Summary: Between careful research, quiet strategy, and one very flustered escape, everything begins to shift. What starts with data ends with clarity—of trust, of want, and of the soft truths shared behind closed doors. No rush, no pressure. Just a promise that whatever comes next, they'll face it together. One step at a time.
Author's Note: Relationships are built on trust and communication.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Two days later, with the base quiet save for the steady rhythm of controllers clicking and low voices rising and falling from the training room below, Yao sat curled on the small loveseat in her apartment, one leg tucked under her, her laptop open beside her but long forgotten. The afternoon sunlight filtered in lazily through the half-open curtains, and Da Bing lounged in a sun patch by the window, his massive white frame stretched out like he owned the place, which, of course, he very much did. She tapped her phone screen a few times, chewing the inside of her cheek, then hesitated once more before finally exhaling and pressing call. It didn't take long for the line to pick up.
"Yao'er?" came the smooth, familiar voice on the other end, warm and precise with that edge of amusement that always hinted she already knew something was up. "What a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Yao cleared her throat and sat up straighter, suddenly nervous, though there was no reason to be. "Lan… I mean, Aunty Lan," she corrected quickly, flustering, "I was wondering if—if maybe I could ask you something. About… Cheng-ge."
There was a beat of silence.
Then: "Go on," Lady Lu said, tone now slightly more intrigued.
Yao hesitated just a breath longer, then asked, voice soft but sincere, "What's his favorite dinner? And dessert. I want to make something for him… without messing it up." The silence on the other end was brief, but heavy with meaning—and then a slow, knowing laugh echoed through the line, the kind that made Yao want to curl into the hoodie she was wearing and vanish.
"Oh, my girl," Lan said, and the smile was audible now, "you're trying to feed my son? Now that is a declaration if I've ever heard one."
"I just… want to do something for him," Yao muttered. "He's been taking care of me a lot lately."
"And you think I won't help you because I'll be offended?" Lan replied, laughter warm and cutting. "Nonsense. I'll send you the full recipe list. But if you really want to win points—steamed cod with garlic scallion oil, jasmine rice on the side, and—" her voice dropped conspiratorially, "black sesame glutinous rice balls with ginger syrup. He won't say it out loud, but that dessert has been his favorite since he was five."
"I… really? Thank you." Yao blinked, furiously typing notes into her phone.
"No need to thank me," Lan said smoothly. "Just promise me one thing."
"…What?"
"Make him smile. The real one. The one that makes his eyes crinkle."
Yao, cheeks burning, whispered, "I'll try."
Lan hummed once, then ended the call with a parting line that lingered long after the call disconnected. "You won't need to try, my dear. You're already his favorite thing."
Yao stared down at her phone, heart thudding far louder than it had any right to, and swallowed hard as she glanced toward the kitchen. She had some shopping to do. Because if she was going to cook for him? She was going to do it right.
The war room was packed as usual—papers, laptop screens, and stray water bottles scattered across the long meeting table as Rui and Kwon paced through the usual motions of mid-season planning. The whiteboard behind them already held early bracket stats and champion rotations, with Pang halfway through munching on sunflower seeds and Yue spinning a pen like he was preparing to stab someone if the meeting dragged on too long.
Lu Sicheng leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes narrowed in that unreadable way of his—one ear to the room, the other focused entirely on the sound of footsteps approaching down the hall. He didn't have to look to know who it was. Because the door creaked softly, and there she was.
Yao stepped in quietly, clad in her usual oversized ZGDX sweater, the sleeves tugged over her hands, platinum hair falling in a sleek curtain over one shoulder. She hesitated only for a beat, then moved toward the table with something clenched in her hands, a folder, thick with color-coded tabs and annotated printouts.
Kwon paused mid-sentence, blinking as the room shifted its attention toward her. Rui arched a brow but didn't speak.
"I have something," she said softly, then cleared her throat and stood a little straighter. "About KING."
Instant focus.
She placed the folder on the table and flipped it open with quiet efficiency. "A'Guang—their Captain and Jungler—ambushes nearly every time from brush positions near the Midlane. His rotations aren't random, they're timed. He uses the bot-side river bush at 2:25 and the topside path by 4:10. Always Midlane first."
