokes.

Yao's breath hitched again, her eyes going wide as her lips parted, a small sound escaping her throat that she didn't even seem to realize she made. The flush that returned to her cheeks burned hotter than before, but her eyes didn't leave him—not once. And he didn't look away either, the corner of his mouth curling into a slow, seductive smirk that was laced with nothing but satisfaction and desire.

"You taste like heaven," he murmured, voice like velvet and sin. "And I haven't even started with you yet." Her pupils dilated fully. And he smiled wider. Because his Xiǎo tùzǐ? Was finally beginning to understand just what she did to him.

The moment her eyes flicked away, the moment her fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his shirt without pulling him closer—Lu Sicheng knew. The shift was subtle, not fear, not regret, but the quiet, unmistakable sign of a boundary brushing too close, a comfort unraveling just enough to make her unsure. And the last thing he would ever do was push her past what she could give.

His smirk softened and vanished entirely, replaced by something deeper, steadier. He didn't say anything at first. He just moved, his hand sliding gently down her side in slow, soothing passes, his touch no longer teasing or coaxing, just warm and reassuring as his thumb traced light, lazy circles at her waist."Hey," he murmured, voice low and calm against her temple, lips brushing her skin with each word. "You're okay, Xiǎo tùzǐ. You did amazing."

Her fingers tightened again.

He pressed a kiss just behind her ear, then slowly leaned back just enough so she could see his face, his eyes locked onto hers. "No more tonight," he said softly. "Not unless you ask for it."

Yao swallowed hard, nodding once, still biting her lip, her eyes darting briefly to his before falling again. But she didn't pull away. She just held on.

"Why don't you take a shower?" he continued, his hand brushing some of the platinum strands of hair from her flushed face. "Let the heat help you relax a little." He kissed her forehead, gently, grounding. "And when you're done, we'll nap. I'll hold you close until you fall asleep, then I'll make dinner. It's my turn tonight anyway, remember?"

At that, her fingers finally loosened their grip in his shirt just enough for her to nod again, and this time, when she met his gaze, there was gratitude there—quiet, soft, and so deeply trusting it made something twist in his chest. "You're not upset?" she whispered, unsure.

He leaned down, brushing her nose with his own, his voice barely more than breath. "Not even close." Then, softer still—his lips brushing her cheek— "I'd rather stop a hundred times than see you uncomfortable even once."

She exhaled, long and shaky, and then nodded again. "I'll go shower…" she murmured, shy and small. And as she moved to sit up, Lu Sicheng helped her gently, his hand at the small of her back, steady as ever. Because more than anything else? He wanted her to know that she was safe. With him. Always. As Yao slowly stood, still a little unsteady on her feet and flushed from everything that had just happened, Sicheng stayed beside her until he was sure she could stand on her own. His hand lingered for a beat longer at her waist, then slowly slid away as she looked up at him, her expression soft, still flustered, but no longer uncertain.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her temple, slow and warm, his voice low as it rumbled near her ear. "I'm gonna head down, take a quick shower, change into something comfortable," he murmured, brushing her hair back from her cheek with a gentleness that came so naturally to him now, especially with her. "Probably throw on some lounge pants. By the time you're done, I'll be back up." Her gaze flicked up to his, nodding, and she offered him the faintest smile, the kind that tugged at the corner of her lips without quite reaching her voice, but it was real. He caught the edge of it and allowed a slow one of his own to answer it. When she nodded again, he pulled back and moved toward the door, unlocking it before glancing over his shoulder with a smirk just barely tugging at his mouth. "You better not fall asleep without me, Xiǎo tùzǐ. I promised you a nap and dinner." With that, he stepped out, pulling the door gently shut behind him. And as he headed down the stairs and down the hall toward his room, already tugging his shirt over his head, he let his mind drift—for just a moment—to the way she'd looked beneath him. Soft. Open. Trusting.

And his.

Entirely his.

The moment the door to his room clicked shut behind him, Lu Sicheng exhaled slowly, jaw tight, every muscle in his body coiled with the kind of tension that wasn't born from frustration—but from restraint. Every touch. Every sound. Every inch of her soft, trembling body responding to his hands, his voice, his mouth. It was all still burned into his mind like a brand. He hadn't let her see. Not once. Not even when her hips had bucked into his hand or when she had gasped his name with glassy eyes and trembling limbs, because this wasn't about him. It never had been. It had been about her—her firsts, her comfort, her safety. And he would never let her feel as though she owed him something in return. But now, behind the closed door of his own space, the heat that had been simmering in his blood demanded attention.

