Summary: What begins as a surprise visit spirals into chaos wrapped in ribbon and leather, stirring quiet storms and louder declarations no one dares name aloud. But beneath the teasing, the smirks, and the sulking pets lies something steadier—unspoken, sure, and deeply felt. And by the time night falls, it isn't about the gifts or the battles of pride. It's about the way she reaches for him without hesitation—and the way he never lets go.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The next day unfolded with the usual rhythm—morning training sessions, half-asleep yawns, Da Bing refusing to move from his claimed half of Yao's desk, and Xiao Cong still glaring at Sicheng from across the room anytime he so much as looked in Yao's direction for longer than a breath.
It was calm. Peaceful, even.
Until the front door burst open.
"Make way!" came the unmistakably smug voice of Chen Jinyang. "The Queen has arrived with offerings for her Tiny Boss Bunny!"
Yao startled at her desk, nearly knocking over her cup of tea as she blinked up to see her best friend striding in like she owned the building—carrying three food bags in one hand, the other pushing the door open with dramatic flair. Right behind her, balancing two additional garment bags and a stack of neatly boxed items, came Ai Jia—long-suffering and visibly resigned but obediently following with that fond, patient look that said he'd been roped in and hadn't even tried to fight it.
Yao stood quickly, cheeks already beginning to pink as Jinyang beelined toward her. "What's all this—?"
Jinyang grinned and held up the food bags first. "Fuel. Celebratory lunch. From your favorite place. And yes, I got the tofu soup. And yes, I made him carry the bags because I didn't want to ruin my nails."
"You didn't even offer to carry anything," Ai Jia muttered under his breath as he set the bags and boxes down on the lounge table.
"Semantics," she waved off, then turned her sharp, amused eyes back to Yao. "And this—" she swept her hand toward the garment bags—"is from me. Because we are celebrating your dissertation defense being scheduled, and I refuse to let you look anything less than terrifyingly beautiful while doing it."
Yao's flush deepened as she moved toward the bags, cautiously reaching for one of the garment boxes. "Jinyang, you didn't have to—"
"I did," Jinyang said, hands on her hips. "And don't start. You let the Lu Matriarch send you diamonds and rubies, so you're not getting out of this one."
Sicheng, seated a few feet away reviewing match data, glanced up at the words, brow lifting slightly. His gaze dropped to the boxes, then to Yao, then lingered on Jinyang, who grinned back unapologetically.
Yao opened the first box and smiled immediately—soft knits, a flowy sage blouse, and a pale gray cardigan in her favorite cut. The next held a few beautifully tailored skirts, a delicate embroidered top that looked hand-stitched. She was just starting to thank her when she pulled open the third box—
And paused.
Right on top, nestled in tissue paper, was a white and black fitted leather jacket with silver zippers and a cinched waist, clearly tailored. Beneath it, a black leather skirt that would stop just shy of mid-thigh. Followed by a pair of knee-high black leather boots with dark silver buckles that gleamed under the light. And finally a dark purple corset-styled top with silver lacing and sculpted boning.
Yao blinked.
Her face went crimson.
Behind her, a quiet shift.
Lu Sicheng, previously very much immersed in his data, turned his head slowly.
His brow twitched.
Once.
Jinyang beamed.
Ai Jia had already turned around and was pretending to inspect the ceiling.
Yao lifted the corset with trembling fingers. "Jinyang…"
"I knew it'd look good on you," she said cheerfully. "It's fierce, bold, and it'll shut up anyone who ever doubted how much power you hold. Think of it as academic armor—but hot."
"I can't wear this to my defense!" Yao squeaked.
"No," Jinyang said, grinning wider. "That's for the celebration dinner after."
From the corner, Sicheng's fingers twitched against the mouse, his gaze locked on the purple corset like it had personally challenged his entire bloodline.
Yue leaned over to Pang and whispered, "Ten yuan says our Captain burns it within the week."
"Fifteen says he hides it and tells her the dryer ate it."
Sicheng said nothing. But the next time Yao looked over her shoulder, his expression was unreadable—tight jaw, sharp eyes, a single brow lifted. And something very, very possessive burning low in that steady amber gaze. The corset may have survived Jinyang's fashion parade. But it wasn't surviving him.
Yao stood frozen, corset still suspended between her fingers like it was a live wire, her face glowing the kind of crimson that would've put a fire truck to shame. Her hazel eyes darted from the dark purple garment to her best friend—who stood across from her looking entirely too smug for someone who just tried to sneak a dominatrix fantasy into her defense celebration wardrobe.
Jinyang, completely unrepentant, crossed her arms over her chest, head tilted, a devilish smile tugging at her perfectly glossed lips. "It's structured. Flattering. Powerful. Very post-doctoral bad bitch energy."
Yao, cheeks still blazing, inhaled deeply through her nose, the kind of breath one takes when they're trying very hard to keep their voice even and not combust from secondhand chaos. "Jinyang," she said slowly, the words clipped but gentle in the way only someone with saint-level patience could manage when dealing with their lifelong menace of a best friend. "I am keeping the jacket. And the boots."
Jinyang's grin widened, hands on her hips like she'd already won.
"But," Yao added, lifting the corset and holding it between two fingers like it might pounce, "not this. And definitely not the skirt that barely covers anything."
"Oh come on—"
"Do you really want your money wasted?" Yao interrupted bluntly, flushing even deeper as she side-eyed a very silent Lu Sicheng, who hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, and whose entire presence was now radiating a slow-building, barely leashed territorial storm. "I'm serious," Yao went on, voice still soft but laced with that sharp-edged logic Jinyang never could argue with. "Because if I keep either of these, a certain someone—" and here she gave a tiny, pointed glance in Sicheng's direction, "will make them disappear. Quietly. Efficiently. And without a trace."