Ming, blinking, leaned forward. "He's going to target me."
"Yes," Yao said simply, not sugarcoating it. "Which is why you and Lao K need to team up."
Lao K blinked, then straightened, interest piqued. "Bait him?"
"No," Yao answered, flipping to a second page with clipped calm, her hazel eyes sharp and fixed. "Turn his tactic against him. Use his confidence. Let him think you're unaware. You both need to collapse on him before he even reaches the wave. Cut his rhythm, disorient his control of tempo."
There was silence.
Sharp. Focused.
Until Sicheng—who hadn't spoken yet—leaned forward slowly, eyes locked on her, one brow arching with calm approval. "You've mapped all his rotations?"
She nodded.
"Tracked his habits across how many matches?"
"Six full sets. Eight total games," she replied. "I overlaid his pathing. The pattern's there. He's aggressive, but he doesn't improvise well under pressure. If Lao K shifts his route early and delays the second camp rotation by six seconds—"
Kwon, who had been quiet, suddenly let out a low whistle. "She's not wrong."
Lao K leaned over the printout, eyes scanning the data. "She's damn right."
Pang blinked. "Our Tiny Boss Bunny came in with a plan."
Yue, ever the first to needle, grinned. "Guess we're about to turn A'Guang's little bush ambush into a full-blown thorny nightmare."
Lao Mao cracked a smirk. "Let's make sure he regrets ever stepping foot near Midlane."
And Sicheng?
He watched her—silent, still—but his hand reached out without a word and flipped to the next page she had prepared, his gaze scanning the details like he was already memorizing every line. The corner of his mouth twitched upward. She had just declared war and handed them the blueprint to win it.
The hallway was quiet, the low hum of distant voices and the faint buzz of overhead lights the only sounds as Lu Sicheng made his way back from Rui's office, the ever-present clipboard in his hand now forgotten as he approached the corridor that cut past the base's private gym.
He hadn't meant to stop.
But he did.
The moment his eyes landed on the figure inside, he froze mid-step—breath caught, muscles locked, every coherent thought in his head scattering like the remnants of a dropped deck of cards.
Yao.
She was alone in the center of the mat, barefoot, clad in black leggings and a fitted tank that curved with every inch of her small frame, her platinum braid coiled in a perfect French twist that left her neck exposed. But it wasn't the outfit, or even her presence in the gym, that stole his ability to breathe. It was what she was doing. Arched backward into a perfect bridge—hands and feet grounded, stomach lifted toward the ceiling, throat bared and head tipped back in the kind of controlled release that only came from deep familiarity. Her eyes were closed, expression peaceful, and her entire body moved like it had been sculpted to exist in that pose.
Effortless.
Disciplined.
And utterly, absolutely breathtaking.
Sicheng's grip tightened slightly on the edge of the clipboard, forgotten in his hand, as the sight pulled at something sharp and visceral inside him. The stretch pushed her chest up with every deep breath, the long line of her throat exposed in the soft light filtering through the tinted glass, and then—before he could blink—she moved. Without opening her eyes. Her body coiled, legs sweeping up and over in one seamless motion, hands lifting as she balanced on them for a suspended heartbeat—
A perfect handstand.
And then, she flipped again—graceful, deliberate—landing with a soft thud in a crouch, hands braced lightly on the mat in front of her, her head bowed, breath slow and measured.
Still with her eyes closed.
Sicheng stared, pulse thudding somewhere deep and unsteady in his chest, a heat curling low in his spine. Because he had seen her calm. He had seen her sharp, focused, brilliant. But this? This side of her—centered, grounded, so entirely at ease in her own skin that she could move like instinct itself—this was new. And it wrecked him in a way he hadn't expected. He didn't say a word. Didn't move. Just stood there in the silence, watching her like she was the calm at the center of every storm he'd ever known. He blinked—once, sharply—as if grounding himself back into his own body, but it did nothing to ease the coiled tension humming low in his spine. Because she wasn't done. Yao rose from her crouch with the fluid grace of someone who'd moved like this her entire life, her posture precise, spine straight, shoulders relaxed. She shifted her weight to one leg with such steady, controlled ease that Sicheng could practically hear the sound of his own sanity fraying—especially when she lifted her opposite leg slowly into the air.
