Summary: A single sound—sharp, unexpected, and entirely hers—sends the entire ZGDX base into chaos. But beneath the laughter, the teasing, and the celebration lies something deeper. Not just pride, not just recognition, but a shift in the air between them. As one door quietly opens at the end of the night, it becomes clear that some moments aren't about strategy or timing—they're about the courage to ask, and the quiet bravery of saying yes.
Chapter Twenty
A Month Later
The arrival of the new team uniforms was supposed to be a moment of simplicity, an afterthought in the middle of a long day, something they would unpack together with a few lazy jokes, maybe some teasing about sizes or colors or whether the material made Yue look more ridiculous than usual, a casual ritual of team life that held no real weight—just another checkpoint in their shared timeline. And yes, there had been some mild curiosity about Yao's set, a few private comments exchanged earlier in the week about the customization, the fact that she'd requested pants instead of the default skirt and that the design team had gone out of their way to respect her preferences, but no one had expected anything dramatic, and certainly no one expected her to make an entrance before they even got the chance to call her down.
But then—
A sound.
A sound that none of them had ever heard before, not from her, not in this house, not in this life—a sharp, piercing squeal of unrestrained, unfiltered, uncontrollable joy—burst down from upstairs with such intensity, such volume, such sheer emotional clarity that every single man in the living room froze in place as though the foundations of reality had just shifted.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't confusion. It was pure, primal instinct kicking in because nothing in their combined life experience had prepared them for Tong Yao making that noise.
And then they heard the second part.
Thudding.
Quick, repeated, bouncing thuds across her floor, and the creaking groan of her door flung open wider, followed by a breathless, gleeful cry of triumph.
"Da Bing! Da Bing! It was approved!!"
That was all it took.
The pause lasted maybe a second, maybe two—and then the room exploded.
A blur of motion, stomping feet on stairs, someone tripping over the coffee table leg, someone else vaulting the back of the couch entirely, all of them scrambling like idiots with the singular focus of get upstairs now, pushing and elbowing and fighting like soldiers on the front line trying to be the first to reach the truth behind that squeal, because whatever had made Yao scream like that? They needed to know.
By the time they reached her door—some panting, some wide-eyed, some still fighting for position—they were met with a scene that none of them had ever witnessed before.
Tong Yao.
Glowing.
Beaming.
Radiating so much happiness that it physically stunned them.
She was standing in the middle of her apartment, clutching Da Bing to her chest as the large cat blinked slowly and judgmentally at the chaos behind her, while she bounced slightly on her feet, her hazel eyes alight with the kind of joy that was so honest, so real, so completely unguarded that not a single one of them knew what to do with it except stare. Because she was always cute—quietly so—adorable in her fumbling explanations, in the way she tried to hide behind her hoodie sleeves, in the way her ears turned red when she was flustered or called out for something—but this was different. This was her—joyful, unfiltered, free. And it was breathtaking.
Yue, still catching his breath from his mad dash, was the first to manage words. "Okay—what the hell just happened?"
Yao turned to them, eyes bright, smile impossibly wide, her entire expression lit with something close to giddy disbelief, and her voice, when it came, was so full of air and light and heart that it hit like the kind of confession that cracked through silence.
"My dissertation was approved!!"
There was a beat of silence.
A heartbeat.
A pause as that sentence processed in six very stunned brains.
And then—
"Wait—what?!"
The reaction was immediate and chaotic.
Ming's eyes widened first, his lips pulling into the kind of grin that cracked through his usual calm as he stepped forward. "Wait, you mean your final dissertation? The one you've been working on for months?"
Yao nodded so fast she nearly made herself dizzy, her hands squeezing Da Bing tighter as she vibrated in place. "Yes! They approved it, and now I just have to wait for the official email with my defense date! I'll have to fly back to Tsinghua to defend it in person, but—" She stopped, breath catching, the weight of her words finally sinking in as she whispered, "It's happening. It's finally happening."
And in that moment, something shifted.
Because this wasn't just a good moment. It wasn't just a happy one. It wasn't just another notch on her academic belt. This was everything—this was Tong Yao, the girl who had spent years battling for respect in two industries that tried to overlook her, who had written and revised and torn her work apart and stitched it back together again in silence, who had never once asked them to treat her like she was doing anything special—being recognized, being validated in a way none of them could deny.
Yue lunged first, grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a light shake. "Are you kidding me?! Why the hell are you just telling us this now?! We should be celebrating!"
"We knew you'd pull it off," Lao Mao said, laughing as he reached out and ruffled her hair before she could duck away.
"You really don't do anything halfway, huh?" Lao K added, shaking his head like he was both impressed and exhausted just thinking about it.
"All right, that's it," Pang declared, already halfway out the door, "We're going out! We're celebrating! Drinks, dinner, whatever—we're not letting this pass!"