Jinyang glanced over her shoulder.
Sicheng didn't blink. Didn't smirk. Just sipped his drink, still leaned back in his chair, jaw tight, amber eyes fixed squarely on the corset like it was prey and he was the apex predator deciding whether or not it deserved mercy.
"Yeah," Yao said dryly, turning back to her best friend. "That look right there."
Ai Jia, still standing off to the side, gave an exaggerated wince. "You brought a corset into his territory. That's on you."
Jinyang sighed with theatrical defeat, tossing her hair over one shoulder. "Fine. No corset. No skirt. But I'm keeping the receipt for when he's out of town."
"You'll lose it," Yao said, folding the corset neatly and tucking it back in the box.
"I won't."
"You always do."
"I won't this time."
Da Bing let out a low, judgmental huff from the couch.
Xiao Cong batted the corset box with his paw.
And Sicheng?
He said absolutely nothing. But his eyes met Yao's from across the room, that look of simmering pride and something darker in his gaze that spoke volumes more than his silence.
And Yao?
She swallowed hard, shoved the corset deeper into the box, and muttered under her breath, "You're not subtle, Cheng-ge."
His mouth twitched, almost smiling. "No," he said smoothly. "I never claimed to be."
Jinyang let out a long, dramatic sigh, the kind that came from the depths of a woman who had clearly accepted defeat—but not gracefully. "Damn it," she muttered, yanking her phone from her back pocket and tapping the screen with the bitterness of someone who knew the exact moment her money was gone. "I owe that smug ass 100 yuan now."
Yao blinked, brows furrowed. "Wait—what?"
Sicheng's eyes narrowed slightly from across the room, arms crossed over his chest again as he leaned one shoulder into the wall with the casual menace of a man waiting to pounce on any detail that suggested this wasn't a one-woman scheme.
Jinyang groaned and turned toward Yao, tossing a hand in the air. "Okay, okay—technically, the corset and skirt were never yours."
Yao stared. "…Excuse me?"
"They're mine," Jinyang confessed, motioning toward the box with a resigned huff. "I just slipped them into your gift pile because Kun Hyeok—that arrogant, smug, pain-in-the-ass ADC—bet me they wouldn't last twenty-four hours in this base."
Yao blinked again.
Mouth opened.
Closed.
Jinyang didn't stop. "And I said, 'Of course it'll last, you underestimate my Bunny.' But nooo," she gestured toward the corset box as if it had betrayed her. "You barely touched it and Cheng looked like he was about to file a restraining order against it."
From the couch, Da Bing let out a low, almost condescending huff of agreement.
Ai Jia winced. "I told you not to make that bet."
"Yeah, well you were right. And now I'm sending your ADC 100 yuan and a gif of me glaring."
Yue, from his usual lurking spot, suddenly perked up. "Kun Hyeok knew this was gonna happen? Can we get him on commentary? That kind of foresight deserves a raise."
"Absolutely not," Jinyang said flatly. "He'll never let me live it down."
Sicheng, still silent, smirked faintly at last, just a shift of his mouth, subtle and smug.
Jinyang gave him a scowl. "You're welcome, by the way. That whole moment of 'rage-glare from possessive boyfriend across the room while kitten declares war' gave me three full ideas for a novella."
Yao groaned softly, pressing her palms into her face. "I live in chaos."
"No, you live in a base full of men," Jinyang corrected, smug once again. "Chaos is inevitable."
"And now you're fueling it," Yao muttered.
"With style."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yao let out a long, slow sigh—the kind that carried not just the weight of resignation but the exhausted patience of someone who had, once again, been dragged into a whirlwind crafted by two equally unhinged forces of nature. She turned, hazel eyes lifting and locking onto one person in particular.
Lu Sicheng.
Who was still standing near the wall, arms crossed, one ankle casually tucked over the other, radiating smugness and sulking satisfaction in equal measure.
She narrowed her eyes. "I want you," she said evenly, pointing a finger directly at him, "to tell your best friend that I'm disappointed in him."
Sicheng blinked. "For what now?"
"For sinking to Jin-er's level of mischief," she replied, giving him the most tragically disappointed look she could muster. "He knew. He knew that corset wasn't going to survive an hour here and still went along with her stunt." She gave a soft, sad sigh. "And I expected more from him."
"He'll be heartbroken." Sicheng raised a brow, mouth twitching faintly.
"I hope he is."
"Want me to tell him you're deeply disappointed?" he asked, biting the inside of his cheek.
Yao narrowed her gaze further. "I want you to tell him I sighed like a heroine in a tragic play and handed the box back to Jinyang in full theatrical sorrow."
"...Got it."
She turned slowly, holding the box with the corset and skirt like it was a cursed relic, and handed it to Jinyang with an expression of pure, worn-out despair. "Take it. Take it and tell your evil twin in chaos that we are not amused."
"That's fair. But I will be wearing this next week, and I will send a photo to Kun Hyeok just to rub it in." Jinyang cackled, taking the box with flourish and tucking it beneath her arm.
Ai Jia groaned. "He'll put it on a mug."
"Let him."
Yao just pressed her hands together like she was praying for strength.
Da Bing let out a grunt of approval.
Xiao Cong meowed once, then dramatically curled back into a ball like the war had been won.
And Sicheng?
He sent a message to Kun Hyeok with only three words:
She's disappointed in you.
And five seconds later, got a reply.
Tell her I'm honored.
Followed by a smug gif of a bow.
Yao huffed, turning back toward her desk with purpose—chin slightly raised, braid swinging behind her like the war banner of a woman pushed too far by two chaotic men and one instigating best friend. She sat down, unlocked her phone with practiced precision, and opened her chat with Kun Hyeok, fingers flying across the screen with a speed that suggested she was very much done.
To: Hierophant
From: ZGDX_TinyBossBunny
Because of your betrayal, I will not be making anything extra for a while.