Higher.
Higher.
And then, with the quiet, terrifying certainty of a woman who had absolutely no idea the damage she was inflicting, she caught her foot in her hand—held it there, perfectly balanced, her leg extended in a line so sharp and defined it should have been illegal. Her body didn't sway. Her shoulders didn't even twitch. She just stood there, calm and centered, eyes still closed like she was somewhere else entirely, lost in the feel of movement and silence and muscle memory.
And Sicheng?
The clipboard in his hand very nearly cracked. Because this was not fair. It was not fair that she could look like that. Move like that. Stretch like that—like some sinfully composed creature sculpted from moonlight and fire, all soft grace and quiet power, utterly unaware of the kind of restraint she was dragging out of him just by existing. He swore under his breath, low and sharp, in a tone that only Da Bing—if the furry menace had been nearby—might have recognized as warning-level danger. Because he was barely hanging on. And if she didn't open her damn eyes soon and give him something else to look at— Or maybe if she did open them and looked straight at him with that sleepy softness she sometimes carried when she was tired and curled into his side—he wasn't sure which option would be worse.
Either way?
He was done for.
And she still hadn't even realized he was watching.
Her eyes opened slowly, lashes parting with a blink as she exhaled through her nose, the meditative rhythm still wrapped around her limbs. It wasn't until her foot touched the mat and her balance shifted to neutral that she felt the shift—like the atmosphere in the room had subtly tilted.
And then her gaze lifted.
And she saw him.
Lu Sicheng.
Standing in the open doorway of the gym, tall and still and composed in that devastating way that made it impossible to tell if he was thinking about the latest scrim schedule—or, as now, if his mind had gone completely blank at the sight of her balancing like some damn goddess sculpted out of patience, strength, and barely-there Lycra.
Her breath caught.
A single, visible hitch of realization as her entire face flushed with immediate, unmistakable horror. The pink bloomed across her cheeks so quickly it nearly matched the burn crawling up the back of her neck. Her hands dropped to her sides, rigid and too formal, her body stiffening like she'd been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to—except she hadn't, and that somehow made it worse.
"S-Sicheng—"
It came out like a squeak. More air than voice. Her wide hazel eyes locked onto his, caught somewhere between panic and mortification as she stood frozen in place, still dressed in those damn leggings and that tight-fitted top that had seemed perfectly normal when she was alone, but now—
Now she might as well have been wearing nothing.
He hadn't said a word. Not a single sound. But his amber gaze was dark. Heavy. Focused.
Dangerously so.
"Hi," she managed, her voice small and unsure, the syllable breaking awkwardly at the end.
The corner of his mouth tugged—just slightly. Not a smile. Not even close. But something that looked like restraint carved into bone. And then, still watching her with that same unreadable expression, his voice came quiet and low, threaded with something that made her toes curl against the mat without her permission. "Wǒ de tiān…" he muttered, voice almost reverent. My god.
Yao's knees nearly gave out. Because that wasn't fair. None of this was fair. And the worst part? He still hadn't looked away. Her breath caught tight in her throat, and before her brain could offer a proper thought—let alone a graceful recovery—her feet had already moved. A full retreat. She bolted. A blur of platinum hair and bare feet on gym flooring, she ducked her head and darted toward the opposite exit like a startled deer catching scent of a predator. Her fingers fumbled briefly against the handle, and then the door swung open and closed with a soft thud behind her, leaving only the faint echo of her rapid steps down the corridor.
Sicheng blinked.
Once.
Slow.
The other door still swayed gently in her wake, the last ghost of her presence lingering in the air—her scent, light and familiar, clinging to the space like an imprint. His gaze, dark and molten with all the things he hadn't said, stayed fixed on that door a moment longer, and then—
He exhaled.
Quiet.
Drawn out.
The sound low enough to be dangerous.
Because she could run all she wanted. Flee in her flustered panic. Vanish behind doors and blushes and that ridiculous modesty of hers. But she had done something to him in that gym. And now? Now he wasn't going to stop thinking about it for days.