"Agreed. This deserves something big." Ming said, nodding, already pulling out his phone to check nearby reservations.
Yao blinked at them all, still overwhelmed, still not quite understanding how things had gone from quiet joy to group celebration in under thirty seconds. "I-I mean, you don't have to—"
"Nope. You're not getting out of this, Salt Maiden. You did something amazing. And we're going to scream about it until you believe it." Yue said, grinning as he slung an arm around her shoulders.
And then—
As the laughter rose, as the teasing picked up, as the room filled with the kind of energy that only existed in families born through chaos and battle and stubborn, relentless love—
Sicheng moved. He hadn't said a word. Hadn't joined the mad scramble. Hadn't elbowed anyone to get to the front. But now, as Yao turned and looked at him, really looked at him, she paused. Because he was watching her. Only her. And his expression—so often guarded, so often sharp—had softened into something that left her breathless.
Warm.
Proud.
Hers.
And then—quietly, almost lazily, but with something unmistakable behind the words—he smirked. "About time, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
And that— That was what made her heart stumble. Not the celebration. Not the chaos. Not even the accomplishment. That look. Those words. Because for the first time in a long time, she didn't just feel smart, or accomplished, or proud— She felt seen.
Before anyone had the chance to get too carried away—before Yue could start pitching absurdly themed parties or Pang could suggest celebrating with something wildly unhinged like hotpot on a rooftop with karaoke and sparklers—Sicheng's voice finally cut through the gathering storm of chaotic energy, low and composed and edged with that undeniable weight that made every person in the room snap back to attention without hesitation, without protest, because when he spoke in that tone, clipped and absolute and threaded with quiet command, no one argued.
"Alright. Everyone, shut up and listen."
And the silence was immediate.
Total.
Not because they were afraid—but because Lu Sicheng rarely pulled rank unless it mattered, unless something needed to be said with authority, and the second his voice dropped into that register, they all understood it was time to listen. His gaze swept the room—steady, unreadable, those sharp amber eyes narrowing just slightly as he folded his arms over his chest and stood like he wasn't just a captain, but a man who had already made a decision.
"Dinner's on me. Get dressed. We're going out."
There was a pause.
Then—
"Nice!" Yue breathed, a single word laced with awe.
The reaction was instant.
"Oh, we're going all out, huh?" Lao Mao blinked, his tone somewhere between impressed and thrilled as he let out a low whistle.
Lao K arched a brow. "Damn. You must really be proud of her."
Pang, already halfway to the hallway, didn't even slow down. "I'm getting a steak the size of my goddamn face."
Yue, still hanging off Yao like he had adopted her for the fifth time that week, nudged her with a grin. "Look at you, Salt Maiden. Not even officially graduated yet and already getting a victory feast fit for royalty."
Yao, still processing, still mentally stuck in the moment where her dissertation approval had barely felt real, turned to look at Sicheng, her voice a soft, breathless whisper of protest. "B-But—"
"No 'buts,'" he interrupted, flatly, coolly, with a tone that didn't rise but still cut through her hesitation with precision. "You're the reason we're celebrating. You don't get to argue."
And Yao, still clutching at the hem of his hoodie, still flustered, still trying to understand how the day had turned into this whirlwind of celebration, knew better than to push back when he said it like that. So she swallowed her protest, cheeks pink, and nodded. "O-Okay…"
Sicheng, satisfied, gave a single, curt nod before glancing at the rest. "You've got one hour. Dress nice. We leave at seven."
That was it. No further debate. No room for discussion. Just law, as far as they were concerned. And as the team scattered, rushing to get ready, buzzing with the kind of excitement that always came when they were allowed to step out as a unit—not as just gamers, but as people, as a family—Yao stayed behind, still stunned, still stunned by how fast everything had changed, still clutching her phone and her cat and her heartbeat, which didn't seem to want to calm down. And the way Sicheng had looked at her—quiet, steady, proud—lingered in her chest, even as she made her way upstairs to change.
By the time they all gathered in the living room again, dressed in clothes far removed from their usual hoodies and joggers, there was a shift—subtle but significant—in the way they stood, in the way they looked at each other. It wasn't just excitement anymore. It was something steadier. Something deeper. Something like respect.
Ming stood near the far window, dressed in a navy button-down that fit like it had been tailored, his dark slacks ironed to perfection, the sleeves rolled just enough to give him that polished-but-unbothered look that made him seem like he belonged on a press release.
Lao Mao, usually one to prioritize comfort over fashion, had shown up in a deep gray dress shirt that hugged his shoulders perfectly, black pants clean and pressed, his hair slightly styled back in a way that made him look older—more serious—but still entirely himself.
