Summary: A quiet morning becomes the turning point neither of them speak aloud, but both feel down to the bone. Boundaries blur, tempers spark, and the weight of unspoken things finally demands release. But when truth replaces silence, and comfort is no longer a question but a given, the answer isn't found in words—it's found in choosing not to walk away.
Chapter Eighteen
Morning arrived not with urgency or fanfare, but with a soft, almost reverent kind of quiet—the early light slipping through the curtains like a whispered secret, casting long golden streaks across the walls and bedspread, warming the floor with a faint glow that made the chaos of the night before feel distant and unreal. The air carried the hush of a base still asleep, the kind of silence born not of emptiness but of exhaustion, of closeness, of something quietly profound that no one had the energy to put into words.
Sicheng blinked slowly, his lashes fluttering once before his eyes finally opened, the light making him squint as he came back to himself by degrees. There was no rush of awareness, no groggy confusion—but a slow, unfolding realization that something was different. His body was stiff from staying in the same position too long, and there was a dull ache in his back from where he'd been sitting upright. Still, he hadn't intended to fall asleep—not here, not like this. He had told himself he would stay up. That he would watch over her, keep her grounded, make sure that if anything happened again, he would be there, awake and ready, not a breath too late.
But somewhere in the quiet, somewhere between the tension easing from her body and the rhythm of her breathing evening out, somewhere between the warmth of her shoulder pressed to his and the silent hum of the room around them—
He had drifted off, too.
And now, as his vision adjusted, as his brain struggled to orient itself in a room that felt dim but heavy with presence, he found himself frozen, unmoving, utterly still, not because of discomfort but because of what was in his arms.
Or rather— who .
Tong Yao.
She was curled into his side like she had always belonged there, like this was the most natural place in the world for her to be, like she hadn't spent the last few weeks quietly pulling away from him, tucking herself behind her laptop and her work and her soft silences.
But now?
Now, she was here .
Not beside him.
Not near him.
Against him.
Her face was pressed gently into his chest, her features soft and untroubled in sleep, her breath warm against the fabric of his shirt. One of her hands had curled lightly into the front of it, as if she had grabbed hold of him during the night and simply never let go, as if some part of her—conscious or not—had decided that this , this space, this closeness, this warmth, was safe enough to stay with.
And Sicheng?
Sicheng didn't dare move. Didn't shift. Didn't breathe too deeply. He stayed perfectly still, muscles tense with the sheer effort of not disturbing her, not shattering the fragile spell that had somehow settled over them during the night. Because this—this wasn't just a moment. It was something else entirely. Something rare. Something delicate. Something earned . His eyes trailed the curve of her jaw, the way her lashes lay dark and soft against her skin, the slight twitch of her fingers every few minutes. She wasn't dreaming now—he could tell. There were no tremors, no muffled cries, no scrunched brow or panicked gasps. She was just... asleep. Peaceful. Unburdened. Wrapped in a warmth she had unknowingly claimed without realizing how deeply it settled into his bones.
And just as he was letting himself breathe, just as he allowed himself to believe—just for a moment —that maybe this was something they could have more than once, something that didn't have to be snatched out of the wreckage of a nightmare—
His brother.
His goddamn brother.
Yue shifted, snorting softly as he mumbled something utterly unintelligible, something that probably made perfect sense to him in whatever half-baked dream world he currently occupied. The snoring returned a second later, louder, more obnoxious, echoing through the quiet like a personal affront.
Sicheng's eye twitched.
He turned his head slowly, gaze narrowing as he prepared to snap, to throw a pillow, to end the noise—
And that was when he saw it.
The real problem.
The actual violation.
The unforgivable sin .
Because Yue—blissfully unconscious, snoring, and utterly unaware of the line he had just crossed—was touching her .
Not lightly.
Not coincidentally.
But fully, unapologetically draped over her.
His head was resting on top of hers, their hair mingled in a way that made Sicheng's stomach twist, his arm lazily thrown over her back like she was a damn comfort pillow he'd claimed for himself, his body angled toward hers as if he had any right to lean into what clearly— clearly —was not his place.
And that?
That was it.
That was the line.
Because this—this softness, this quiet, this comfort that Yao had found—had not been Yue's doing. It hadn't been his warmth she'd curled into. It hadn't been his voice that had pulled her out of the dark. She hadn't reached for him in the night. She hadn't grabbed onto him like he was something safe, something steady.
She had reached for Sicheng . She had tucked herself into his chest, curled into his side, and now this walking chaos gremlin had the audacity to splay himself across her like he belonged?