The water was already running, steam curling into the air like tendrils as he stepped into the shower, letting the blast of near-scalding heat hit his back and shoulders, forcing his breath out in a sharp hiss. He braced a hand against the tiled wall, his other already slipping down, wrapping around himself with a firm, practiced grip as he closed his eyes. And the image of her—flushed, breathless, writhing beneath him with his fingers buried deep inside her—hit him like a freight train.

"Fuck." he growled, the sound raw, low, breaking loose from the back of his throat as he started to move his hand, slow and deliberate. Every breath was a memory. Her gasp when he curled just right. The way she clung to him, wide-eyed and trusting. That trembling whisper of his name, wrecked and beautiful. His jaw clenched harder, his pace tightening with each stroke as he leaned into the wall, the slick heat of the water pouring over his skin doing nothing to cool the fire coursing through his veins. He pictured her legs wrapped around his waist. Her eyes locked on his as she came undone again—this time on his body, not just his fingers. His hips bucked forward into his hand as a groan tore free, harsher now, needier. He could still feel the way her body gripped him, tight and wet and so damn warm, like she was made to fit him. And when release finally snapped through him—sharp and staggering—it wasn't just lust that filled the space around him, but something deeper. Fiercer. Because she wasn't just any woman. She was his and every part of him—mind, body, soul—was already completely hers.

Thirty minutes later, the base was wrapped in a rare and welcome quiet, the kind that only settled when the chaos had momentarily left with those who carried it. The others had taken the evening to themselves—scattered across the city for food, games, and whatever mischief they could find, leaving the halls still and peaceful in their absence. Upstairs, tucked beneath the soft weight of blankets, two figures lay curled together in the gentle hush of Yao's bedroom, the dim light from her desk lamp casting a muted glow across the room.

Sicheng had returned without knocking, exactly as promised, carrying the comforting scent of his cologne and the clean freshness of a recent shower. She had already changed into one of his oversized t-shirts—something he noticed immediately with quiet amusement and a low hum of approval as she climbed beneath the blankets, cheeks still pink but eyes content. Now they lay in stillness, tangled loosely, her head tucked beneath his chin, one of his arms wrapped protectively around her waist while the other rested above her shoulder, hand splayed across her upper back. Her fingers clung gently to the fabric of his sleep shirt, not out of need, but comfort—habit, now. His thumb moved in slow, idle circles against her spine as she breathed in time with him, her cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The silence wasn't empty. It was full. Of warmth. Of the soft purr of the air unit above the window. Of the subtle rustle of fabric as one of them shifted just slightly to stay closer. And of the unspoken peace that came from finally letting walls down and simply being.

Yao's eyes fluttered, not quite asleep, but close—her limbs heavy, her body finally at ease, safe in the center of the one place she trusted without question.

"Comfy?" he murmured, his voice low and barely above a whisper, more felt than heard.

She nodded against his chest, the faintest motion, before she replied with a soft hum. "Mhm… warm." A pause. Then, quieter still, a sleepy murmur against his skin. "Don't move."

His lips curved, faintly. "I wasn't planning to," he whispered, tightening his arm just enough to pull her closer, his eyes slipping closed.

There were no demands tonight. No teasing. No half-hearted arguments waiting to erupt in snide remarks across the lounge. Just them. Curled together in the quiet of her room. And for now—that was more than enough.

Two hours later, the room had settled into that deep, hushed stillness that only came with real rest—nothing but the slow, rhythmic pulse of shared breathing and the occasional, contented sigh from the small, bundled form tucked into the blankets.

Lu Sicheng blinked awake first, his eyes adjusting to the soft, amber cast of the bedside lamp still left on low. For a moment, he didn't move—he just looked at her, curled into his side, her platinum hair fanned over the pillow, cheek pressed to his chest where her fingers still gripped the hem of his sleep shirt as though she'd never let go. Her breathing was soft, her lashes resting against flushed cheeks, and even in sleep, she looked so utterly at peace it made something swell inside him—something he didn't have a name for but felt in every part of himself. He dipped his head, brushing a kiss to her temple with care, his lips lingering there for a beat longer than necessary. She shifted slightly in her sleep but didn't wake, murmuring something soft that barely registered, the sound like a sigh of comfort against his skin. As he slowly eased himself out of bed, careful not to disturb her, two familiar shapes stirred from their own places in the room.

Xiao Cong, ever attached and increasingly bold, bounded up onto the bed with a soft thud, immediately curling himself against Yao's stomach with a possessive chirp. Da Bing, already seated on the floor with his eyes half-lidded in watchful silence, made a single low sound of acknowledgement before he leapt up next, claiming his usual spot just beside her head, large body curled protectively along the line of her back.