Lao K, standing beside him, had opted for something monochrome and clean, an all-black ensemble that made him look sleek, composed, quiet in presence but strong in effect.
Pang, grumbling the whole time, still cleaned up with surprising finesse, wearing a dark green shirt with a black blazer, sleeves pushed to his elbows, already fiddling with his cuff links like he was counting down the seconds until he could dig into a full-course meal.
Yue, of course, had gone full drama—burgundy button-up, sleeves artfully pushed up, hair slightly tousled like he had walked off the cover of some glossy esports magazine, radiating smug elegance with every breath.
Even Rui, who had at some point relinquished his eternal clipboard, stood in the corner in a crisp white dress shirt and black slacks, silent, composed, clearly still trying to stay out of Sicheng's direct line of fire.
And Sicheng?
He looked like he'd walked out of a black-and-white photograph—deep black dress shirt, top buttons undone, sleeves rolled with calculated precision, tailored dark gray slacks sitting perfectly on his frame, his presence as commanding as ever without needing to say a word.
And then—
She came down the stairs. And everything stopped. Because no one had been prepared—not even remotely. Tong Yao, usually hidden beneath oversized sweaters and her ever-present team jacket, usually tucked into corners with her hair tied back and her eyes focused on her screen, had stepped into the room transformed—not into someone new, but into the fullest version of herself.
Her platinum hair was curled softly, framing her face and flowing down her shoulders like light made tangible, the strands catching the low light with each careful step. Her mint green dress was simple but elegant, cinched slightly at the waist, the fabric flowing gently around her knees with every movement. Her makeup was delicate, just enough to enhance—blush on her cheeks, the soft shimmer of highlight on her cheekbones, a gentle rose tint on her lips—and on her feet, sensible flat sandals, because of course she hadn't worn heels. Because this was Yao.
Their Yao.
And Pang, who had never in his life been rendered speechless by anything other than food, let out a low whistle. "Damn, Yao. You actually clean up nice."
Lao Mao, smirking, elbowed Lao K. "Our little Data Analyst might actually turn some heads tonight."
Lao K nodded, his gaze still fixed on her. "We're definitely keeping an eye on her."
Ming just smiled, quiet and proud. "You look good, Yao."
And Yue, of course, clutched his chest like he'd been personally attacked. "I didn't realize I had such a stunning little sister until now."
Yao immediately flushed, her entire face lighting up pink as she ducked her head, hands nervously clutching the sides of her dress. "S-Stop making a big deal out of it!"
But the damage was done.
They were in awe.
And then—finally—
Sicheng spoke. He hadn't said a word since she appeared. Hadn't moved from his place, slightly apart from the others, arms loose at his sides, gaze fixed on her. And when he finally did speak, his voice was low, smooth, carrying something beneath it that made the others fall silent. "You look beautiful, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
The effect was instant.
She froze.
Her breath caught.
The others turned immediately, expressions shifting—not because of what he'd said, but how he said it. Because that wasn't just a compliment. That was a declaration.
And Yao, blinking up at him, lips parted slightly in disbelief, didn't have time to respond—because then he moved, stepped forward, reached out, and took her hand. Not dramatically. Not theatrically. Just… steadily.
Quietly.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And with his fingers curling gently around hers, his gaze still locked onto hers with calm certainty, he simply said, "Let's go."
And in that moment, with the soft weight of his hand in hers and her heart pounding far too fast in her chest, Yao realized— This night wasn't just about her dissertation. It wasn't just a celebration of work. It was something else. Something quieter. Something deeper. And maybe—just maybe—something more.
The moment they arrived at the restaurant, Yao felt it—the shift, the subtle weight of attention that pressed against her shoulders the way a heavy fabric might settle, not aggressively, not intentionally, but just enough to make her skin prickle, just enough to pull her inward, because for someone like her, someone who lived in the quiet, someone who preferred low voices and low lights, who had never learned how to exist comfortably beneath the gaze of strangers, it was enough to set her just slightly on edge.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't intrusive.
But it was there.
The soft flickers of glances, the brief pauses in conversation as they passed tables filled with people dressed in muted tones and muted smiles, the low hum of ambient music doing little to drown out the awareness she carried as they were led further into the softly lit elegance of the dining room—she could feel it all, and she hated it.
And she knew why.
It wasn't just because of the group she was with—because, truthfully, Sicheng and the others already drew attention wherever they went, not just because they were well-dressed or well-known, but because they carried themselves with a kind of magnetic presence that came from being both professional competitors and walking chaos—but this time, it wasn't just about them.
It was her.
Her hair—platinum, soft but unusual, a rare shade that caught the light like moonlight spun into silk—her eyes, wide and striking and framed by delicate lashes, her features soft and composed in a way that demanded a second glance even when she tried so hard to disappear. She stood out. Always had. Always would. And no matter how many times it happened, no matter how politely she reminded herself that people were probably just curious, it made her want to shrink, to disappear into her dress, into the floor, into anything that wasn't being observed.