No.
Absolutely not.
Sicheng's jaw tightened, every muscle in his body tensing with the effort it took not to growl, not to reach over and throw Yue off the bed like an unruly dog. His hand twitched against the blanket, breath shallow, controlled only because he knew—if he woke her now, if she opened her eyes and saw them like this—it would ruin everything.
But Yue?
Yue had ten seconds.
Ten seconds to move.
Ten seconds to roll away.
Ten seconds before Sicheng ended him.
Because whatever this thing was in his chest, whatever fire was clawing its way up his spine, whatever possessiveness had decided to take hold in the center of his ribcage—
It was not rational. It was not reasonable. But it was very, very real. Because she was his . Not publicly. Not yet. Not officially. But in the way that mattered. In the way she had clutched his shirt in her sleep. In the way she had rested her cheek over his heartbeat and let it lull her into safety. In the way she had, even without knowing it, chosen him . And he wasn't going to let anyone—not even his idiot little brother—steal that from him.
Not now.
Not ever.
Breakfast at the base was usually a chaotic mix of noise and movement—chairs scraping against the floor, someone always yelling about coffee, Yue talking far too loudly for the hour, Pang hoarding food with the determined energy of a man fighting for his life, and the occasional chopstick duel breaking out over the last steamed bun. It was messy. It was loud. It was home.
But not today.
Today, the kitchen was blanketed in a silence so unnatural, so painfully oppressive, it felt as though someone had physically pressed their hand over the entire room and demanded everyone hold their breath.
No one spoke. No one moved unnecessarily. No one dared to laugh.
And Yue, sitting stiffly in his chair, halfway through raising his chopsticks to his mouth, could feel it—that thick, suffocating weight creeping down his spine, pressing hard against the back of his neck like the edge of a cold blade, like something coiled and waiting to strike. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting cautiously to the side, and the second he risked it—just a peek, just a quick glance—
He saw it.
Lu Sicheng, seated across the room, perfectly still, perfectly composed, radiating the kind of quiet menace that didn't require raised voices or aggressive movements, was staring directly at him.
Not blinking.
Not speaking.
Just staring.
Those sharp amber eyes, normally unreadable beneath the heavy lids and lazy posture, were now honed to a razor's edge—glinting with a quiet, black, soul-piercing fury that pinned Yue to his seat with the subtle promise of death.
And not the fast kind. No, this was the kind of death that came slowly. The kind that left you time to realize you'd made a mistake. That made you sit in it, stew in it, drown in it before it came for you with teeth bared.
Yue tensed immediately, chopsticks hovering halfway to his mouth like he was frozen in time. He tried not to breathe too loudly, tried not to move too much, tried not to do anything that might provoke his brother further. But curiosity was a cruel thing. He peeked again. Just barely. Just the smallest shift of his eyes, just enough to see if maybe, maybe , the fury had lessened, if maybe Sicheng had blinked or moved or done anything to suggest that the execution was no longer scheduled for today—
And the second his gaze flicked over—
BAM .
Still there.
The glare.
Unwavering.
Worse, somehow.
Sharper. Personal .
Yue's heart dropped directly into his stomach. He didn't just feel the pressure anymore—he felt the promise behind it. The promise that whatever peace had existed between them had died in the night and that Yue had unknowingly stepped on the bones of that peace in his sleep. "The hell did I do?" he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible, more a plea to the universe than an actual question, because he genuinely, sincerely had no idea what he could've possibly done between falling asleep and waking up that warranted this level of unfiltered hatred.
Across the table, Lao Mao snorted into his tea, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You really don't know?"
Yue, still refusing to make direct eye contact with the man who was clearly planning his murder, scowled. "No, I don't. Enlighten me."
Lao K, ever calm, took a slow sip of his coffee, watching the scene with the kind of detached amusement reserved for those who weren't directly in the line of fire. "Think back to this morning."
Yue frowned. "What about this morning?"
He blinked. Paused.
And then.
Then it hit him.
Not a gentle realization, not a dawning understanding—but a collision . A full-body, spine-snapping, soul-punching train of truth slamming directly into his chest. His face paled. His stomach dropped. Because this morning— this morning —he had woken up feeling oddly warm and vaguely comfortable, which at the time had made no sense. And now, in the blinding light of hindsight, it did .
Because he had used Yao as a pillow. He had slept on her . Had draped himself over her like a goddamn cat on a heated blanket, head resting on hers, arm tossed across her back like she was his comfort item, like she was just there to be leaned on.