That includes stuffed rice balls.
The ones I always send over for you and Ai Jia?
Gone. Withholding privileges activated.
Enjoy listening to Ai Jia's whining alone.
You've brought this upon yourself.
Send.
Satisfying.
She placed her phone facedown on her desk and turned toward Ai Jia, who had just finished opening one of the food bags and looked entirely too hopeful for a man who was about to receive tragic news. Yao gave him an apologetic—yet entirely unrepentant—look. "Oh. Ai Jia?"
He blinked. "Yeah?"
"No rice balls. Not for a while."
"Wait—what?" Ai Jia froze mid-unwrapping.
She smiled, sweet and calm. "You can thank your ADC."
His jaw dropped, lower lip jutting out with Olympic-level pouting. "That's not fair! I didn't do anything!"
"You carried the boxes in and enabled it," she replied without even looking up.
"But I suffer enough!"
"That's not my fault."
"I was a pawn!" he cried dramatically, turning to Jinyang. "Tell her I was a pawn!"
Jinyang, already halfway through her tofu soup, shrugged with zero sympathy. "I told you this would happen."
Ai Jia groaned and slumped over the table, sulking.
Meanwhile, a soft ping sounded from Sicheng's pocket.
Then another.
Then a third.
He pulled out his phone and sighed when the notifications rolled in rapid-fire, lighting up the screen.
Kun Hyeok [Best Idiot]
1:16 PM: WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE'S MAD?!
1:17 PM: I CAN HEAR AI JIA SULKING ALL THE FROM YOUR BASE!
1:17 PM: FIX THIS FOR ME BEFORE SHE BANS THE PAN-FRIED DUMPLINGS TOO
Sicheng's lips twitched—just a little.
Yao, still seated primly at her desk, didn't look up. "Let him suffer."
More pings.
1:18 PM: TELL HER I'LL BAKE A CAKE. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO BAKE. I'LL STILL DO IT.
"Your number one fan is panicking." Sicheng exhaled slowly and set the phone down.
"Good, Maybe next time they'll think twice." Yao replied, sipping her tea like a queen atop her throne of calm vengeance.
Sicheng watched her for a moment longer, the quiet flicker of amusement in his amber eyes deepening.
Yeah.
She might be sweet.
But she was still terrifying.
Yao didn't even glance at her phone as it buzzed again with another desperate flurry of messages—clearly Kun Hyeok had entered full panic mode—but she calmly stirred her tea, expression serene, eyes steady on the screen in front of her like she hadn't just enacted a punishment that would ripple through an entire team. She sighed as her best friend and Ai Jia had gone back to their base.
Sicheng, lounging back in his chair with his phone in hand, watched the newest message light up the screen.
1:19 PM: PLEASE TELL HER AI JIA LOOKS LIKE A KICKED PUPPY. I'M LOSING MIDLANER MORALE. I'M SORRY. I'M REPENTANT. I WILL NEVER BET AGAIN.
Yao sighed softly, the picture of gentle authority as she finally looked up from her tea and locked eyes with Sicheng. "Baobei," she said sweetly—too sweetly.
Sicheng's eyebrow lifted just slightly.
"Tell your best friend," she continued, her tone deceptively pleasant, "to mind himself if he ever wants dumplings again."
He blinked.
"Ever?"
She raised her mug in a quiet toast. "Ever."
"And if he doesn't?"
Yao's expression didn't change, but her voice turned coolly diplomatic in the way only she could pull off with such polite menace. "Then he can explain to Liang Sheng—his Support and Captain—why he's not just dealing with a sulking Midlaner but a fully spiraling team because he couldn't keep himself in check."
Sicheng's lips twitched. "That a threat?"
"No," she said, utterly composed. "That's a cause-and-effect chain. And I'm a woman of logic."
Da Bing rumbled his approval from his post behind her chair.
Xiao Cong gave a single paw tap to the tuna bowl nearby like he, too, was casting judgment.
Sicheng opened his phone again and calmly typed back.
To: Kun Hyeok:
Yao says: Mind yourself or no dumplings. And if you think dealing with Ai Jia's sulking is bad, try explaining this mess to Liang Sheng. Good luck.
Three seconds later:
1:21 PM: I AM BEHAVING. I AM THE EPITOME OF RESTRAINT. I'M DONATING TO A CAT SANCTUARY RIGHT NOW.
Sicheng smirked. "Handled." he said, glancing toward her with one brow arched.
Yao hummed softly and went back to sipping her tea, wholly satisfied. "Smart man."
Sicheng grinned. "One of us has to be."
As the others drifted back into their usual rhythm, Yue suspiciously eyeing the last dumpling in Pang's container like it owed him rent, Yao glanced down at the array of gift boxes and garment bags still scattered near the lounge.
She sighed. Not in annoyance. Just in that soft, resigned way that came when you were loved a little too loudly by people who didn't understand moderation. Her hazel eyes scanned the collection, then flicked over toward Sicheng, who was already looking at her from his seat with that unreadable calm that always settled around him when he wasn't trying to be smug or sarcastic. "Cheng-ge," she said, soft but sure, "can you please help me carry these up?"
His brow arched. "You finally admitting you need me for something?"
She gave him a flat look.
And he grinned, slowly rising from his seat, walking over without another word. "Alright," he muttered, already grabbing two of the bags in one hand and balancing one of the heavier boxes under his other arm. "But only because you said 'please.'"
Yao huffed, cheeks pink. "I always say please."
He leaned in slightly as he passed her, his voice low enough only she could hear. "Not always," he murmured, "but I like it when you do."
Her face flared red.
Yue looked over from across the room, utterly delighted. "Do I need to clear the hallway so you can make out on the stairs again or—?"
"Shush." Yao hissed with red cheeks.