Sicheng paused at the edge of the bed, watching the two felines settle themselves against her like sentries before he allowed himself the smallest smirk. "Keep her warm," he murmured to them softly, voice low and edged with something almost fond.

Da Bing flicked an ear in response.

And then, without another word, Lu Sicheng moved toward the door, slipping out with barely a sound and making his way through the quiet base, his feet silent against the cool floor. The kitchen light clicked on a moment later, soft and muted. With a stretch of his neck and a roll of his shoulders, he grabbed the ingredients he'd set aside earlier—no takeout tonight, no lazy reheating of leftovers. Tonight he was cooking for her, only her, and it would be something warm, balanced, and filled with quiet intention. As he set the pan on the stove and turned the flame to low, the corner of his mouth curved upward, slow and unhurried. Because while the others might have seen him as the cold captain, the ruthless strategist, the untouchable— This kitchen? This quiet? This moment? This was his. And she—sleeping peacefully with her protectors curled around her—was the reason his world had finally found its center.

He had just set the pot to simmer, the scent of warm broth, fresh garlic, and ginger already filling the air when the soft padding of bare feet caught his attention—barely audible, but to him, unmistakable. He turned. And there she was. Standing at the edge of the hall, backlit by the low glow of the hallway light, her platinum hair a tousled, sleep-warmed curtain down her back. One hand was raised, fingers curled against her eye as she rubbed at it in that slow, half-aware way that made something twist tight and tender in his chest. The oversized black t-shirt she wore hung loose on her frame— his shirt, he noted again with no small amount of satisfaction—falling just to her thighs, the hem slightly crooked. Paired with soft black pajama pants clinging to her legs and her small, bare feet tapping against the tile, she looked like every definition of home.

For him, she was home.

Yao blinked up at him, hazel eyes glassy from sleep, her other hand resting lightly on the wall for balance as she yawned quietly. "I smelled something," she murmured, voice rough from sleep, lips barely moving as she shifted to peer around him at the stove. "It smells good…"

Sicheng watched her for a long beat before answering, his eyes moving over her slowly, from the way the fabric of his shirt hung on her shoulders, to the sleep-heavy flutter of her lashes. She was flushed with warmth, her expression soft, vulnerable in that way she only ever allowed herself to be around him. And he could feel it in his chest—that slow burn of something impossibly deep that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with her just being there. "You're supposed to still be in bed," he said, voice low and smooth, one brow raising as he leaned casually back against the counter.

Yao blinked again, then shrugged a little. "I woke up," she whispered simply, almost defensively, rubbing at her eye again as she added, "You weren't there."

His smirk softened at that. "And the cats didn't hold you hostage?" he teased lightly, folding his arms as he nodded toward the hallway. "I saw Da Bing staking out your back like a bodyguard."

"He and Xiao Cong were asleep," she muttered around another soft yawn, taking a few slow steps into the kitchen, eyes drifting toward the stove. "What are you making?"

"Something warm," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the pot before turning back to her. "Mild soup, a bit of tofu, thin noodles, sliced ginger—nothing heavy."

Yao nodded once, still swaying slightly in place like she hadn't quite fully woken up yet. And then, without asking, she crossed the room and slipped into his space, her forehead pressing lightly into his chest as her arms loosely circled his waist.

It was a silent request.

He answered it immediately, arms closing around her as he held her close, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, her hair tickling his jaw. "You're really something, you know that?" he murmured against her scalp.

"Mhm," she replied, muffled and soft against his chest. "But I'm still stealing your shirt."

He chuckled low in his throat, pulling her in tighter. "Like I'd ever complain."

The low hum of the apartment, the faint clink of spoons against ceramic, and the quiet rhythm of their breathing wove together into something calm—something soft and intimate that neither of them had needed to speak aloud to understand. Curled together on her couch with a blanket thrown over their legs and empty bowls now resting on the coffee table, it was the kind of silence that didn't demand anything, didn't press. It just existed—comfortable and full of quiet understanding.

But Lu Sicheng had known her long enough to feel it the moment the shift happened. It wasn't in the way she moved, exactly. It was in the subtle stillness, the kind that came not from ease but from uncertainty. Yao sat with her knees drawn up under the blanket, his shirt still draped over her small frame like armor, her fingers now fidgeting with the hem—tugging, twisting, letting go, then repeating the motion again and again like it gave her something to hold onto when her thoughts ran too far ahead of her courage.

