Summary: A quiet morning becomes anything but when one unspoken shift changes the rhythm between them, and a single word spoken with quiet finality changes the air in the room. As chaos brews downstairs and judgment descends with heels and silence, Yao finds herself both overwhelmed and anchored—by unexpected kindness, by certainty, and by the knowledge that some moments don't need to be explained. They just need to happen.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning arrived with a kind of hushed softness that clung to the air like the remnants of a dream not quite faded, the sunlight barely filtering through the curtains, warm and muted, and Sicheng, already seated at the dining table, one arm resting lazily across the wood while the other scrolled absentmindedly through something on his phone, barely paid attention to the low hum of conversation surrounding him. The team's usual early morning banter floated around the room in fragments, Pang grumbling about someone finishing the good yogurt, Yue throwing out half-hearted threats about changing the team group chat name again, Lao Mao mumbling something sarcastic in response but none of it truly registered.
Not until the air shifted. Not until something subtle changed, something only he would notice, something that wasn't sound or motion, but presence.
And than, she walked in. Quietly, as she always did, soft steps barely making a sound, her posture small but not closed, careful but not shrinking, and as she moved further into the room, her long platinum hair slightly mussed from sleep, her hazel eyes still heavy-lidded with lingering drowsiness, her sleeves swallowed her hands completely, oversized, familiar, worn at the cuffs and Da Bing, large and loyal, kept pace behind her like a silent shadow, a sentry with no intent of leaving her side.
But Sicheng didn't look at the cat. His eyes were on her. Because even though nothing outwardly had changed—not her appearance, not the quiet way she entered the room, not the way her hands fidgeted lightly at the ends of her sleeves—something was different. There was something about the way she moved, the way she didn't pause in the doorway or glance around to see where everyone was sitting, the way her steps were less hesitant, less guarded, the way her feet moved almost instinctively toward the same place she always sat.
Except—this time—that place was closer.
Because he had pulled the chair out. Toward him. Not dramatically, not overtly, not with any kind of declaration or announcement, but simply, naturally, without thinking, without bothering to explain himself, because there was no part of him that saw this as anything unusual.
And Yao, as she approached the table, noticed. Her steps faltered just slightly, just enough to register the shift, her gaze flickering toward the chair that sat just a few inches closer to him than usual, her eyes lifting toward his, reading something there that neither of them acknowledged aloud—but she said nothing.
No questioning.
No protest.
No flustered attempt to retreat.
She simply sat.
Quietly.
As if the space had always belonged to her. As if she had finally stopped waiting for permission to exist there. And even though she didn't look directly at him, even though her eyes remained trained on the plate in front of her and her fingers tugged nervously at the sleeves of her hoodie, even though the faintest hint of pink dusted across her cheeks, Sicheng saw it all.
He saw the way her breath caught ever so slightly when she registered the closeness between them. He saw the way her knee brushed against the side of his under the table and how she didn't flinch away from the contact. He saw the way she wasn't trying to shrink herself, the way she had done so many mornings before. And he smirked, just slightly. Because she was here. Not halfway. Not cautiously. Not with the tension she used to carry in her shoulders like armor. Just here. And he wasn't about to let her retreat again. Without saying a word, without making a show of it, he reached for one of the plates that had been set out in front of him—stacked neatly, steam still rising from the fresh dumplings—and slid it across the table, slow and deliberate, placing it directly in front of her.
Yao blinked, her eyes flickering between the plate and his hand, her expression shifting, uncertain, surprised, but not resistant. Still, she hesitated.
And Sicheng, without lifting his gaze from the table, let his voice cut through the quiet with calm finality. "Eat."
One word.
Firm. Grounded. Absolute.
And Yao, flushing deeper but nodding, picked up her chopsticks with both hands, her voice a barely audible murmur as she whispered a soft, "Thank you."
Satisfied, Sicheng leaned back slightly in his chair, folding one arm over his chest, watching her with the same quiet intensity he always reserved for things that mattered—making sure she ate, making sure she didn't just push the food around her plate, making sure she wasn't drifting back into that place where she would forget to take care of herself. Because if there was one thing he wasn't going to let happen again—it was her slipping. Not while he was watching. Not now.
For a while, neither of them said anything, the sound of clinking chopsticks and low conversation filling the space around them, but between the two of them—there was only quiet.