Sicheng, smirking to himself now, turned and started up the stairs with her trailing behind, arms filled with the remaining gifts.
The kitten cavalry followed them halfway—Xiao Cong carrying himself like a soldier tasked with escorting high-value assets, and Da Bing flanking at the rear with the stoic energy of a bodyguard who was tired of the humans being ridiculous.
As they reached the top of the stairs, Sicheng glanced back over his shoulder. "You know," he said casually, "if this is the standard every time someone congratulates you, you're gonna need a second closet."
Yao gave him a look as she unlocked her apartment door. "I'll just use your closet."
Sicheng blinked.
Then slowly smiled. "Deal."
Once they were in her apartment, the calm settled quickly—soft light filtering through the curtains, Da Bing immediately hopping onto the bed with the grace of a seasoned guardian, and Xiao Cong trotting in behind him like he had to personally approve the perimeter.
Yao knelt near the coffee table, quietly unpacking the garment bags and boxes with more care than she'd had downstairs, now that she wasn't surrounded by teasing commentary, dramatic sighs, or Yue trying to steal food from anyone within reach. She sorted through the new pieces—folded tops, cardigans, carefully tailored skirts and jackets—gently smoothing the fabrics with the pads of her fingers. The jacket Jinyang had chosen fit her style perfectly, and the boots were shockingly comfortable.
But then—
She spotted it.
A smaller garment bag, tucked beneath one of the folded blouses and nearly missed if not for the shimmer of silk peeking out along the side.
Yao tilted her head, frowning slightly, and carefully drew the zipper down.
What she found made her freeze.
Lace.
Silk.
Lots of lace and silk.
In delicate, scandalous shades of wine red, ink black, and pearl white. Bras that were little more than whispers of fabric and intricate stitching, matching panties with barely-there straps, and a silky robe with embroidered florals and feathers.
Her entire face went up in flames.
And then—
A squeak. High-pitched, sharp, and very much not her usual level of composure.
"Wha—!"
She yelped and scrambled to close the garment bag, fumbling the zipper with flushed hands before stuffing it back into the box like it had personally insulted her family name. Behind her, she heard a low, amused voice.
"What was that?"
Yao jumped.
She turned slowly.
Sicheng was standing by her desk, mid-way through removing his jacket, his brows slightly raised and his expression dark with interest—because her squeak had not been subtle, and the way her ears were practically glowing red now was anything but innocent.
"N-Nothing!" she stammered quickly, too quickly. "It's—it was just—fabric. Weird fabric. Jinyang must've… accidentally…"
He blinked.
She flushed deeper, practically glowing.
And he tilted his head, slowly setting his jacket over the back of her chair, his tone deceptively casual. "Accidentally bought you lingerie?"
"I hate her." Yao groaned and dropped her forehead against the nearest cushion.
Da Bing blinked slowly, as if deciding whether it was time to intervene.
Xiao Cong sniffed the box with curiosity.
Sicheng crossed the room and crouched beside her, voice a low murmur near her ear. "You didn't throw it out."
She made a noise that could only be described as a flustered whimper. "I didn't say I was keeping it either," she hissed.
He reached over, fingers brushing over hers with a smirk threatening the corners of his mouth. "Good," he whispered, his voice deep and smug and far too close. "Because I'd hate for that to go to waste."
Yao's entire soul exited her body.
And Sicheng?
He stood with perfect composure, hands in his pockets, strolling into her kitchen like he hadn't just sent her into full system failure with one sentence.
Yao stared after him in disbelief, cheeks still on fire, her heart pounding from the sheer audacity of that man and his unholy voice. He had no right sounding that smug after sending her into a tailspin with one single line and walking away like he hadn't just threatened her sanity with lace and implication. She huffed. Then her eyes landed on the nearest weapon. The couch pillow. With a flash of righteous vengeance, she grabbed it, stood up—and launched it across the room.
It hit him square in the back.
Hard.
Sicheng paused mid-step in front of her kitchen counter, the force of it making his shoulders jolt forward slightly. For a moment, he didn't move. Didn't even turn. Just stood there, one hand still lazily in his pocket.
"Oh no." Yao whispered to herself, already regretting it.
Then he turned.
Slowly.
Flat expression. One brow raised. Dangerous calm.
Yao's eyes widened. "Cheng-ge…"
He took one step toward her.
"Don't."
Another step.
"You're being dramatic!"
Another.
"I didn't mean to hit you that hard!"
He kept walking.
And she bolted.
A squeak escaped her as she scrambled away from the couch, nearly tripping over Xiao Cong—who meowed loudly in protest—and darted toward the safety of her bedroom.
She'd almost made it.
Almost.
But he was faster.
She squealed as a firm arm caught her just at the doorway, and the next second she was being swept off her feet with an undignified yelp. "Cheng-ge!" she shrieked, half laughing, half flailing.
He didn't say a word. He just walked them both right to the bed and tackled her gently onto the mattress, the bounce of the comforter muffling her squeal as he shifted above her, straddling just enough to pin her without weight. And then his hands attacked. Fingers digging into her sides, teasing the spot right beneath her ribs and just at her lower back where he knew she was most ticklish.
Yao shrieked and lost it. "No— S-Sicheng, stop! That's cheating! You hooligan—!"
But he just grinned down at her, utterly focused, unbothered as her peals of laughter spilled between gasps and squirming attempts to escape. Her hair fanned out over the pillow, her eyes watery with joy and fluster, and her limbs a flurry of motion as she tried to push his hands away. "You throw things at me," he said evenly, fingers still tormenting her sides, "you deal with the consequences."
"I—can't—breathe—!"
"Should've thought about that before you used a pillow as a weapon."
She bucked under him, breathless, tears pricking the corners of her eyes from laughter as her voice cracked between squeaks and gasps. "You—you're evil!"