It didn't take long for the rest of ZGDX to catch on—because if there was one thing their team had become experts at, it was tracking the moods of their Tiny Boss Bunny. And today? Today she was a twitchy, flushed, fidgeting mess who couldn't seem to keep still, couldn't hold eye contact for more than three seconds, and, most damning of all, couldn't— wouldn't —be in the same room as their Captain for more than a blink.
If Sicheng walked into the lounge? She walked out. If he sat down on one end of the practice room? She practically glued herself to the furthest corner of Rui's desk under the guise of checking data logs.
If he even looked in her direction?
Cue the faint squeak, the darting glance to the floor, and a hasty exit with some flimsy excuse about double-checking the new scrim schedules.
By mid-afternoon, Yue had had enough. He stared after her for a moment as she fled for the fourth time that hour, spun around in his chair, fixed his gaze directly on his brother where the man sat coolly reviewing match clips on the main screen, and said—loudly and with great suspicion, "Okay. What the hell did you do, hooligan?"
Sicheng didn't even flinch. Didn't pause the footage. Didn't blink. Just raised one brow and said evenly, "You're going to have to be more specific."
Yue narrowed his eyes. "Don't mess with me, Cheng. Did you kiss her again? Corner her? Breathe too close? If I have to call Mom and tell her you're harassing her beloved daughter-in-law, she will book a flight from her trip that she is currently on in Shanghai."
Across the room, Pang snorted, Lao Mao coughed into his drink, and Ming muttered something about Yue pulling out the nuclear option too early.
Sicheng sighed. Long-suffering. Deep. Bone-weary. And very, very pointed. "She was doing yoga," he said flatly. "And bending in ways that should be illegal. I just happened to be walking by."
Silence.
Then—
"Oh," Pang said, his mouth forming a slow, delighted smirk. "So that's why she's been bunny-skipping away from you all day."
Lao Mao cackled, Yue groaned, and Rui, passing through with his tablet in hand, didn't even look up as he muttered, "Control yourself, Captain. We only just got her to stop flinching when people get too close."
Sicheng rubbed the bridge of his nose, half-exasperated, half-struggling to banish the image that had been haunting him since the gym. Because yes, the team had noticed Yao's flustered state. But none of them had seen the way she'd looked at him right before she ran. And that? That was the part that wouldn't leave him alone.
She barely made it halfway down the hall before the sound of purposeful footsteps behind her registered—just a beat too late. A firm hand wrapped around her waist, cutting off her retreat with smooth, practiced ease. And before she could spin around, before she could muster even a semblance of protest, she found herself lifted clean off the floor with a soft yelp that echoed sharply through the corridor. " Cheng-ge! " she squeaked, flailing on instinct, but not truly struggling, not when his arm was locked securely around her legs and her upper half was flung gently over his shoulder like she weighed nothing more than one of Da Bing's plush toys.
"I've had enough of you running, Xiǎo Tùzǐ," his voice came low and calm, tinged with that particular brand of dry irritation that was distinctly Lu Sicheng, and made infinitely worse by the fact that she could feel the low hum of his chest every time he spoke.
"I wasn't running—"
"You've fled five times, tried to lie twice, and nearly tripped trying to duck under Rui's desk." His hand tapped the back of her thigh lightly, almost scoldingly. "You're not stealthy. You're just small."
Yao sputtered, her hands pressing into his back as she tried to push herself up, but he was already moving—unhurried, unstoppable, striding straight toward the stairwell with the resigned air of a man carrying a particularly squirmy, slightly guilty cat who'd broken a vase and was now trying to escape the consequences.
Behind them, the hallway was still—except for Yue's faint voice drifting from the lounge.
"Yep. Definitely calling Mom."
Sicheng didn't pause. Didn't even glance back. He just tightened his hold on the flustered, red-faced girl over his shoulder and muttered, loud enough for only her to hear, "You can run all you want, Yao-er… but I'll always catch you." And with that, he pushed open the door to her apartment with his free hand and carried her inside, because if she wasn't going to face him willingly, then she was damn well going to do it where there were no exits.