Easy.
Comfortable.
Then, after a beat of silence, when he saw the way she had finally relaxed into her seat, when he noticed that the small tremble in her hands had stilled and the rhythm of her breath had evened out, when he was sure she wasn't going to pull away again—he asked. The question that had hovered at the edge of his thoughts since he left her apartment the night before. "Have you been having nightmares still?" His voice didn't shift. It remained low, measured, careful—but there was something beneath it, a weight, a depth, a quiet kind of concern that didn't need to be spoken aloud to be understood.
Yao looked up at him mid-bite, blinking once, her lips parting as if the question had caught her off guard—but then she swallowed, lowered her gaze, and answered. "They're… lessening." Her voice was quiet, still tinged with the remnants of sleep, still layered in the softness that came from not having to perform, not having to explain.
And Sicheng stilled. His gaze dropped—not to her face, not to her hands—but to the hoodie she was wearing. His hoodie. The one she had taken off when she started pulling back. The one she had stopped wearing when the nightmares got worse. The one she had put on again last night. And suddenly—he knew. He exhaled slowly, the breath leaving his lungs with the weight of quiet satisfaction, of something sinking into place, of understanding that had no need for words. Because she hadn't just stopped having nightmares. She had stopped when she had started coming back to him.
And even though he didn't say anything, even though he didn't let the smugness rise to the surface the way Yue would have, even though he didn't gloat or tease or make her flustered again just yet. It was there. In the slight curve of his lips. In the faint tilt of his head. In the ease of his shoulders as he picked up his own chopsticks and resumed eating like he wasn't quietly marking this moment as a victory. Because if she found comfort in his presence, if she slept better wearing his hoodie, if the nightmares faded when he was close. Then he had no intention of letting her drift far again.
Not now.
Not ever.
And as Yao continued to eat in silence, her face slowly relaxing into something unguarded, something soft, something almost peaceful, Sicheng watched her from the corner of his eye and let that quiet, territorial certainty settle deep in his chest. Because if she needed his hoodie to sleep? Then she would keep wearing it. For as long as she damn well wanted. And maybe longer than that.
Sicheng knew there were things that required his attention, responsibilities waiting in the pristine quiet of his office—paperwork in need of completion, quarterly reports that demanded review, and, more personally, a series of carefully monitored investment portfolios, hand-picked and crafted with exacting precision not for himself, but for the girl who, without flourish or fanfare, had entrusted him with something far more significant than just her money: her trust.
Yao hadn't asked for much—just a few stable, intelligent investments to start, a portfolio structured not to impress but to educate, a foundation to help her grow what she had rather than let it sit untouched, to turn passive inheritance into active strength—and for someone like Sicheng, who had spent years turning instinct into empire, who had made ZGDX not just a team but a brand, who had watched his wealth multiply with each calculated risk, each exacting move on a chessboard the world called business, this wasn't just easy. It was personal. Because she had asked him. Because she had trusted him—not a bank, not a stranger, not a consultant with graphs and projections—but him, the man who had sat across from her countless times and watched her process the world in quiet, methodical beats, the man she turned to not for reassurance but for certainty.
And that?
That wasn't something he would ever treat lightly. So with that knowledge settled squarely in his chest, with the weight of her quiet faith anchoring him in place more than any obligation or title ever had, he finally turned his attention back to the room, to the gathered chaos of his team scattered around the dining table, half-eating, half-bickering, wholly unaware of how short their morning peace was about to be. His voice, when it came, was calm, even, but laced with that unmistakable authority that needed no volume to command a room.
"Everyone needs to be in bed early tonight."
A pause.
And then—cooler, smoother, just enough steel beneath the surface to make it clear this wasn't a request.
"The photo shoot is tomorrow. I don't want to deal with tired idiots dragging their feet all day."
As expected, the collective groan was instant, a wave of dramatic suffering rippling through the team, but not one of them dared challenge it—not really—because they all knew that when Sicheng laid down the law, there was no loophole, no sidestep, no negotiation clever enough to save them from what would follow if they disobeyed. They knew. They always knew. Because Lu Sicheng didn't make rules just to make noise—he made them because they meant something, because they worked, because if he said something, it was because it mattered. But just as the team began to settle, just as they resumed chewing and muttering and pretending like they hadn't been thoroughly shut down, Sicheng moved.