"I'm motivated," he corrected smoothly, hands finally slowing as he leaned in close, bracing himself above her. "And next time you throw something at me?"
Her breathing was still ragged, laughter spent, eyes glassy and wide.
He brushed his lips across her flushed cheek and whispered, "Pick something lighter."
Yao made a wounded sound.
And from the floor outside her door, Da Bing let out a long, exhausted sigh, as if to say not again.
Yao lay beneath him, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, her face flushed a deep, rose-tinted red as her laughter slowly faded into quiet breaths. Her braid was fanned out across the pillow, her lips parted as she tried to gather her breath, and her hands rested limply against his chest—no longer pushing, but not pulling him closer either.
And then it hit him.
Lu Sicheng froze.
Completely.
His eyes, sharp and golden, flicked downward for the first time in several seconds—and what he saw made the breath catch in his own throat. His body was settled fully against hers, lying between her parted thighs, pressed in close, almost too close, the weight of him cradled by the way her legs curved naturally around him. She was wearing that soft, flowing skirt, the one that had fluttered lightly when she walked, and now it was bunched slightly around her hips, leaving just enough space—just enough pressure—to make his entire frame tighten.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Her flushed skin. Her scent. Her softness beneath him. The warmth. The trust.
And then—
His gaze dropped lower. There, nestled against her skin, where the collar of her top had shifted, was the medallion he had commissioned just for her. The one that now rested right over her heart.
White gold.
The Lu family crest etched in its center. Encircled by delicate, shimmering rubies. His mark—not one hidden, not one temporary—but one worn against her skin in plain view, quiet and permanent. His mother's design. His commission. His gift. His meaning.
A subtle weight settled low in his chest.
Yao shifted slightly beneath him, her breath still quick, her hands finally beginning to move again as her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt. She blinked up at him, eyes still wide and hazy, unaware of the storm slowly building behind his eyes. "Cheng-ge?" she whispered, voice soft and breathy.
He didn't answer. Not right away. Instead, he lifted one hand, slow and careful, and let his knuckles brush the edge of the medallion. It shifted gently with the motion, the chain catching faintly on the fabric above her heart. His voice, when it came, was low. Rough. Almost reverent. "You wore it."
Yao's blush deepened, but she nodded, her voice small. "I haven't taken it off."
His gaze stayed there for another beat, caught between the necklace, her flushed skin, and the rapid pulse just beneath. And then, very slowly, very deliberately, his eyes lifted back to hers. Still hovering above her, body pressed close, heart pounding hard behind his ribs—but now for reasons that had nothing to do with tickling or teasing or laughter. Something in him settled. And something else stirred. Not hunger. Not yet. But want. The kind that was patient. The kind that burned. And the kind that didn't need to be spoken to be felt.
Still beneath him, still breathless, still flushed from laughter that had long since melted into something softer—deeper—Yao blinked up at him with wide hazel eyes that shimmered beneath the soft light filtering through the window. Her fingers curled tighter in his shirt, grounding herself even as the heat between them shifted from playful to something far more reverent, far more intimate.
Sicheng's hand hadn't moved from where it hovered near the medallion resting against her chest. His thumb brushed it once more, just barely, as if to remind himself it was real.
Then—
Her voice.
Soft.
Low.
Almost a whisper.
"I remember what you said," she murmured, eyes dropping slightly as if the weight of the moment had crept over her again. "When you gave it to me…"
His breath held.
"You told me that once I accepted it… once I agreed to be yours, to be your Intended…" She swallowed, her voice shaking just a little, not from fear but from the depth of what she carried in those words. "I was never supposed to take it off. Not unless I had to." Her fingers brushed the pendant where it rested over her heart, eyes flicking back to his. "You said… it was a bond."
He didn't speak. Didn't need to. Every part of him was focused entirely on her.
Yao drew in a breath. "And I don't. Not really. I mean—I take it off for the shower sometimes, but… not every time. Only if I feel like the chain might get pulled. I always put it right back on." Her words were shy, awkward in their delivery—but completely sincere. She wasn't telling him for praise. She was telling him because it mattered. Because he mattered. And because, even if he hadn't realized it before. This quiet, delicate, deeply private girl beneath him had long since accepted what that necklace meant. Not just the jewelry. Not just the crest. But everything.
Every piece of it.
Of him.
And she wore it, not because he asked her to—
But because she wanted to.
Sicheng lowered his head slightly, his forehead brushing against hers with a care so precise it nearly broke him. His voice came out low, thick, and barely restrained. "I remember what I said too." He paused. Let the weight settle between them. "I just didn't know it would mean this much to see it." She smiled—soft, a little shy—but real. And in that moment, she wasn't just his Intended. She was the only thing in the world that mattered. His forehead still resting against hers, her soft breath mingling with his, Sicheng's eyes slowly lowered to her lips—parted, flushed, trembling just slightly as if she already knew what was coming. And she did. Because he wasn't hiding it. Not the way his body hovered just barely above hers, not the heat in his gaze, not the restrained hunger coiling deep in his voice as he spoke—low, raw, reverent. "If I go too far," he murmured, his thumb brushing her waist through the soft fabric of her skirt, "you stop me."
Yao's heart pounded, cheeks glowing pink as her lashes fluttered upward, locking on to his burning amber gaze.
He didn't wait for her words. He didn't need to. He saw it—felt it—in the way her hands didn't pull him back, the way her legs shifted slightly beneath him, cradling him closer, her lips already parting with a soft, uncertain breath.
So he kissed her.
Deep.
Hard.
Not rushed.
But claiming.
His mouth took hers with a force that melted straight through her hesitation, dragging her under and into him with each slow, demanding press of lips and tongue. One hand braced beside her head, the other sliding down her side, over the curve of her hip, back up again in a slow, possessive rhythm that made her breath stutter.