The soft click of the door locking echoed like punctuation to a sentence she hadn't realized he was writing until it was too late. The moment he stepped fully inside, his hand still resting on the handle for a half-beat longer, Yao's breath caught—because she knew that sound. She knew what it meant when Lu Sicheng locked a door. It didn't mean she was trapped. It meant he wasn't letting her run.
Again.
Not from this. Not from him.
Not this time.
His steps were unhurried but deliberate, measured in that way only he ever was, and as he walked toward her, the weight of his presence made the room feel smaller, quieter. With little effort, he lowered her onto the couch, her back sinking into the cushions with a soft whuff as he eased her down—gentle, always careful with her, even when she tried to bolt. Her face, already pink from the indignity of being slung over his shoulder like a rice sack, deepened to a full flush as her head hit the armrest and he pulled back just enough to tower over her, his expression unreadable.
Then—
He raised a single eyebrow, the faintest glint of a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth, not quite smug, not quite amused. "Done running?" he asked, voice low and dangerously steady.
She stared up at him, curled slightly against the arm of the couch like a startled animal unsure whether she should play dead or pretend she belonged there. Her hands twitched toward the hem of his hoodie that she still wore—her comfort, her shield—and she clutched the fabric against her stomach like it might offer her an escape route that didn't exist. "I wasn't running." she mumbled, though her voice lacked all conviction.
He tilted his head, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared her down with that calm, unblinking intensity that always made her feel like the only person in the room. "You didn't even look me in the eye all day," he said, his voice brushing the edges of something darker—something not angry, but curious. Intrigued. "I walk by and you bolt like Da Bing spotting the vacuum."
Yao let out a soft, embarrassed groan and pressed her palms over her face, muffling her next words. "I just needed space…"
"To figure out how flexible you are?" he asked casually, that brow arching higher. "Because if that's the case, let me save you the trouble. I've already got that part committed to memory."
Her hands dropped instantly, eyes wide with mortification. " Cheng-ge! "
He didn't flinch. Just stepped a fraction closer, his gaze never leaving hers.
"You've been avoiding me since the gym."
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
And then, in a voice so quiet it barely carried beyond the space between them, she whispered, "You were looking at me like…"
He didn't let her finish. "Like I wanted you?" he supplied, his tone steady. "Because I do. "
Her breath caught.
He crouched slowly, bringing them eye level, his arms resting on either side of the couch as he leaned in—not closing the distance fully, not yet. Just hovering, watching her expression, watching the way her eyes widened and her lips parted, soft with confusion and something deeper. His voice dropped lower, the words slow and deliberate. "Did you really think I wouldn't want you just because you're beautiful, strong, and can bend in ways that make me forget how to think straight?"
She blinked. Swallowed. Tried to sink further into the cushions. And failed.
Sicheng's gaze softened—just slightly—as he added, quieter now, "Stop running, Yao-er. You don't need to hide from me." And then, with one hand, he gently reached out and brushed a strand of platinum hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering just a moment too long at her cheekbone, the heat of his palm warming her skin. "Because I'm not going anywhere," he said. "And neither are you."
The silence that followed his words wasn't uncomfortable—it was weighty, still, the kind of quiet that asked for care. Yao didn't look at him. Not right away. Her lashes lowered, eyes flicking toward the edge of his shirt rather than his face, and her fingers curled into the hem of the hoodie she wore, tugging the fabric closer as if it might steady the way her chest felt tight with the press of emotion she didn't quite know how to carry.
Her cheeks were a vivid flush, her lips parted, breath shallow, and when she finally spoke, it was so soft, so careful, it barely crested the air between them. "It's not you…" she murmured, her voice as fragile as the first breath before a confession. "It's… me."
Sicheng's head tilted, the faintest crease appearing between his brows, but he didn't interrupt. He didn't press. He just watched her. Waited. Let her find the words in her own time.
Her eyes still didn't meet his. "I've never wanted anyone," she admitted, each syllable strung together with hesitance, like they might dissolve if she didn't hold them gently. "Not like that. Not until you."