And she had let him .
And Sicheng had seen it .
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Yue inhaled slowly, trying not to panic as he very, very carefully turned his head just enough to look in his brother's direction.
And yep.
Still glaring.
Still silent.
Still deadly.
Sicheng wasn't just mad. He was offended . Wounded . Territorially betrayed . He was sitting there, chopsticks untouched, congee forgotten, staring at Yue with the full force of someone who had just watched his most sacred possession be unknowingly used by someone else—and not just someone else, but his brother .
Yue cleared his throat. "Ge."
Nothing.
No twitch. No shift.
Just that same razor-sharp stare, gleaming with silent murder.
Yue sat straighter, tried to look harmless, tried to look like a man who did not know the value of what he had accidentally touched. "I didn't know, alright? I was asleep. She was asleep. Da Bing was on me. I had no idea—"
"Shut up, Lu Yue."
The words came low.
Cold.
Lethal .
Yue froze.
The entire room did.
Pang, halfway through his congee, hummed thoughtfully. "You should probably run."
Lao Mao leaned forward slightly, grinning. "Run fast."
Ming, ever the calm one, reached across the table and patted Yue on the shoulder once. Not reassuring. Not sympathetic. Just a quiet, you had a good run .
"I want no part in this." muttered Lao K burying himself into his coffee.
And Rui?
Rui just sighed and kept eating. Because he knew it was already too late.
And Yue?
Yue, knowing he had somehow stumbled into a no-return zone of territorial rage, lowered his head, exhaled slowly, and prayed—fervently—that Lu Sicheng would at least wait until after lunch to kill him. Because on an empty stomach? That man was worse .
As if the tension blanketing the dining room wasn't already suffocating, as if the silence wrapped around Yue's neck like an executioner's noose wasn't already taut, as if Lu Sicheng's Amber Eyes of Death weren't already boring holes into Yue's soul with every unblinking second of their shared proximity—Tong Yao, soft and sweet and utterly unaware of the nuclear fallout she was walking into, chose that exact moment to shuffle into the room with the quiet, sleepy gait of someone who had no idea she had just wandered onto a battlefield.
Her hair was still damp, the soft waves clinging to her shoulders in gentle curls, the scent of her shampoo drifting faintly through the room like lavender and vanilla and something light and warm that somehow made the tension spike instead of ease. Her oversized sweater—pale, worn, sleeves completely swallowing her hands—hung delicately from her frame, and her presence, typically unassuming and easy to miss in moments like this, had the power now to shift the air just by existing. She sat down slowly, carefully, tucking herself into the corner of the bench seat like she always did, her head tilting slightly as she reached for her chopsticks and blinked once, then twice, as if something felt off but she couldn't quite put her finger on what.
And then—
As if the universe had decided to add gasoline to the fire, as if she had been handed a match and told to throw it directly into a room filled with explosives—
She spoke.
Innocently.
Unfiltered.
Oblivious.
"Why does Yue look like he's about to be beheaded like two of King Henry the Eighth's wives?"
The silence that followed was instant.
Sharp.
Complete.
It rang out like the sudden screech of tires just before impact.
Lao Mao, mid-bite, choked violently on his steamed bun and had to slap his own chest to recover. Pang, holding his bowl of congee, let out an audible wheeze, the kind of noise that only emerged when someone was desperately trying not to laugh and failing miserably. Lao K, always the quiet one, let out a low, strangled sort of cough that was very clearly an aborted laugh, hiding it behind his coffee cup like a child caught smirking during a lecture.
Ming, who had up until that point maintained the composed expression of a man who believed he was above the chaos, actually set his chopsticks down with a long-suffering sigh and rubbed his temple, shaking his head slowly.
And Rui—dear, exhausted Rui—just exhaled the kind of sigh reserved for men who had already accepted their fate and stopped hoping for peace long ago.
But Yue?
Yue flinched like he'd been physically struck, his whole body jerking as his chopsticks clattered onto his plate, his head whipping toward Yao with the horrified realization that she had no idea what she'd just done. He could already feel the storm shifting behind him. He could feel Sicheng leaning into it. And then—because of course the universe had no mercy— it happened .
Sicheng, who had been sitting still as stone since the moment Yao entered the room, who had not said a word, who had remained an ominous, silent specter of doom and death from his side of the table—
Smirked.
It was not a kind smirk.
It was not an amused smirk.