Yao whimpered softly into the kiss, tilting her head with shy eagerness, lips pressing back against his as she did her best to keep up—trying to mimic the way he moved, the way he coaxed her to open for him, to let him in deeper. Her fingers clutched the fabric at his back, anchoring herself, trying to keep pace, but when his tongue brushed deeper, she gasped against his mouth. That single sound broke whatever restraint he still had.
Sicheng groaned low in his throat and rolled his hips into hers—slow, firm, deliberate.
Yao's entire body arched. Her gasp turned into a helpless moan, and his mouth overtook hers again, swallowing every sound she made with another deep kiss as if to mark her from the inside out. She barely had time to breathe before his mouth trailed down the line of her jaw, then lower, skimming her throat, warm and open and aching as he moved to that spot—the one just below her ear, at the curve of her neck where her pulse throbbed and her body always gave him away.
And when he found it?
He latched on. Hot, open-mouthed, tongue dragging slowly before his teeth grazed her skin and sucked hard enough to draw a full-body shiver from her. She cried out softly, one hand flying up to bury itself in his hair as her back arched into him, her lips parted in shock and need. And he smiled against her neck. Because she didn't have to say it. He could feel it. She was his. Every trembling, gasping, beautiful part of her.
The moment Yao's body instinctively moved—rocking up into his hips in a motion that was pure reflex and nothing she'd consciously planned—Lu Sicheng felt it with a sharp, grounding clarity that tore a low growl from the back of his throat. Her softness met the hard press of him through his jeans, only the thin cotton of her underwear and skirt between them, and everything in him snapped taut.
Yao gasped, wide-eyed, breath catching in her throat as she felt it.
All of him.
Firm, hot, restrained—but barely.
And real.
She squeaked, the sound high and startled as color flooded her cheeks, her face burning from the sensation, the reality, the intimacy of it. One of her hands curled even tighter into the fabric of his shirt, clutching it like she could anchor herself through touch alone. The other trembled where it tangled in his hair, knuckles brushing against his scalp as her fingers gripped harder. "C–Cheng-ge…" The whisper left her in a breathless rush, her voice laced with a mixture of fluster, confusion, and something that sounded far too close to want.
Sicheng lifted his head slightly from her neck, breath hot against her skin, eyes dark, heavy with heat and something far more intense—something reverent. He didn't move away. He didn't push further. He just held her there, his hand sliding to her waist with quiet control, his thumb brushing in slow circles against her hip as if to say you're still in charge. "Yao," he said, voice low and steady, rumbling against her throat. "Don't be scared."
She didn't answer—couldn't—not right away. Because her heart was hammering in her chest and her body was humming with sensations she'd never experienced before, too wrapped up in the warmth of him, the overwhelming presence of him pressed so closely against her. But she didn't pull away. Not even a little. And that, to him, was everything.
He lowered his head again, pressing a kiss just beneath her jaw—slower now, softer—his hand still grounding her, not urging, not demanding, just there. "Whenever you want me to stop," he whispered, lips brushing her skin, "say the word."
And she—voice small, trembling, but sure—barely managed to breathe out, "I… I don't want you to stop."
That was all he needed. His breath was slow and even, but inside, Lu Sicheng was holding on to a thread—because everything about this moment demanded more than restraint. It demanded reverence. She was beneath him, flushed and trembling, her wide hazel eyes fixed on his, not from fear but from the weight of what she was trusting him with.
Herself.
All of her innocence, all of her uncertainty, all of her want—quiet, unspoken, but so real. He moved with deliberate care, brushing a knuckle down the side of her cheek, then leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. Nothing rushed. Nothing hard. Just a connection—steady and grounding. Then he murmured against her skin, voice low and rough, laced with warmth and something deeper. "I'm going to push your skirt up now," he said quietly, his hand sliding slowly from her waist down to her thigh. "Okay?"
She nodded, breath catching, her fingers still clutching his shirt.
"I need to hear you, Yao-er." he whispered again, eyes locked to hers.
"O–Okay." she whispered, voice barely a breath.
His hand slid beneath the soft fabric, slowly pushing the skirt up past her thighs, careful not to startle her, his fingers never brushing anywhere they shouldn't. When he got the hem up to her hips, he leaned in again, pressing another kiss to the corner of her mouth as his hand shifted to cradle the back of her knee. "I'm going to guide your leg around me," he said next, his voice soothing, low. "Just so I can feel you closer."
"Okay." she breathed, a blush rising high on her cheeks.
He lifted her leg slowly, wrapping it around his waist, her foot settling lightly at the base of his spine. He adjusted his own body with measured precision, letting the pressure of her cotton-covered core press against the hardness straining behind his jeans. Then he rocked into her—slow, shallow, controlled.
Yao gasped, the sound breaking in her throat as her head tilted back, eyes fluttering. The contact was overwhelming, the friction sparking along her nerves in ways she'd never felt, never imagined. It was still clothed, still safe—but intimate in a way that stole the breath from her lungs.
His hand returned to her hip, steadying her, grounding her. "You're doing so well," he whispered against her temple, voice almost reverent. "You feel… incredible." Another rock of his hips. Another soft, muffled whimper from her lips. "Still okay?" he asked, holding her gaze even as he moved against her in that slow, grinding rhythm that made her thighs tighten around him.
She nodded quickly. "Y-Yeah. I'm okay…" Her voice was shaking, her hands still latched onto his shirt and hair like he was the only thing keeping her together. And he was. Because in that moment, she was his and she trusted him to hold her through every new feeling he awakened. And he would. Step by step.
The pace shifted—not by accident, not in haste, but with purpose.
Sicheng's hips ground into her with more pressure now, each thrust just a little firmer, more deliberate, the tension in his body winding tight with every movement. The friction between them—still clothed but searing—was dragging both of them into a rhythm they couldn't pull away from.