So—without thinking, without hesitation, without even realizing she was doing it—she moved closer.
Her feet shuffled subtly, her shoulder brushing lightly against the sleeve of the person beside her as she instinctively gravitated toward the one person in the room whose presence had always made her feel safer, steadier, seen in a way that didn't make her feel exposed.
Sicheng.
She didn't notice the way her fingers twitched until they curled gently around the fabric of his sleeve, didn't realize how close she was until her shoulder bumped lightly against his arm, didn't register how much she was leaning into his space until her pulse caught in her throat and she suddenly felt grounded by the warmth that radiated off him like something permanent.
But Sicheng?
Sicheng noticed immediately. He always did. He noticed the way her shoulders stiffened with each new pair of eyes that slid across them, the way her gaze dropped to the floor just a little too fast, the way her lips pressed together tightly in that way they always did when she was trying not to show that she was uncomfortable. And without a word, without a single signal, he adjusted. Slowed his pace just enough to keep her from feeling rushed, tilted his frame ever so slightly to the left to block her from view, angled his stride so that she naturally walked between him and the rest of the team without even realizing she had been guided. And when they reached their table, when the staff began pulling out chairs and laying menus, when the others were too distracted by the promise of food and the luxury of the evening to notice the details, he made the choice that required no announcement. He slid into the seat at the head of the table.
And guided her—gently, seamlessly—into the chair right beside him.
On her other side?
Ming.
Because of course it was. Because of course Ming, who had always quietly looked after her from the start, had already sensed what was needed and took the seat next to her without making it a thing, without glancing at anyone for confirmation. The others didn't say a word. They took their places, opened their menus, began arguing softly over appetizers, because they knew—all of them knew—when Sicheng shifted into his quiet, watchful mode, the one that meant he was taking care of her, that there was no point in questioning it.
And Yao?
Yao, finally realizing where she had ended up, finally processing the warm solidity of the man seated beside her and the calm presence of Ming on her left, finally glancing up from the linen-covered table to meet Sicheng's steady, unreadable gaze, felt a flush creep slowly up the back of her neck, blooming into her cheeks with the kind of soft, unavoidable heat that made her bite her lower lip and immediately lower her eyes to the menu. "…Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely above the music, barely even for him, but it reached him anyway.
Sicheng, still watching her, still noting the way she was unconsciously leaning into the space he had carved out for her, the way her fingers clutched the edge of the menu just slightly too tight, smirked with the smallest lift of one corner of his mouth—and then, his voice pitched low, just for her, smooth and solid and warm in a way that sank straight into her ribs— "Always, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
And just like that—her heart stumbled. Because it wasn't just the way he said it. It was the certainty. The way it felt like a promise, quiet and unshakable and not meant to be noticed by anyone but her.
And Yao, her chest tightening, her stomach curling with something that was no longer nerves but not yet comfort, something unnamed and building, simply nodded once and buried herself in the menu. Because suddenly… Suddenly, this dinner wasn't just about celebrating her academic success. Suddenly, it wasn't just about the dissertation. It was about this. About him. And about something unspoken between them that had finally, quietly, started to take root.
Later that night, long after the laughter had faded into memory, long after the restaurant lights had dimmed and the plates had been cleared, long after the team had scattered to their respective rooms with full bellies and easy smiles, Lu Sicheng found himself pacing.
And that, in itself, was a problem.
Because Lu Sicheng didn't pace.
Lu Sicheng didn't do restless. He didn't second-guess himself. He didn't replay conversations in his mind. He didn't walk circles like some lovesick fool trying to make sense of his own emotions—but tonight, with the echoes of her laughter still burning quietly in his chest and the memory of her delicate hand in his still etched into his palm like a brand, he couldn't sit still.
Because something had shifted. Something had changed. And it wasn't just about the celebration, it wasn't just about her dissertation approval or the pride that had burned in his throat when she lit up beneath the restaurant lights, when her joy had wrapped around the whole table like something sacred.
No.
It was more than that.
It was the way she had moved closer to him without hesitation, the way her shoulder had brushed against his during dinner, how she had instinctively leaned in when the noise of the restaurant got to be too much, trusting that he—of all people—would shield her from it. It was the way she had looked up at him during dessert, half laughing, half shy, her eyes crinkling as she tried not to fidget, her cheeks dusted with pink, her gaze seeking his first when something confused her or overwhelmed her or made her nervous.
It was the way she reached for him without realizing she had done it. And it was the way he had let her. No—more than let her. It was the way he had wanted it. Craved it. It was the way he had curled his fingers around her hand at the start of the night and never let go—not because she needed him to, but because he didn't want to.