Her head was dipped slightly, platinum hair slipping forward to shield her eyes, but not quite enough to hide the tension in her jaw. And when she finally spoke, her voice came out softer than usual—not timid, but threaded with something far more vulnerable than she typically allowed herself to show. 

"Cheng-ge…"

His head tilted slightly at the tone, his body already turning toward her as her voice lowered further, just a breath of sound above the hush of the room.

"Would it be… okay if we had… I mean… if maybe we did sleepovers," she mumbled, words clumsy but full of hope as she twisted the hem of his shirt tighter in her fingers, "just a couple of nights a week. Only to sleep. I just…"

She hesitated.

He didn't interrupt.

"I just…" she repeated, swallowing hard as her head ducked further, hazel eyes staring at her knees. "I sleep better when you're close. That's all. Just sleeping. I know you're busy and I don't want to be a bother and if you say no I'll understand—"

"Yao."

Her name, spoken low and firm, cut gently through the unraveling sentence, and her breath hitched as she froze, every part of her going still.

Sicheng shifted, reaching out, and his hand came to rest against the side of her face, his thumb brushing just beneath her cheek as he coaxed her chin up—just enough for her eyes to meet his. His gaze was steady. Unshakable. And so full of quiet affection it made her breath stutter again. "You could've just asked, beautiful," he said, his voice softer now, but no less certain. "The answer is yes."

Her brows furrowed slightly, uncertain she'd heard him right. "But—"

"Yes," he repeated, not letting her pull away. "Whenever you want. One night, two, five, every night of the week—I don't care. You never have to ask like you're expecting me to say no."

Yao's fingers clutched at the fabric in her lap again, and her eyes shimmered—not with tears, not quite—but with that familiar overwhelmed quiet she always carried whenever someone gave her something she didn't know how to ask for. "You mean it?" she whispered.

"I mean it." Sicheng smiled faintly and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the center of her forehead, slow and sure. Her shoulders sagged with a quiet exhale, like a tension she hadn't even realized she was holding had finally slipped free. And in that moment, with her curled into his side once more, her body relaxing as her arms slipped around his waist and her head tucked beneath his chin, Sicheng knew without question that this—these small pieces of trust, these vulnerable moments given freely—meant more than anything else she could have offered.

The hours had passed quietly, the night folding itself around them in a blanket of stillness that the rest of the base never questioned—no one dared interrupt the silence that existed when she was like this, curled into his side with her breath brushing against his skin, steady and soft and so unguarded it made his chest ache. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp she always left on the lowest setting—just enough light to keep the shadows from pressing in too tightly. But he didn't need the light to see her. He saw her anyway.

Yao lay tucked against him, her cheek resting over his heart, one arm draped across his ribs like it belonged there, her platinum hair splayed across the pillow and spilling over his arm in a silken cascade that still carried the faintest scent of her lavender shampoo. She was impossibly warm, impossibly small, and yet filled every inch of space around her with something that was… hers.

Peace.

Softness.

Hope.

And Lu Sicheng didn't move. Didn't blink. He just watched her. The rise and fall of her breathing. The tiny furrow in her brow that smoothed when his fingers gently brushed across her temple. The way her lips parted slightly with each exhale, a soundless rhythm that had become the heartbeat of his own calm. She didn't even know, not truly, what she'd given him. She hadn't come into his life demanding change. She hadn't tried to melt the cold edges of who he was, hadn't pushed against the steel walls he'd built around himself with years of deliberate precision. No. She'd walked in quietly, the way she always did—soft voice, uncertain steps, sleeves too long for her hands—and she had stayed. Stayed when she learned how sharp his words could be. Stayed when he growled and scowled and glared through every meeting. She had brought light without trying to shine.

Had offered love without ever asking for it in return. And somewhere along the way, the cold, tightly-wound man that no one dared cross had found himself unraveling in the gentlest, most terrifying way.

He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against the ends of her hair before curling them protectively over her back, holding her just a little tighter. How the hell someone like her ended up loving someone like him… it was a thought that haunted him sometimes. Not because he didn't believe it. But because it still stunned him.

She loved him.

With all his coldness.

All his sharpness.

All the quiet violence and guarded silences.

She loved him.

And he—

He was so far gone he didn't even remember what it felt like to breathe without her anymore.

His thumb brushed softly against the bare skin at the small of her back.

"I'm the lucky one," he murmured quietly into the stillness, his voice low and meant only for the night and the sleeping girl in his arms. "And I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you."

She didn't stir.

But her fingers curled slightly tighter in the fabric of his shirt.

And he smiled.