Yao whimpered softly, her voice catching as the fabric of her panties slid just right across her sensitive center with every roll of his hips. The sharp, wet sound of her breath mixed with the whispered gasp of his name—"Cheng-ge…"—and it shattered what little composure he had left.
He pressed his forehead to hers for a beat, trying to catch his breath, trying to center, but the way her legs tightened around him, the way she arched against his body, trembling and gasping beneath him—it was more than he'd ever allowed himself to feel.
And then it happened.
Her fingers gripped him tighter—one hand fisting his shirt, the other sliding up around the back of his neck as if she couldn't stand any space between them. She trembled beneath him, her body arching and grinding shyly with his, searching for more without words. A soft tearing sound reached his ears—her breath had caught hard, the sound half moan, half gasp—and it took him a heartbeat to realize the stitching on her skirt had given beneath the pressure of their movements, splitting slightly at the hem as her body responded to him with a desperation he hadn't expected.
He groaned low, a sound barely restrained, deep and guttural in his throat. Her name slipped past his lips like a prayer. "Yao…" Still, he didn't lose control. Not completely. Instead, with a hand still braced at her waist, he moved slowly, carefully sliding his other hand up under the hem of her shirt, palm warm as it traveled the soft curve of her stomach, inch by inch. "Tell me if I need to stop," he whispered, voice strained and thick with tension, eyes locked on hers even as he moved.
She shook her head, cheeks flushed, breath trembling. "You don't… you don't have to stop…"
His hand found the band of her bra, and then, gently—so gently—he cupped her through the fabric, his palm fitting perfectly against her breast, his thumb dragging just above the edge.
Yao gasped, her back arching, her hips rocking up to meet him again. Her leg tightened around his waist, grounding them together as she chased the pressure, the friction, the heat spiraling through her lower belly. It was happening again. That now-familiar coil—tight, aching, beautiful—twisting low in her stomach, building faster this time, stronger, her nerves already raw from memory and instinct.
Sicheng was breathing harder now, each grind of his hips growing more urgent. His mouth pressed to her neck, teeth scraping against that sensitive spot just beneath her jaw as he groaned—deep, desperate, wrecked. He could feel her softness clenching under him, could feel the way her body responded to his rhythm, his voice, his touch. And for the first time in his life— He felt himself unraveling. Right there. Fully clothed. Still in his damn jeans. Coming apart because of her. Because of the way she trusted him. Because of the way she trembled beneath him, whispered his name like it was something holy. Because this wasn't just lust. It was everything.
Yao's breath was trembling now, coming in soft, broken gasps as her fingers clenched into him—one hand tangled in his hair, the other curled tight into the back of his shirt like she needed him to stay, to anchor her against the wave building low and fast in her body. Her head tilted back against the pillow, exposing the soft line of her throat, her flushed skin glowing in the low light of the room. Her lips parted as a soft, breathy whimper slipped free—desperate and aching.
"Please…"
It wasn't loud.
It didn't have to be.
That one word—pleaded so openly, with so much trust—ripped through Sicheng like lightning.
He groaned low, deep in his chest, and pressed his hips harder into hers, grinding with a slow, powerful roll that left no space between them, just the firm pressure of his body cradled perfectly between her trembling thighs. The feel of her. The way she moved with him. The sound of her voice, breathy and broken on his name. It was undoing him. He dropped his mouth to her ear, his breath hot and heavy as he dragged his lips along the shell before his voice slipped through—low, rough, and full of unrestrained heat. "Come for me," he growled, his hips grinding deeper, firmer. "Just like this."
She whimpered, her body trembling.
"Don't hold back," he whispered, teeth grazing the skin below her ear. "Come for me… with only me grinding against you." Another thrust, harder now, slower—perfect.
She cried out.
"Come for me with my name on your pretty little mouth, Yao."
And she did.
Her back arched, her leg tightened around him, and her body shattered beneath his touch—clothes between them, friction unbearable, and pleasure ripping through her like fire as his name tore from her lips in a gasping, broken moan.
"Cheng-ge—!"
He buried his face in her neck, groaning as her release sent him over that final edge, his control finally giving out as his hips jerked against her, grinding hard as his own release slammed into him, fierce and full, right there against her—his breath stuttering, her name on his lips, and her body trembling beneath him. They lay there in the aftermath, breath tangled, hearts pounding, his forehead pressed to her shoulder, his hand still cupping her gently through her bra, her fingers locked in his shirt as if letting go wasn't even an option. And for once, Lu Sicheng wasn't thinking. He was feeling. And all he could feel was her.
The air was still heavy, warm with the fading echoes of everything they'd just felt—tangled limbs, flushed skin, shallow breaths, and the undeniable weight of something raw and intimate passed between them. Yao lay beneath him, chest rising and falling in soft, uneven rhythm, her eyes half-lidded but shining, dazed and flushed in a way that made her look both wrecked and radiant.
Sicheng hadn't moved for a few moments, his weight carefully braced on his forearms as he allowed her time to catch her breath. He was still pressed to her, his face tucked close to her neck where her skin still held the warmth of his kisses, of their shared, overwhelming release. But then, slowly, gently, he shifted. He lifted himself just enough to see her fully, to really look at her. His hands slid up from the mattress, one cradling the back of her head, the other cupping her cheek as he leaned up, his amber eyes dark but clear, intent and full of something achingly human. He tilted her chin just slightly, brushing his thumb across the high point of her cheekbone, his voice low, soft—no teasing now, no heat—just quiet concern.
"Yao," he murmured, his forehead now barely resting against hers, "are you okay?"
She blinked up at him, startled by the shift in his tone.