Because this wasn't just about protecting her anymore. It wasn't just about watching over her, making sure she was safe, comfortable, focused. This was about wanting her. Wanting her in the quiet. Wanting her in the messy. Wanting her in the softest parts of his life he didn't usually let anyone near. This was about not wanting to be just her Captain, not just her boss, not just the one who hovered quietly in the background and carried her bags when she needed silence. This was about wanting more. And if there was one thing Sicheng didn't do—ever—it was hesitation.
So, after one final lap of his room, after one last glance at the untouched bottle of water on his desk and the soft hum of the computer screen still glowing idly, he exhaled, rolled his shoulders back, and left. Because the decision had already been made.
And now?
Now, he was going to ask. His steps were steady, practiced, unhurried—but beneath the surface of every deliberate movement was something far less composed, something raw and close to unfamiliar, something he couldn't name but had long since stopped trying to fight.
Because this?
This wasn't strategy. This wasn't a game he could win with mechanics or timing or reflex. This wasn't something he could force. This was her. And Tong Yao—his Xiǎo Tùzǐ—was not someone to take. She was someone to ask. Someone to invite into the space he'd always kept locked down. And that was the part that mattered most—because if she wasn't ready, if she wasn't there yet, if all of this had been just kindness and comfort and nothing more—he would let her go. Because wanting her didn't mean owning her.
And Sicheng had waited this long. He could wait longer. But he needed to know. He needed to ask. So when he reached her door, when the hallway lights flickered softly against the hardwood, when the sound of his own pulse grew louder in his ears than the quiet of the base, he didn't knock with impatience. He knocked with intention.
A pause.
A longer one.
Then—footsteps.
Soft.
Slow.
The quiet shuffle of someone unsure.
And then her voice.
Small.
Sleepy.
Familiar.
"…Sicheng?"
The door cracked open an inch, just enough for her to peek out, her platinum hair slightly messy from where it had brushed against her pillow or her hands, her eyes wide and still holding the lingering haze of a long day. And when her gaze lifted to meet his, when she saw the expression on his face—open, steady, unusually serious—her lips parted slightly, a faint breath catching in her throat.
Because she knew. Even if she didn't know what he was going to say, she knew this wasn't casual. This wasn't small. So she stepped back. Pulled the door open just enough to let the moment shift between them. And asked, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Do you… want to come in?"
He didn't smile. Didn't joke. Didn't smirk the way he usually would. He just exhaled, something easing in his chest, something realigning. And he stepped forward. Past the threshold. Into the quiet of her space. Into the space that had always been hers—soft, muted, lined with data charts and blankets and the quiet presence of Da Bing sprawled near the foot of the bed like the silent sentinel he always was.
Sicheng didn't speak.
Not yet.
Because now?
Now wasn't the time for control. Now was the time for honesty. And whatever happened next. He was going to mean every word.
As the door closed behind him with a soft, barely audible click, a subtle but final sound that sealed the quiet space around them like a boundary between the noise of the world and the charged stillness now pressing into the walls of her apartment, Sicheng felt it—that undeniable shift, the moment where everything he had been holding back came to rest at the edge of action, where thought could no longer protect him and silence could no longer shield him, where what he said next could either build something new or break something irreparable.
This wasn't about control. This wasn't about tactics or timing or asserting authority in a room full of players and analysts and staff who knew to fall silent the second his voice dropped an octave. This was different. This was the first time in his life he wasn't entirely sure of the outcome, wasn't entirely certain how to navigate the space in front of him, because this—this fragile, trembling thing between them—wasn't something that could be won, or forced, or led by strategy.
This was her.
And she, standing just a few feet away, her hands tucked into the long sleeves of her sweater, her posture hesitant but not closed, her gaze flickering with quiet, guarded uncertainty, wasn't a battlefield or a match or a situation to command—she was a girl he cared about more deeply than he had the language to express, someone who had, without even trying, unraveled him inch by inch until he had found himself standing here, in the soft quiet of her apartment, with nothing left but the truth.
And the truth?
Was that he wanted more. More than quiet glances in the dark during practice. More than brushing fingers as they passed coffee cups back and forth. More than the protective instinct that had always burned hot and relentless beneath his skin whenever someone looked at her wrong, spoke to her too harshly, or made her doubt herself. He wanted her—not as a responsibility, not as someone he had to protect or guide or watch over, but as someone he wanted to stand beside, someone he wanted to know in every way a person could be known. So, after a long breath that dragged through his lungs like the final inhale before a dive, after one last moment of silence where everything inside him screamed not to ruin it, he let the words come.
And when they did, his voice was steady.
Low.
Unshaking.
Weighted with the gravity of everything he meant.
"I don't want to just be your Captain."
The shift was immediate.