It was the kind of slow, curling smirk that spelled doom in every curve of his lips, the kind that belonged to a man who had just realized he didn't need to get his hands dirty to get revenge, because the opportunity had been handed to him wrapped in a bow.
And Yue—already sweating, already twitching—did the only thing he could do. He turned to Yao, his one remaining lifeline, the only person in the room who might still have mercy in her heart, and pleaded with the wide-eyed desperation of a man standing in front of a firing squad. "Yao, you have to tell him! You have to tell him I didn't do anything! I was asleep! Asleep! I didn't even know what was happening!"
Yao, blinking at him in soft confusion, tilted her head again, her brow furrowing just slightly. "Tell him what?"
And with that—Yue's soul left his body.
The room detonated in silent laughter.
Lao Mao let out a rough snort, shaking his head in clear, undisguised amusement.
Pang, still trying to eat but now visibly shaking with suppressed laughter, muttered lowly through a grin, "Dead man walking."
"Oh you poor bastard." muttered Lao K shaking his head.
Ming, calm as ever, glanced sideways and offered his usual dry, measured commentary, "It was nice knowing you, Yue."
And Rui?
Rui didn't even bother looking up. Because it was over. It had already been over. And now, the only thing left to do was watch the body drop.
Sicheng, still smirking, still radiating unholy glee, leaned forward with slow, deliberate grace, his fingers tapping once against the side of his coffee cup before he spoke, his voice low, smooth, and positively dripping with amusement. "Oh, don't worry, Xiǎo Tùzǐ. Your dear Yue-ge just got a little too comfortable last night."
Yao blinked, still processing. "Comfortable?"
Yue choked.
Sicheng's smile deepened, his amber eyes gleaming with territorial vindication. "Mm. Using you as his personal pillow. Sleeping all over you. Clinging to you like a damn leech."
Yao froze.
Blink.
Blink.
And then—
Realization.
And with it, the inevitable explosion of mortification.
Her hands flew up, sleeves bunching as she tried to hide her face, her ears going bright red as the rest of her skin followed suit, flushing a deep, burning crimson from her neck all the way to her forehead. She let out a squeaky, breathless sound that could barely be called a protest. "I—I d-didn't— I mean—I didn't know he was—"
Yue, seeing the last of his support system crumble, seeing that Yao was gone and Sicheng was thriving , stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backwards. "I am not dealing with this!" He pointed an accusing finger at no one in particular, turned sharply, and stormed out of the room with the righteous fury of a man wrongfully condemned, shouting dramatically over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall. "I HAVE DONE NOTHING WRONG!"
The room remained silent for precisely three seconds.
And then—
Lao Mao, Pang, and Lao K collapsed into full-blown laughter, the kind that shook shoulders and echoed through the walls, the kind that would live in memory for months .
Ming, ever composed, shook his head again, murmuring under his breath, "He definitely did something wrong."
Rui didn't even bother responding. He just kept eating. Because, at this point, this was his life.
And Yao?
Yao was still frozen, still clutching her sleeves, still redder than any living creature had a right to be, her face buried in her arms as she tried to will herself out of existence.
And Sicheng?
Sicheng, smug and satisfied, took a slow sip of his coffee, calm and in complete control, not a trace of guilt on his face. Because today, his brother had learned a valuable lesson. Never— never —touch what belongs to him.
As the last traces of breakfast noise faded into a muted hum, as clinking dishes and retreating footsteps gave way to the low creak of chairs being pushed back and the occasional murmur of post-meal conversation, Yao—still red in the face, still visibly flustered, still radiating the desperate energy of someone trying very hard to pretend nothing had happened—rose quickly from her chair like she was trying to vanish. Her fingers gripped the hem of her oversized sweater with white-knuckled tension, the sleeves still half-swallowed around her hands, her head ducked low and her eyes pointed anywhere but toward him as she moved with uncharacteristic urgency toward the kitchen exit.
She wasn't walking. She was retreating .
Quietly, subtly, and unmistakably trying to slip away before he could say anything, before he could make a move, before he could do what he always did—corner her with a sharp gaze, a low voice, and words she didn't want to hear but always needed to.
And Lu Sicheng?
Lu Sicheng was done watching her run.
Not after the silence. Not after a week of soft avoidance and tight smiles that didn't reach her eyes. Not after sleepless nights filled with nightmares she hadn't told anyone about. Not after she had collapsed into sleep last night with her face buried in his chest and her fingers curled into his shirt like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the present. Not after she had clung to him in unconscious trust but couldn't even meet his eyes when she was awake.
Not today.