Deliberate.
Measured.
Not hurried—but not subtle either.
There was something intentional in the way he stood, in the way he crossed the space between his seat and hers, in the way his steps were just slow enough to draw the eye but not enough to make anyone fully register what was about to happen.
Until it happened.
Without preamble.
Without warning.
Without fanfare.
He leaned in, close—just enough to cross that invisible line, that fine thread of space that had always separated 'almost' from 'undeniable'—and pressed a kiss against her cheek.
Light.
Brief.
Unhurried.
But final.
And then—just like that—he pulled back, turned, and walked out of the room, his movements effortless, his composure unshaken, his retreat perfectly timed to leave nothing behind but silence.
Stunned silence.
Because he had done it so casually, so confidently, so completely that for a few seconds, no one breathed.
Chopsticks hovered mid-air. Mouths hung slightly open. Expressions were frozen somewhere between disbelief and slow, creeping realization.
And at the epicenter of it all—Tong Yao.
Frozen.
Blinking.
Malfunctioning in real time.
Her hands gripped the sleeves of her hoodie like they were the only things anchoring her to reality, her hazel eyes blown wide with shock, her entire face painted in shades of red so deep they seemed to radiate heat, and for a full three seconds, she didn't move—didn't blink, didn't breathe, didn't speak.
And then—
Yue, dragging a hand down his face with exaggerated despair, broke the silence. "Oh, so we're just doing that now? Right in front of us?"
Ming, ever the calmest of them, didn't even look up from his bowl. "He's not even being subtle anymore."
Lao Mao, who was already smirking, nudged Pang with the full force of someone who had seen this coming. "Think it's time we started placing bets?"
Pang, still looking back and forth between the doorway and Yao like he had just witnessed a crime scene, finally muttered, "I'm just impressed she's still conscious."
Lao K, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, lips twitching with amusement, added helpfully, "You could fry an egg on her face right now."
And Yao?
Yao didn't respond. Didn't even attempt to defend herself. Because she couldn't. She was still sitting there, completely shell-shocked, her mind clearly still short-circuited from the soft, searing press of his mouth against her skin, from the weight of that kiss, from the certainty in it, from what it meant, what it promised. She was, in every way that mattered, completely and utterly done.
And somewhere seated at his desk, booting up the files he needed to review, knowing full well the chaos he had left behind, knowing exactly what he had done and how effective it had been… Sicheng smirked. Because that? That had been entirely intentional. And it was only the beginning.
The moment Lu Sicheng stepped out of his office, the first thing that greeted him was not the quiet hum of the base nor the distant sound of keys clacking from someone working downstairs—it was the very distinct, very unmistakable, very high-pitched squeak of a certain flustered girl who had clearly not anticipated running into him this early in the day, a sound so sharp and so immediately revealing that it made him pause, arch one brow in quiet amusement as he shifted his weight and let his eyes scan the room.
And there she was.
Tong Yao, frozen mid-step, her silver hair catching the light as she ducked her head in a motion that might've looked casual to someone who didn't know her but to him—to him, who had spent the past few months watching and memorizing every tiny tic and twitch of her nervous tells—was as obvious as a billboard. She wasn't just flustered—she was panicking, and the moment their eyes almost met, the second she registered that he had spotted her, she turned, sharply, comically, retreating like a startled rabbit darting for cover, practically disappearing into the nearest corner of safety as if his presence alone had short-circuited her nervous system.
Sicheng, still standing just outside his office door, arms folding slowly over his chest, exhaled through his nose with deliberate patience, the corner of his mouth twitching into a quiet, knowing smirk, because yes—yes, she was still flustered, still recovering, still far too affected by the kiss he had pressed to her cheek the morning before, and that, precisely that, was the outcome he had wanted.
Good.
Let her fluster. Let her spin herself in circles. Let her avoid his eyes and flee the room and fail to process what it meant when he did things she wasn't prepared for—because it meant she was thinking about it. It meant she was thinking about him. But just as he was about to step forward, maybe make a comment, maybe drop another quiet reminder that he was not going to let her get away from the conversation they were very much still having without words, Rui—who had clearly been lurking nearby with a clipboard half-tucked beneath one arm and the world's worst timing clinging to him like a second skin—slowly turned his head, his expression unreadable but his eyes narrowed in that way that always meant danger, mischief, or divine retribution was about to be served cold.