Yao, who had been nervously fidgeting with the ends of her sleeves, froze. Her breath hitched slightly, her head lifting with visible effort as she looked at him, truly looked at him, her hazel eyes wide and uncertain and raw in a way that made his chest ache.
But he didn't stop. Didn't retreat. Didn't blink. Because he had made the decision the moment he stepped out of his room, the moment he climbed the stairs, the moment she opened the door and let him in without asking questions. "I don't want to just be your boss, either." Another pause, longer this time, and this one was deliberate—not a hesitation, but a space, an opening, the kind of breath that made room for things to fall into place or fall apart entirely. And then, taking one slow, deliberate step forward, he gave her the rest. "I want a chance, Yao."
Her breath caught again, this time louder.
"A real chance."
His voice softened, dropped just slightly, but it didn't lose its strength—it gained something else instead, something deeper, something personal, something honest. "At being more than just someone standing on the sidelines of your life." And the silence that followed was deafening—not empty, not cold, but thick with the weight of something unspoken finally being given form, of months of glances and gestures and almosts rising into a single, undeniable truth that could no longer be ignored.
She was shaking. Just slightly. Her fingers curled tighter into her sleeves, the long fabric trembling against her knuckles, her lips parted as if to speak but no words came, her entire expression caught between disbelief and emotion so raw she couldn't name it, couldn't control it, couldn't stop it from rising up and choking her. Because no one had ever said anything like that to her before—not like this. Not without pressure. Not without conditions. Not without strings wrapped in obligation or expectation or the shadow of disappointment.
And now?
Now he was standing there, in her space, in her quiet, safe space, looking at her like she got to decide what happened next. Because this wasn't about him claiming her.
This wasn't about timing or patience or the slow-burning intensity that had defined everything about the way he protected her. This was a choice. And he had made his. Now she had to make hers. So he waited. Didn't fill the silence with noise. Didn't demand reassurance. Didn't move closer. Because he knew. Knew that if he crossed the line now—if he rushed her—it wouldn't be real. And for a moment, for a long, breathless moment, she said nothing.
The silence that followed his words was different from the one before—it wasn't tense, it wasn't uncertain, it wasn't built on hesitation or fear or the weight of everything that had been left unsaid for too long—it was quieter, softer, a silence that settled around them like something sacred, like something not to be touched, not to be interrupted, because in that moment, in that space between her unspoken fears and his deliberate reassurance, something shifted. Something opened. Something broke—but not in the way that hurt. It was the kind of breaking that let light in.
Sicheng could see it, the subtle way her shoulders lowered, not completely, not all at once, but just enough to show that his words had reached her, that they had cracked through whatever shame or anxiety or invisible wall she had tried to place between them—and more than that, he saw the way her gaze slowly began to lift, no longer darting away from his, no longer hiding behind the security of lowered eyes and hunched posture.
Her hazel eyes, still wide, still unsure, but no longer clouded with the same fear, finally met his again. And she didn't look away. Not this time. And finally—she nodded. Small. Hesitant. But unmistakable. She was saying yes. And yet— Even as that small, fragile agreement passed between them, even as Sicheng felt a quiet, satisfied certainty settle into his chest, something else flickered in her expression. Something more uncertain. Something more fragile. Something dangerously close to shame.
And then—before he could fully process it, before he could ask, before he could say anything at all— She spoke. Soft. Small. Distant. "I—" She hesitated, her gaze flickering downward, her fingers tightening even further into the fabric of her sleeves, her breath uneven. "I don't… I don't know how to do this."
Sicheng's eyes narrowed slightly, not in irritation, not in impatience, but in something sharper, something more focused—because he wasn't sure what she meant. But then—she continued. Her voice dropping lower, quieter, something almost unsteady lacing through it.
"I've never—" She stopped again, inhaled sharply, swallowing hard, as if forcing herself to push through the words that were so clearly difficult for her to say. And then—finally, she whispered. "I've never dated before."
Sicheng stilled. His entire body froze. But not because he was shocked. Not because he hadn't considered the possibility. Not because he hadn't already noticed how innocent she was in ways she probably didn't even realize, how she flustered too easily at certain things, how she never once reacted to flirting the way most people did, how she had never given off even the smallest indication of experience. No—he had known. Or at least, he had suspected. But hearing her say it out loud? That was something else entirely.
And Yao, already misinterpreting his silence, already bracing herself for a reaction she wasn't sure she was ready to face, forced herself to keep speaking, her voice turning softer, more distant, laced with something almost hesitant. "I've… never done this before." A pause. A breath. And then—quieter, almost ashamed. "I've never even kissed anyone."