That stunned him more than he let show, though his breath caught—just once, quick and sharp—but he kept his body still, his posture relaxed, not pushing, not leaning in further, just holding space for her to say what she needed.
"I'm still…" She swallowed. "Not used to someone wanting me." There was something in her voice that twisted around his ribs. It wasn't just uncertainty. It was truth. Deep, unvarnished, shy—but true. Her fingers twisted tighter into the hoodie, and her next words came out barely above a whisper, as if saying them aloud cost something. "I don't have experience. With anything. Not even… not even kissing. Not until you."
For a beat, the only sound was the hush of the air conditioner humming faintly in the background. Her face was still down-turned, eyes locked on the fabric she clutched like a shield, and Sicheng, Lu Sicheng, ZGDX's cold, sharp, ruthless captain, found himself swallowing the soft, aching pull in his chest that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the kind of tenderness he rarely allowed himself to feel. Slowly—deliberately—he reached out again, his fingers curling just under her chin, gentle, careful, and tilted her face toward his. Only when she met his gaze—uncertain, pink-cheeked, vulnerable—did he speak, and his voice was impossibly soft. "I know, sweet girl, I have not forgotten and never will." he rumbled out, his thumb brushing lightly along her jaw. His eyes, always sharp, now held nothing but warmth. "I don't want you to be anyone else, Yao-er. I don't care how much experience you have. I don't want some perfect version of you that knows how to flirt or kiss or dance or handle this easily." His thumb swept her cheek, a touch so soft it barely registered. "I want you. The way you are. All of it. All of you."
She blinked, lips parting slightly, her eyes suddenly shimmering with something unspoken.
"I'll go slow," he said, his voice barely a whisper now. "I'll go as slow as you need. You tell me where the line is, and I'll never cross it." Then, with a faint smile—gentle and deeply real—he leaned forward, resting his forehead to hers. "I just want you to stop running, Wǔ xiān. Because I've already chosen you."
And there, in the quiet space of her apartment, wrapped in warmth and words and something so painfully honest it made the world tilt a little. Yao didn't run. She didn't hide. She simply nodded, her fingers slowly uncurling, resting lightly over the hand he still had against her cheek and whispered, "Okay."
Her fingers, still resting over his, twitched slightly before curling again—not to pull away, but to hold tighter, as if grounding herself against the low hum of emotion that was still catching in her chest. She blinked, long lashes fluttering as she swallowed, her voice barely audible, laced with guilt and the soft kind of ache that only came from feeling like she had disappointed someone she cared about. "I'm sorry," she whispered, the words cracking faintly at the edges. "I didn't mean to run. I just… I didn't know how to process it. The way you looked at me." She lifted her eyes to his, hazel shimmering with conflicted vulnerability. "You looked at me like you were going to devour me."
There was no accusation in it. Just raw truth. The kind of honesty that burned a little coming out because it felt so much bigger than she knew how to contain. And maybe that was what scared her the most—not him, not even the want—but the fact that she wanted and had never been taught how to handle something so unfamiliar.
But Sicheng didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He didn't even smirk, though the corner of his mouth threatened to twitch at the way she said it like she was still trying to make sense of the wildfire she'd seen behind his eyes. Instead, his fingers lifted, brushing a few strands of her hair away from her face before settling again at the curve of her jaw, anchoring her in place with a touch that was steady and certain. "Yao," he said, his voice firm but never harsh—just layered in that grounding weight only he could deliver, low and unwavering. "You never have to apologize for that."
Her breath caught.
"You never have to apologize for needing space. For feeling overwhelmed. For running when your mind needs time to catch up with your heart." He leaned in just a little more, not enough to press, but enough for her to feel the quiet intensity in every word. "All I ask," he murmured, "is that you tell me. If you need space? Say it. If you're scared? Say it. I'll back off, I'll wait, I'll sit on the floor outside your door if I have to—but don't carry that guilt. You don't owe me perfect reactions. You owe me honesty."
She blinked again, lips parted slightly, as if the weight of his reassurance had cracked something open in her chest. The shield of uncertainty she'd been hiding behind trembled, and her gaze softened—like the fear was still there, but it no longer felt like it had to win. And when she finally nodded, slow and small, her voice came with it—quiet, but steadier. "Okay."