There was a pause.
A long one.
A silence so heavy it might've passed unnoticed if not for the way Rui tilted his head slightly, his gaze locking onto his Captain's with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, and then—without preamble, without shame, without the slightest care for decorum or dignity—delivered the single most soul-shattering line anyone had dared utter in that room all week.
"So, should I be calling the police to protect our girl from our predator Captain, or should I just go ahead and call your mother and have her give you both The Talk?"
The effect was immediate.
Devastating.
Glorious.
Lao Mao, who had been mid-sip of water, choked so violently it looked like he might actually eject his lungs. Lao K, normally the picture of quiet composure, fumbled his phone and let out a sound that could only be described as a short, shocked wheeze. Pang, having just lowered himself into his seat with the grace of a tired man, leaned so far back in response that he nearly tipped over, his mouth opening in stunned disbelief.
Ming, forever the adult in the room, simply closed his eyes and exhaled sharply, muttering what sounded like "Jesus Christ, Rui," in a tone that screamed resignation and regret for every life decision that had led him to this point.
And Yue—dear, wicked Yue, who thrived on chaos like a dragon hoarding drama—placed a hand over his chest with theatrical flourish, his face alight with delight as he leaned forward and practically begged, "Oh, oh, please call our mother," his voice brimming with glee, "I beg you, I want to see it happen."
Through it all, Sicheng remained perfectly still, his posture unmoved, his arms still folded across his chest, his expression blank save for the subtle tightening around his jaw and the low, slow, deadly narrowing of his eyes as he shifted his gaze from the chaos around the room and landed it, sharp as a blade, on Rui. There was no raised voice. No lashing out. Just a single sentence, low and calm and absolutely terrifying in its simplicity. "You want to die today, Rui?"
Rui, completely unbothered, unshaken, his clipboard now acting as an honorary shield of protection, simply shrugged with the casual ease of a man who had long accepted his fate and made peace with his terrible, glorious choices. "I've made my peace with it."
And from the hallway above, just barely visible as she peered down from the second-floor landing where she had definitely fled, Tong Yao clapped both hands over her burning face and nearly tripped over Da Bing in her attempt to vanish even deeper into the walls. Because of course this was her life now. Because of course he had smirked. And because of course… She was not going to survive this team.
Tong Yao, still flushed from head to toe, her face burning with enough heat to rival a small sun, had absolutely not intended to be involved in any part of this conversation—she had fled the moment she'd seen Sicheng step out of his office, had darted away like a skittish rabbit the instant her brain reminded her of the kiss he'd pressed to her cheek not twenty-four hours earlier, had fully planned on hiding upstairs until the heat left her cheeks and the memory stopped replaying in her head on an endless loop.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Because as soon as Rui had said that—as soon as his voice had cut across the room with the calm, deadly force of someone who knew exactly what chaos he was about to unleash—she had heard it.
Clear as day.
All of it.
And her brain, already short-circuiting from proximity, from memory, from sensation, did what it did best when overwhelmed—spoke without thinking.
"I already got The Talk when I was fifteen," she muttered under her breath, barely louder than a whisper, her voice dry and flustered and sharp with the mortifying edge of someone who was about three seconds from spontaneous combustion, "we had a whole unit on it in Health class… with diagrams… and uncomfortable videos…"
The room fell so still you could've heard Yue's soul ascending.
And then—before anyone could process that, before she could stop herself, before her frontal cortex had a chance to intervene and shut her up—the words just kept coming.
"Not to mention all the times I walked in on Ai Jia and Jinyang."
A beat.
A pause.
A silence so heavy it had mass.
Lao Mao blinked slowly like he wasn't sure if he had just hallucinated. Lao K looked visibly traumatized. Ming pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it might've left a mark. Pang let out a low whistle and shook his head like he wasn't even sure what to do with that information.
Yue dropped his chopsticks and gasped, gasped, like he had just received the single most delightful piece of gossip in years, turning in his seat to face her, eyes wide with utter glee. "You what?" he practically howled, laughter already bubbling up in his chest, "You walked in on Ai Jia and Jinyang—multiple times?! How many?! What positions?! Did Jinyang throw things?!"