So before she could cross the threshold of the kitchen, before she could disappear into the safety of her apartment, before she could vanish behind the polite wall she used to shield herself from everything she didn't want to confront— he moved . Quick. Fluid. Certain. He didn't give her time to react, didn't give her space to flinch or protest. One arm slid around her waist with casual ease, his other hand already lifting to steady her as he scooped her up off the ground like she weighed nothing at all.
And the noise that left her mouth?
It wasn't dignified.
It wasn't prepared.
It was a high-pitched, undignified squawk that cracked in the middle, followed by a breathless little squeak that had every head in the room turning.
"S—SICHENG—!"
Her voice shot up an octave as her legs kicked once in protest, her hands pushing weakly against his shoulders, her sweater sleeves sliding awkwardly around her wrists. "W-What are you—?! P-Put me down!"
But Sicheng, calm as stone, didn't even blink. With zero hesitation, zero apology, and absolutely no regard for the stunned stares of the teammates still finishing their breakfast, he carried her straight out of the dining area as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, his expression unreadable, his grip secure and unmoved by her flailing. "We're talking," he said, voice smooth, low, and absolute.
Yao twitched visibly at the word. Because she knew exactly what that meant. "I—I don't—!" she sputtered, trying once more to bury her face into her sleeves, already shrinking further into herself, but it was too late.
"No," he said, voice like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and impossible to argue with. " Not talking is what landed us in this mess in the first place."
That shut her up.
Instantly.
Because he was right.
And worse?
He knew he was right.
So despite her mortified stammering, despite the way she squirmed in his hold, despite the red flush that now stained not just her cheeks but the tips of her ears and the column of her neck, Sicheng strode into his office, kicked the door shut with the back of his heel, and crossed the space with deliberate steps, settling down in his desk chair with her still very much in his lap. Because if she thought for even a second that she was going to wiggle her way out of this conversation again, if she thought he was going to let her avoid him with polite smiles and silent exits—she was dead wrong.
She didn't even try to look at him. Still too flustered. Still overwhelmed. Still refusing to meet his eyes. Her hands pressed against his chest, sleeves pooled at her wrists, her fingers twitching as she hovered in that strange middle space between trying to push herself away and not really wanting to move . She was still gathering herself. Still trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Sicheng watched her for a long moment, saying nothing. Then, softly—firmly—he exhaled. "If I let you go," he murmured, voice low but unyielding, "will you stay?"
The words weren't sharp. They weren't a challenge.
But they carried weight. Because they weren't about physical space.
He wasn't asking if she'd stay in the room. He was asking if she was going to stay with him . Stay present. Stay open. Stay honest. If she was done running. If she was done hiding behind silence and evasion. If she was finally, finally ready to stop carrying everything on her own.
Yao stiffened, her body going still for a heartbeat. Then her fingers twitched again, curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. She didn't answer right away. Didn't look at him.
Sicheng waited. Then, slowly, he leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek, his voice dropping another octave into something deeper, something quieter, something far more dangerous. "Because if you're going to run, I'll just keep you right here." His arms tightened slightly around her.
Not harsh.
Not suffocating.
Just certain.
"You're small enough to fit perfectly in my lap, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
Yao's entire body jolted. Her face all but exploded in heat, her breath catching, her voice rising in a panicked squeak. "I—!" But there were no words. No arguments. Just flustered sounds and weak protests and the unbearable sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Sicheng didn't smirk.
Didn't tease.
He just waited.
And eventually, slowly, painfully—
"…I won't run," she whispered, barely audible, barely formed, but there .
And that was enough.
He didn't let go immediately. Let the words sit between them. Let her realize what she had just said, what she had promised . Then, slowly, he loosened his grip, giving her the chance to move, to step away, to retreat—if that was still what she wanted. But she didn't.
She stayed. Still embarrassed, still overwhelmed, still barely able to look at him—but she stayed.
Sicheng, watching her with sharp, steady eyes, finally leaned back into his chair, exhaling quietly through his nose. "Good."
Because now?
Now, they were going to talk and this time, she wasn't walking away.
For a moment, the office remained quiet, not heavy with tension but steeped in something quieter, deeper, like the stillness that came after the eye of a storm had passed but before anyone dared believe it was truly over. Yao sat curled into the far end of the couch now, legs tucked under her, sweater sleeves drawn tight around her fingers, her head still bowed slightly, as if the memory of having been physically carried into the room had not yet stopped replaying in her mind. Her shoulders were hunched, not in defiance but in the way of someone bracing for a question they weren't sure how to answer, someone who didn't know if they could.