Sicheng's thumb brushed across her cheek once more. "Good," he said simply. Then he leaned forward, brushing a light kiss to her temple—not rushed, not hungry, just a gentle press of lips to skin, a silent promise that he wasn't going anywhere.
And this time—she didn't flinch. She didn't hide. She just let herself lean into him, slowly, carefully, her face pressed against the line of his shoulder as her breath steadied and the guilt started to ease.
The room was quiet save for the soft clink of teacups and the low hum of the city outside her apartment window. Sicheng, stretched out comfortably on her couch with his tea in one hand and a small bowl of reheated hotpot in the other, watched with quiet amusement as Yao squirmed beside him, clearly trying to work herself up to something. Her cheeks were already pink, her fingers twitching slightly against the edge of her teacup, and he didn't need to look to know she was internally combusting from whatever thought had taken root. She shifted again, her voice coming out in a soft, almost strangled whisper. "Can I… ask you something?"
He didn't blink. Just nodded once, casual and steady. "You can ask me anything."
Her lips pressed together, and then she set her tea down, as if she needed both hands free to brace herself for the shame of speaking. "I've just… read some things. And Jinyang and Ai Jia—they talk really openly about stuff sometimes, and I just…" Her voice trailed off, mortified.
Sicheng turned his body slightly, giving her the kind of patient attention he usually reserved for pre-match strats and explaining frame timings. "What kind of things, Xiǎo Tùzǐ?"
The way she flushed, red blooming from the tips of her ears to the hollow of her throat, had his interest piqued—especially when she buried her face briefly into her palm before forcing herself to meet his gaze. "Things people are… into. In relationships. Things they like. I just… I wanted to know what you like."
He didn't tease her. Not yet. Not when she looked like she might dive off the couch if he so much as smirked the wrong way. Instead, he took another sip of tea and set the cup down, his voice even and grounded, but not without warmth. "That's a fair question. I'm glad you asked."
She blinked, clearly caught off-guard by how calmly he answered.
"As for me?" He stretched out a bit, fingers drumming lightly against the porcelain. "I'm not into being called Baba or Master in the bedroom. At all. Had a partner once who was deep into the BDSM scene. Tried the whole dynamic." His mouth twisted, faintly. "Didn't like it. Felt like I needed to rinse my ears out every time one of those words came up. It's not me. Never was." He caught the flicker of something in her eyes—relief. Unmistakable. Like she'd been holding her breath, and now she could finally exhale. "You don't have to worry about that," he added, his voice dipping slightly, reassuring. "That's not how I see you. That's not what this is."
Yao nodded, still visibly flustered but not as tense, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric of her hoodie.
And then—
He tilted his head just slightly, his mouth curving with a far-too-knowing smirk. "But you do have some interesting reactions when I call you good girl ."
The reaction was instantaneous.
She turned bright red, made a panicked squeaking noise, and immediately grabbed the nearest pillow, smacking it into her face with enough force to nearly knock her tea off the table. "You weren't supposed to notice that." she groaned from behind the pillow.
Sicheng chuckled low in his chest, the sound lazy and warm, pleased. "Hard not to when you look like someone lit your nerves on fire."
"Cheng-ge," she whined, voice muffled.
"What?" he said smoothly. "I think it's adorable." She tried to burrow further into the couch, clearly wishing for the earth to swallow her whole, but his fingers found hers under the pillow and gave a gentle squeeze, grounding and warm. "I like what we're building," he added quietly. "And I like figuring it out with you . We move at your pace, always." Even if, from the way her ears were still glowing, teasing her might just become his new favorite sport.
Yao's voice was soft—nearly a whisper—as she finally peeked out from behind the pillow, her flushed cheeks betraying just how flustered she was, despite her best attempts to maintain some thread of composure. "I'm… I'm really glad you don't like that kind of stuff…" she murmured, eyes dipping again. "Because I honestly don't think I even have a pain threshold. I don't want to be spanked, or tied up, or have pain introduced into anything." Her ears were pink to the tips, her hands twisting nervously in the fabric of the pillow, and though the words were said in a quiet, embarrassed rush, they were honest. Vulnerable. Raw in a way that only came when she trusted someone deeply enough to let them hear those parts of her.