"I know that got intense," he continued gently, the lines of his brows drawing together slightly, "fast. I just… I need to know that you're alright. That you don't feel like I pushed you into something you didn't want or weren't ready for." His thumb brushed her cheek again, and she could feel the tension beneath his calm—the way his body was still coiled like a spring under careful control, not from desire now, but from the weight of responsibility he never took lightly with her. Because this—what she gave him—wasn't just physical. It was trust. And he felt that in every inch of his bones.
Yao swallowed, her throat working softly before she nodded, the smallest movement of her head pressing into his palm. "I'm okay," she whispered, voice still a little breathless, "really." He didn't speak right away. He just studied her face, eyes searching hers for any hesitation, any flicker of discomfort. She lifted her hand, resting it gently over his where it cradled her cheek. "I wanted that," she said, more firmly this time. "I wasn't scared. Not with you."
And that—those words—settled something deep in him. He exhaled slowly, the breath shuddering as his forehead pressed more firmly against hers, and his voice, when it came again, was soft and rough all at once. "Good," he whispered. "Because you never have to do anything you're not ready for. Not with me. Not ever."
Yao's eyes shimmered, and she nodded once more, holding his gaze. "I know."
And Lu Sicheng, who had spent a lifetime keeping his heart locked behind calculation and control, let the corner of his mouth curve into a faint, quiet smile—one that belonged only to her. Because she knew and that was everything.
The evening had grown quieter, the heavy warmth of earlier fading into something gentler, softer—like the hush that followed the closing of a well-worn book. Afterward, without needing to say much, they had each slipped away to shower. Yao padded into her bathroom, still flushed but at ease, while Sicheng returned to his own room downstairs in the base to clean up and give her the privacy he knew she needed to recenter herself.
Now, freshly showered and changed, she stood barefoot in her apartment, dressed in one of her oversized sleep shirts and soft cotton shorts, her damp platinum hair braided loosely over her shoulder. The familiar low hum of the base filtered up faintly through the floorboards, but up here, it was peaceful—her space, her sanctuary.
Sicheng had come back not long ago, already comfortable, changed into one of his faded black shirts and drawstring lounge pants, and now he stood near the corner of her couch, towel in hand, finishing the last lazy motions of drying his hair. There was something easy in the way he moved, his presence steady and grounding, the kind of calm she had come to associate with safety.
She lingered in the doorway to her room, watching him for a moment. He didn't notice right away—his focus somewhere distant as he folded the towel and tossed it over the back of the chair with practiced care.
Yao took a small breath.
Then another.
"Cheng-ge?"
His head turned immediately, eyes locking on hers with that soft attentiveness he never seemed to lose when it came to her.
She bit her lip, fingers fidgeting at the hem of her shirt. "Can I ask you something?"
He nodded, stepping a little closer. "Of course."
Her voice lowered, barely more than a whisper as her gaze flicked to the floor, then slowly back up to his eyes. "Would you… sleep here tonight?" She hesitated, cheeks already turning red, her hands clutching at the fabric of her shirt like it would anchor her in place. "Not—not like that," she added quickly, stumbling over her words. "I mean just… sleep. Like you said before. About staying some nights. I know you said you wouldn't mind but…" she trailed off, voice softer now, almost fragile. "I don't really want to sleep alone tonight."
Sicheng's eyes softened immediately, something in his expression shifting from calm to warm—deeply, protectively warm. He closed the distance between them with slow, quiet steps, reaching out to gently tuck a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "You don't have to explain," he said, his voice low, sure, and steady. "If you want me here, I'm staying." She nodded once, her shoulders easing just a little as a shy, relieved smile curved at the corners of her lips. Without another word, he leaned in and pressed a soft, grounding kiss to her forehead. Then he pulled back slightly and murmured, "Go get in bed, Xiǎo tùzǐ. I'll turn out the lights." And she did. Because even in the quiet of her apartment, with no words left between them, he always knew how to make her feel safe.
The soft, early light of morning spilled gently through the edges of the curtains, casting a faint golden hue across the bedroom. The room was quiet—still, even—the kind of silence that wasn't empty, but full of something warm and settled, like the world had paused just long enough to let them exist in peace.
Lu Sicheng woke slowly, not with the jolt of alarms or training schedules, but with the steady warmth of the girl curled up against him. His eyes blinked open to the familiar softness of her platinum braid trailing across his chest, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin, her breath feather-light against the base of his throat. One of her legs was hooked around his, her body pressed close along his side, and her arms had found their way under his shirt sometime in the night—small, warm hands resting just over his ribs like she was holding him in place even while dreaming. He smirked faintly, eyes still half-lidded as he tilted his head slightly to look around the room without moving too much. His gaze drifted toward the corner where the cat tree stood like a silent guardian.
Da Bing was sprawled across the top tier, tail dangling off the side, entirely unbothered.
Xiao Cong was curled into a small, fluffy ball on the middle perch, his ears twitching slightly, even in sleep, as if on standby in case his mama needed protection.
Sicheng chuckled softly under his breath and turned his eyes back to the woman wrapped around him.
Yeah.
He could really get used to this.
There was something so easy about waking up like this—no cold air, no sterile sheets, no echoing silence of his own room downstairs. Just her. Her scent. Her warmth. The familiar feel of her body molded to his, trusting him, clinging to him like he belonged here.
And the truth?
He kind of did. More than once lately, he'd found himself sleeping deeper, longer, better in this bed than he ever did in his own. The mattress wasn't even better. The blanket was fine. The room was a little warmer than he preferred. But she was here. And when she was wrapped around him like this, with her heartbeat pressed to his chest and her soft breath brushing over his skin. It was like nothing else mattered. He tilted his head, pressing a faint kiss to her hair, and murmured so quietly it was meant only for himself, "Might as well move in up here…"
Her fingers twitched slightly against his ribs, but she didn't wake.
And for once?
He didn't feel the need to move.
Not even a little.