Sicheng watched her from his chair, one elbow resting against the armrest, his long fingers tapping once, lightly, against his jaw, though his expression remained unreadable. His amber eyes, sharp and focused, stayed trained on her—not hard, not cold, but unrelenting in their quiet scrutiny. He didn't speak right away, didn't rush to fill the silence, because he didn't need to. She was already unraveling, slowly, silently, beneath the weight of her own thoughts, and he knew better than to push with force.
Instead, he started the way he always did—by stating the truth. "You haven't worn the hoodie in seven days," he said softly, not accusingly, but as a fact laid bare, sharp in its simplicity.
Yao flinched slightly, her fingers curling tighter into her sleeves, but she said nothing.
"You started skipping meals two days ago," he continued, his voice calm, steady, but unmistakably deliberate. "Rui noticed it first. Ming confirmed it."
She winced at that, just slightly, like the guilt had landed even before the words had finished forming.
"You haven't laughed since Monday," he added, watching the way her shoulders shrank a fraction lower, "and Da Bing has been following you closer than usual, which means you've been upset enough that even he's noticed."
Still, she said nothing.
And so—he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms against his knees, his tone growing quieter, but firmer. "You've been pulling back, Xiǎo Tùzǐ. Not just from me—" and here, his voice dipped, edged with something darker, something closer to disappointment—"but from everyone."
Yao's head dropped a little lower.
"But you let yourself fall asleep in my arms."
That made her go still.
He let the silence settle again. Not to intimidate. But to let the truth echo. She didn't deny it. Didn't speak. Didn't move. Just sat there, curled smaller, smaller, as if trying to disappear into the folds of her oversized sweater.
"You let yourself stay there," he said, softer now, more controlled, like he was choosing every word with care, like he didn't want to scare her—but couldn't let her pretend she hadn't done it either. "You didn't move when Da Bing curled around you. You didn't flinch when the others stayed. You stayed in my arms the whole night." He leaned back again, his voice dropping just slightly as he exhaled through his nose. "So don't tell me nothing happened."
That was when she finally looked up.
Barely.
Her eyes lifted just enough to meet his, wide and glassy and vulnerable in a way she didn't often allow herself to be seen. She opened her mouth once, then closed it again, her throat working as she tried to force words through the barricade of her own hesitation. "I didn't mean to…" she whispered, barely above a breath. "I didn't want anyone to worry."
"You didn't want anyone to see," he corrected gently, his gaze never wavering.
She looked away.
"That's not the same," he added, his voice lower now, rougher at the edges. "And you know it."
The words weren't cruel. But they didn't pull punches either. And she felt every one. Her fingers tightened again around the hem of her sweater, her body curling a little further into itself. "I just… needed time."
"I gave you time," he said quietly. "We all did."
Yao's breath caught.
"I told you we weren't going to force you to talk. I told you we'd wait. But waiting doesn't mean watching you vanish."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
He stood slowly, his steps unhurried as he crossed the space between them, dropping into a crouch directly in front of her. He didn't reach out, didn't touch, but his presence was immediate, all-consuming, his voice soft but commanding.
"What happened with Jinyang?"
Yao flinched again, sharper this time, her arms folding across her stomach as if to protect herself from something that was no longer there.
Sicheng didn't move. Didn't push. Just waited. And when she didn't answer, when the silence stretched again, he spoke—this time, slower, gentler, but no less piercing. "She said something," he murmured. "Something that got into your head. Something that's been crawling through you all week."
Still no answer.
"She made you feel small," he said softly. "Didn't she?"
Yao's breath hitched.
That was enough.
Sicheng's eyes narrowed—not in anger at her, but in cold, calculated fury at the source. "She dismissed your work."
It wasn't a question.
Yao nodded, just barely, and it looked like it hurt to do it.
Sicheng exhaled, low and tight. "She tried to pull you out of ZGDX." Another tiny nod. "And when you didn't agree, she made it sound like you were making a mistake." This time, no nod. But her fingers clenched tighter. "She tried to buy your loyalty," he continued, "without asking what you wanted, without caring that you've already built something here."
"She bought YQCB," Yao whispered, voice shaking. "She didn't even like e-sports."
And there it was.
Sicheng's jaw tensed. "She did it out of spite."
Yao nodded, blinking hard. "Because people said things. Because they called her names."
"And she didn't care what that meant for you."
Silence.
"She didn't care that you were safe here."
And that—finally—broke something in her.