Sicheng didn't laugh. didn't smirk. Didn't tease her for it. Instead, his gaze softened with something deeper, more grounding, and his voice dropped to that smooth, low register he always used when he was serious. "Hey," he said, reaching over and brushing her hair gently back behind her ear, his thumb trailing along the edge of her cheek as he leaned in slightly. "You never have to worry about that with me. Ever. That's not who I am. And it's sure as hell not who I'll ever be with you."
Yao nodded, grateful but still fidgeting, clearly not done. Her lips pressed together for a moment, then opened hesitantly. "I just… I've read things. Heard people talk. Some forums. Accidentally clicked on some stuff… and then…" she trailed off, clearly regretting her own curiosity, "…there are girls who talk about how some guys are just… assholes. Especially during the first time. Like they don't care. They just do what they want and don't pay attention. And afterward…" Her voice dipped, barely audible, "some girls even said they hurt. Like, really hurt. Not just during, but after. And the guy didn't even stay. Or ask. Or care."
Sicheng's jaw tightened at that, his expression darkening, not at her, but at the very thought. His hand settled on her cheek more firmly, his thumb stroking along the edge of her jaw with unshakable certainty. "If anyone ever treated you like that," he said quietly, "I would end them."
She blinked, wide-eyed, at the quiet, unwavering violence in his tone, but there was no fear in her expression, just a deep awareness of how protective he truly was.
"And more than that," he continued, voice steady but layered with emotion now, "you don't ever have to do anything you're not ready for. Nothing. Not with me. Not with anyone. I don't care if it takes months. Years. If it's never. What matters is you. That you're safe. Comfortable. Respected."
Yao swallowed hard, her eyes shimmering slightly as she looked at him.
"And," he added, his tone warming just slightly, "for the record? I plan to be the exact opposite of those assholes. If or when that ever happens, it'll be with someone who knows every damn breath you take. Who pays attention. Who cares about every moment."
Her voice, quiet and reverent, slipped out like a secret meant just for him. "Cheng-ge…"
He smiled softly and pressed his forehead against hers, his hand still cupping her cheek. "You'll never have to doubt how wanted you are. Or how much I'll always, always take care of you."
And somehow, despite the weight of the conversation, the room felt warm again—held between them like a shared heartbeat.
Curled against him with the quiet trust only exhaustion could summon, Yao pressed her face a little deeper into Sicheng's side, her breath soft where it brushed the fabric of his shirt. Her body was warm, relaxed, drowsy in that half-asleep way she always seemed to drift into after emotional conversations—when the weight lifted and her world narrowed down to the one person who had proven, again and again, that he would never drop her.
Her voice was barely a murmur, a fragile breath of sound, but he heard it all the same—because he was always listening when it came to her. "I'm really glad…" she began, her tone slow and heavy with sleep, "that I have no experience. That everything…" her hand curled lightly into the hem of his hoodie, anchoring herself there, "except what I've shared with you… it's all new. You'll be the first for everything."
She paused then, the quiet of the room pressing gently around them, before she added in an even softer breath, "Because it won't be tainted. It won't be some bad memory I have to try and forget. It'll be you. And that… that makes it feel safe."
Sicheng's entire body stilled for a moment, the full meaning of her words settling deep in his chest like a gravity he hadn't expected. He didn't move, didn't even breathe too hard, afraid that any sudden shift might break the spell of that quiet confession. Then slowly—deliberately—he turned his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there longer than necessary. "You deserve that," he said quietly, his voice low and rich with everything he never quite had words for. "Your firsts should always feel safe. They should always feel like yours. And I'm… honored," he added, breath catching slightly on the word, "to be the one you trust with them."
Her only answer was a tiny hum, a breath against his ribs, before she buried herself more fully into his side and drifted the rest of the way into sleep.
And Lu Sicheng sat there, holding her, the weight of her trust wrapped around him like armor—and for the first time in a long time, it wasn't the OPL or the legacy of the Lu family that made him feel most powerful.
It was this.
Her.