Sicheng felt something in his chest tighten. Because now, he understood why she was withdrawing slightly, why she was curling into herself, why she wasn't looking at him directly, why she looked almost ashamed of what she was telling him. She wasn't just shy. She wasn't just hesitant. She was afraid that she wasn't enough. Afraid that her inexperience, her lack of knowledge, her complete and utter unfamiliarity with relationships was going to be a problem. Afraid that he would care.
And Sicheng—a man who had never truly felt the urge to soothe someone before, a man who had never had to be soft in moments like these, a man who had never once cared enough to reassure anyone about something so delicate— Felt something inside him shift. Because this wasn't something he wanted her to feel ashamed of. This wasn't something she should be apologizing for. So, after another brief pause, after another slow, measured breath, after making sure that when he spoke, his voice carried nothing but certainty, nothing but steadiness, nothing but absolute, unwavering control— He moved. Not fast. Not forcefully. Not in a way that would make her flinch, not in a way that would make her retreat, not in a way that would overwhelm her. Just enough to close the distance between them slightly. Just enough to let her know—without words—that she didn't have to feel small in this moment. And then—finally—he spoke.
"So?" His voice, low, steady, unshaken, carrying the same weight of finality that had been in his words earlier. Yao blinked up at him, clearly startled by his lack of reaction, clearly thrown off by the fact that he wasn't making this into a bigger deal than she already had in her own mind. And when she didn't immediately answer, when she still looked unsure, when she still looked like she was waiting for something, waiting for him to say something else, waiting for him to give her a reason to pull away— He continued. "Does it change anything?"
Yao swallowed, visibly thrown off. "I—I just—" She fidgeted, her hands gripping the hem of her sweater, her voice turning hesitant again. "I don't know how to act in a relationship. I don't—I don't know what to do. I don't even know how I'm supposed to—"
Sicheng cut her off smoothly. "Then don't act." She stopped immediately, hazel eyes snapping up to his in confusion. He tilted his head slightly, watching her carefully, his next words calm, but absolute. "Don't overthink it. Don't try to be something you think I expect. Don't try to change yourself into what you think someone in a relationship is supposed to be." A pause. Then, softer—but no less final. "Just be you, Yao."
Something in her expression cracked. Something unspoken passed between them. Something that told him she had needed to hear that more than he had realized. And finally—finally—her shoulders loosened slightly. The tension in her hands lessened. And her breath, which had been uneven since she first started speaking, finally steadied. She nodded. Slowly. Hesitantly. But undeniably. And Sicheng, watching her carefully, watching the way she was processing, absorbing, coming to terms with everything,
Because this wasn't about her being confident. It wasn't about her having answers. It wasn't about her suddenly knowing how to move through something she had never experienced before. It was about trust. It was about her choosing to stand in front of him—open, exposed, trembling but unguarded—and say, without words, I don't know how to do this… but I want to try.
And that?
That was everything. He didn't smile. Didn't soften into something romantic or theatrical. He just watched her, steady and still, letting her see that nothing about his stance had changed, nothing about his voice had lost its calm certainty, and nothing about her—this version of her, with trembling hands and raw honesty on her lips—had made him want to retreat. If anything, it only pulled him closer.
"You don't have to know how to do this," he said finally, his voice low, even, controlled, but no less gentle, no less grounding, no less real. "You're not supposed to have all the answers. That's not how this works."
She blinked at him again, her fingers slowly releasing the hem of her sweater, her breath catching slightly in her throat, as if his quiet acceptance had thrown her more than any grand confession ever could.
"And if I'm being honest?" He exhaled softly, allowing the smallest shift in his expression, just enough to let her see it wasn't just her stepping onto uncertain ground tonight. "Neither do I. Not like this."
Her brows lifted slightly at that, the corners of her mouth twitching like she didn't quite know what to do with his vulnerability, like it made her feel something she wasn't ready to put into words yet—but it steadied her all the same.
Because Lu Sicheng didn't admit to not knowing things. He didn't admit to uncertainty. He didn't pace rooms or knock on doors or stand with his heart open in the quiet of a girl's apartment and say things like I want a chance.
And yet—here he was.
And she?
She was still standing there, not running, not shrinking away, not turning her back. Just standing, quietly taking him in, like she finally believed that maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to have this too.
He stepped a little closer—not enough to overwhelm, not enough to trap—but just enough to fill the space that had always existed between them with something new, something warm, something real. And when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried more weight than anything he had said before. "We can figure it out together."
Her breath hitched again, but this time, it wasn't from fear. It was from relief. And this time—when she nodded, it wasn't small. It wasn't hesitant. It was full. Steady. Grounded in the quiet resolve of someone who had finally decided to stop holding herself back.
And Sicheng, watching that shift unfold across her expression like sunrise breaking through fog, felt something deep in his chest settle. Because this wasn't just the beginning of something fragile. This was the beginning of something true. Something they would build carefully, piece by piece. Not rushed. Not forced. Just theirs. And as the quiet between them deepened, no longer heavy but whole, Yao finally moved—not with certainty, not with bravado, but with something far more powerful.