Yao's hands trembled as she pressed them against her lap, her eyes burning now with something heavier than just embarrassment. "She didn't even ask if I was okay," she whispered, and this time, her voice cracked. "She didn't ask about the break-in. Or why I hadn't been home. She just wanted me to quit. To go work for her. Like none of it mattered."
Sicheng exhaled, slow and deep, his gaze steady as he lifted one hand and, this time, placed it gently over hers—firm, warm, unmoving. "It matters to me." And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, she finally looked him in the eye and believed him.
For a long moment, Yao didn't speak.
Not because she had nothing to say, but because the words sat like stones at the base of her throat, heavy and unformed, weighed down by weeks of silence and the quiet guilt that had been nesting there for far longer than she had let anyone see. Her fingers, still curled beneath Sicheng's hand, trembled faintly, and though she didn't try to pull away, her shoulders hunched slightly, as if protecting something fragile, something that had been cracked open just moments ago and was still too raw to fully expose.
But then, slowly, quietly, with a voice that trembled at the edges but didn't break—she spoke.
"I know… some of this is my fault."
Sicheng didn't respond. Didn't argue. Didn't cut her off with the kind of instinctive denial she had expected. He just stayed still.
Stayed quiet.
Let her speak.
And somehow, that made it easier.
"I never told them," she continued, her voice low, her eyes fixed somewhere near the carpet, not quite looking at him but no longer hiding either. "When I left the apartment, when I moved into the base… I didn't tell Jinyang or Ai Jia. I didn't tell them where I was going. I didn't tell them about ZGDX. I didn't even tell them I had a job." She paused, swallowing hard, her throat visibly tightening around the next words. "I should have. I know I should have. I should have said something. Should have explained. Should have… let them know. But I couldn't. I just… couldn't find the words." Her fingers tightened around the edge of her sweater sleeve, twisting the fabric slowly between them as if grounding herself with that single, repetitive motion. "Because I know Ai Jia," she said, softer now. "I know how he thinks. I know how he looks at ZGDX. I know that no matter what I said, no matter how I tried to explain it, all he would have heard was betrayal. He would've seen me joining your team as choosing sides. As turning my back on YQCB. On him."
Her voice caught for a second, not from tears but from the frustration of knowing how deeply true that was, how inescapable it had felt. "And Jinyang… she would've tried to fix it," Yao murmured. "She would've tried to drag me out of here and convince me to move in with her, and she would've said it was just temporary, just until I found a new place or figured things out—but I know how that ends." She finally looked at him again, her eyes clearer now, still soft, still hesitant, but burning with the kind of clarity that only came after weeks of silence. "If I had moved in with her, I never would've gotten anything done. Not on my dissertation. Not with work. Nothing."
She exhaled sharply, a frustrated breath that seemed to carry far more than just academic stress. "She doesn't mean to be distracting, but she is . She talks constantly. She wants to go out all the time. She doesn't understand the way I work—how I need space, how I need silence, how sometimes I just need to sit for hours and not talk and not be interrupted. She'd think something was wrong if I didn't answer immediately. She'd hover. And she'd do it all while saying she was helping."
Yao shook her head, her expression folding into something caught between guilt and resignation. "I didn't want to deal with it. So I didn't tell them. I just disappeared. And now…" she paused again, biting the inside of her cheek before finishing with a whisper, "now they're angry. Or hurt. Or both."
And there it was.
The truth, laid bare.
She hadn't said anything—not because she didn't care, not because she wanted to cut them off, but because she had known exactly how it would unfold and had chosen the quiet chaos of guilt over the loud noise of confrontation. And it had hurt anyway.
Sicheng watched her in silence for a long beat, his gaze steady, unwavering, never once looking away from her face. And when he finally spoke, his voice was low, even, and edged with something deeper. "You didn't disappear," he said. "You chose yourself."
Her breath caught, just slightly.
"And maybe they don't like that. Maybe they don't understand it. But it doesn't mean you were wrong." He leaned forward a little more, the space between them narrowing—not in a way that trapped her, but in a way that kept her anchored .
"You didn't run away from them, Yao. You made a choice. You chose where you felt safe. You chose where you could breathe. You chose what you needed."
Her lips parted slightly, her chest tightening as his words sank in.
And when he reached forward—just a slow, deliberate movement to tuck a stray strand of her still-damp hair behind her ear—she didn't flinch.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't shrink.
She just blinked at him, stunned and silent, because this—this soft, unflinching understanding, was the one thing she hadn't been able to give herself.