She took a single step forward. Closed the last bit of distance. And reached for his hand. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Because in that moment, in that simple, quiet act of trust, she said everything. Now they could begin.
The moment her teeth caught her bottom lip, that soft, almost unconscious tug born out of uncertainty, a nervous habit she likely didn't even realize she was doing, Sicheng felt the slow, smoldering unraveling of the restraint he had so carefully, so deliberately constructed over months of proximity, over quiet moments and fleeting glances and too many nights where he had forced himself to keep his distance for her sake, not his.
It was such a small thing—so painfully simple, barely even noticeable unless someone was looking closely—but he was looking, and he had always looked when it came to her, always noticed the little things, always tuned into the subtle shifts of her expression, the way she fidgeted with her sleeves, the way her brows furrowed when she overthought, the way she blinked a few extra times when something overwhelmed her.
And this—this tiny, innocent action, paired with the way she was still watching him with wide, hesitant eyes, with the way her posture was open but unsure, with the way she was clearly still trying to process what this all meant, what he was asking of her, what it would look like to say yes to something so new, so vulnerable, so far outside the safety of data charts and late-night scrims and quiet walks back from training—
It pushed at something inside of him.
And then, as if fate itself had decided to test the very limits of the control he had been clinging to all night, she looked up at him again—not bold, not teasing, not intentional in any way that suggested she understood what she was doing—but soft, unsure, her lashes brushing upward as her eyes lifted, a look so painfully delicate that it struck him like a blow to the chest. Because she didn't know. She didn't know. Didn't realize what she was doing to him. Didn't understand that the way she looked at him—small, uncertain, hopeful—carried the kind of quiet destruction he had no defense against.
She didn't know that every time she bit her lip like that, every time she hesitated before looking up, every time she hovered in that quiet space between stepping forward and pulling back, she was igniting something beneath his skin that had no business staying buried for much longer.
She didn't know that he had spent months thinking about what it would feel like to touch her without restraint, to kiss her without caution, to press his hands into her waist and pull her closer until there was no space left between them—and she didn't know that he had denied himself those things not because he didn't want them, but because she hadn't been ready, because she hadn't even realized they were possible, because he had been waiting for this moment.
But now?
Now she was standing in front of him, looking up at him like that, biting her lip like that, blinking up at him with eyes that asked questions she didn't yet have the language for—and he was so close to answering them in ways she wasn't ready for.
So he didn't move. Even as his fingers twitched at his sides, even as his breath stilled and his pulse kicked hard behind his ribs, even as the space between them thickened with something dark and hungry and real—he didn't close the distance.
He didn't touch her. Didn't reach out. Didn't take what he wanted. Because she wasn't doing it on purpose. She didn't know. And if there was one thing Lu Sicheng was absolutely certain of—it was that he would never take from her what she wasn't fully offering. So, with a breath so deep it stretched his ribs tight and slow, with every muscle in his body held in rigid, unwavering control, he let the tension simmer just beneath the surface and finally spoke, his voice low and calm and dangerously quiet.
"Yao."
She blinked, startled by the sound of her name, by the way it felt different now—heavier, more deliberate, carrying something in it that curled around her spine and made her breath hitch before she could help it. She didn't speak. Didn't move. She just stood there, stunned by the subtle change in the air, aware now, even if she didn't understand it, that something had shifted.
Because he was still looking at her, but now his gaze had weight, a kind of intensity she hadn't felt from him before—not angry, not impatient, but focused, precise, as if she had just crossed an invisible threshold and he was deciding whether or not to follow. And then—he took a step back. One, single, deliberate step away from her. And with that motion, that retreat, that small but decisive act of discipline, he did the only thing he could do to keep himself from breaking every rule he had drawn for himself tonight.
He gave her space. Because he knew—if he moved forward now, if he touched her now, if he leaned in and answered all the silent questions in her eyes with the press of his mouth and the weight of his hands—he wouldn't stop. So instead, he stepped back. Breathed. Gathered himself. And then, with a voice still low, still edged with the restraint he was barely holding onto, he said the only thing he could say in that moment.
"You should sleep, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
And she—still dazed, still unsure, still not fully understanding the storm she had just stirred inside him—nodded slowly, her fingers curling tighter around the edge of her sleeve, her breath still uneven, her heart still fluttering in her chest like it didn't know what to do with the new tension between them.
Sicheng lingered. Just for a moment longer. Just long enough to be sure she was okay. Just long enough to memorize the way she looked right now—uncertain, soft, open. And then, without another word, without a single glance back—he turned and left. Because tonight wasn't about giving in. It was about drawing a line. And he would follow her lead.