Permission.
Sicheng didn't rush to speak, didn't reach for dramatic declarations or sweeping affirmations, didn't try to wrap his words in metaphor or soften the truth with half-hearted comfort—because Tong Yao didn't need that, didn't need anything sugar-coated or diluted or overdone. What she needed was certainty. What she needed was truth —raw, steady, unwavering—and so that was what he gave her.
"You're allowed to choose yourself," he said simply, the words smooth but carrying the weight of every moment he'd watched her bite her tongue, every conversation she'd shied away from, every silent retreat she'd tried to pass off as fine. "You're allowed to make decisions without asking anyone's permission. You don't owe them explanations for putting your own safety first, for protecting your own peace."
She was staring at him now—not blinking, not shrinking—just listening , and he could see the way her fingers still twisted in the fabric of her sleeves, not because she doubted him, but because she was trying to hold herself together as the words pushed through the layers of silence she'd wrapped around herself.
"You don't owe Ai Jia anything," Sicheng continued, quieter now, his voice lowering as if to meet her where she was. "Not loyalty. Not guilt. Not the burden of his expectations. And you especially don't owe Jinyang your convenience. It's not your job to let someone move you around like a chess piece because they're uncomfortable with you growing in ways they don't understand."
He shifted slightly in his chair, still crouched in front of her, his voice low but anchored with a possessive edge that had nothing to do with territory and everything to do with belonging . "You chose ZGDX. You chose this team. You chose the one place where no one asked you to shrink, where no one demanded you be louder or faster or someone else entirely. And we— I —chose you back."
Her breath hitched.
His gaze didn't waver.
"I don't care what Jinyang thinks. I don't care what Ai Jia says. This isn't about them. It never was. This is about you finally realizing that you don't need to justify staying somewhere you're wanted." His voice dropped again, barely above a whisper, but it wrapped around her like armor. "Because you're not just wanted here, Yao." His eyes locked onto hers, fierce and unrelenting. "You belong here."
And before he could say anything else, before another breath could pass between them, she moved.
Fast.
Without warning.
Without hesitation.
She surged forward in one swift motion, a blur of soft fabric and trembling limbs, and in the span of a heartbeat she was in his lap, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, her face burying itself against his chest as if it was the only place in the world she could breathe, her entire body pressed fully into his as though she needed to be anchored or she might disappear.
For a full second, Sicheng froze. His brain stuttered. Because Tong Yao didn't do this. She didn't initiate contact. She didn't reach for people. She didn't seek touch, didn't bury herself into warmth, didn't allow herself the vulnerability of needing to be held. She was shy. She was hesitant. She was reserved in a way that ran deep into her bones, the kind of girl who flinched more often than she leaned, who stiffened at sudden contact and sidestepped affection not because she didn't want it—but because she didn't know how to ask for it.
And yet—
Here she was.
In his arms.
Not awkward. Not twitching. Not trying to apologize or make herself smaller. Just there . Wrapped around him. Breathing against him. Clinging like she had finally, finally stopped running and had chosen to stay . It knocked the breath out of him in a way nothing else ever had. His arms hovered for a second too long, his body locked in place as his mind struggled to catch up with what his instincts already knew, and then—slowly, carefully—he lowered them around her, not too tight, not too sudden, just enough to hold her steady, just enough to remind her that she was safe here.
That she was home . This wasn't just gratitude. This wasn't relief. This wasn't her saying thank you for kind words or a safe space or a night without fear. This was something far more powerful. This was acceptance . A silent, irreversible acknowledgment that the words he had spoken had reached her. That they had settled into her chest and found root. That she had finally allowed herself to believe them.
He exhaled slowly, his breath brushing against her temple, his fingers curling slightly against the soft fabric of her sweater as he let his arms adjust around her—not a cage, never a trap, but a promise. "You finally get it now?" he murmured, voice so quiet it was almost a breath.
She didn't move. Didn't pull back. But he felt it— the shift , subtle but real—her body giving in, her muscles relaxing by degrees, the last of her tension melting into the certainty of his hold. And after a long pause, after one deep inhale and one shaky, quiet exhale, she gave the answer he didn't need to hear but would hold onto anyway.
She nodded.
Just once.
And for Sicheng, that was enough.
He closed his eyes briefly, just for a moment, just long enough to absorb the weight of that nod, the warmth of her in his arms, the trust she had finally, finally allowed herself to place in him. Because this? This wasn't just about convincing her she belonged. This was about making sure she never questioned it again .