Yao, now scarlet from her forehead to her collarbone, realized too late that she had said too much, that her mouth had moved faster than her dignity, and now—now—there was no saving herself. "I—I didn't mean it like— I mean, yes, but—not that I was counting—I wasn't watching—just—they never locked doors, okay?!" She was rambling now. Spiraling. A verbal meltdown of panicked clarification and regret. And the more she tried to fix it, the worse it got.
Rui, covering his mouth with his clipboard, was visibly shaking from the effort it took not to laugh, and Lao Mao finally reached out to slap him on the back with a muttered, "You broke her, good job."
Sicheng, meanwhile, was still standing near the hallway, perfectly still, his expression unreadable except for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a twitch that said very clearly that he was enjoying this far too much, watching the girl he had kissed unravel in real time as she scrambled to reassemble her dignity in front of a room full of predators, idiots, and Yue.
"This is fine," Yao muttered to herself, gripping the stair railing like it might save her soul, her voice somewhere between resignation and the stunned horror of someone who knew she would never live this down. "This is completely fine. Normal conversation. Excellent. Definitely not dying inside right now." Tong Yao was going to pack herself into a suitcase and live under the bed for the rest of the season. Possibly forever.
Sicheng, still standing there, still watching as his idiot teammates lost their minds, still processing the absolute disaster that had just occurred. Slowly dragged a hand down his face. Then—without another word. He turned and left. Because if he stayed in that room any longer, if he heard even one more second of this conversation, he was going to lose it. And he would much rather take this up with Yao later. When they weren't surrounded by a bunch of nosy, dramatic idiots who clearly had no concept of personal boundaries.
Yao was flustered beyond belief, completely overwhelmed, utterly undone by the relentless, unfiltered chaos that had erupted around her, her mind still scrambling to recover from her own accidental oversharing, her cheeks burning with secondhand heat, her fingers trembling slightly from the sheer emotional whiplash of the last five minutes—and yet, beneath all the embarrassment, beneath the mortification, beneath the fact that she had somehow ended up talking about sex ed classes and Jinyang and Ai Jia's lack of door etiquette in front of a room full of absolute idiots—she realized something.
She had no regrets.
None.
Because honestly?
They deserved this.
Every single one of them.
They deserved the awkward silence that followed her panicked, flustered rambling. They deserved the chaos she had accidentally unleashed. They deserved to hear every humiliating word of her muttered, panicked meltdown. Because clearly—clearly—none of them had ever been around a woman who had never dated before. None of them had ever considered how someone with no romantic experience might feel in a situation like this. None of them had thought for even a moment about what it might be like to be vulnerable, to be uncertain, to be new to all of it—and still be trying to figure it out while surrounded by a pack of grown men who handled emotional nuance with all the grace of a brick through a window.
So as Yue writhed on the floor like a man possessed, gasping between breathless bursts of laughter that had long since crossed into wheezing hysteria, as Lao Mao wiped tears from his eyes and Pang tried—and failed—to drink water without choking on it again, as even Ming, stoic, responsible Ming, shook his head with the smallest trace of a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth—
Yao made a decision. A sharp, clean, absolutely justified decision. One that required no second thoughts, no apologies, and certainly no consideration for what it might unleash. With a face still burning, hands still twitching, and eyes narrowed in quiet, simmering vengeance, she reached for her phone—calmly, deliberately, without saying a word.
And she called Lan.
Because if there was one person on this earth who would understand, if there was one person who would immediately take her side, if there was one woman who could and would correct this behavior with surgical precision and the kind of cold, motherly wrath that left grown men trembling?
It was Madam Lu.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Then it connected.
And Yao didn't even hesitate. Didn't breathe. Didn't think. She just spoke. Rapid-fire. Panicked. Barely coherent. "Aunt Lan—I—I just—I don't know what to do with them anymore! I said one thing, and now Yue won't stop laughing, and the others—they're all just—chuckling! And—and I know they don't mean it in a bad way, not really, but it's like—it's like they've never met a girl who hasn't dated before, who hasn't—who hasn't had—who hasn't—!" She stopped. Sputtered. Whimpered. And nearly swallowed her tongue trying to not say anything else incriminating.
There was a pause.
A beat of silence.
Then—
Lan exhaled.
Long. Slow. Measured.
"I'm on my way."
Click.
And the line went dead. Just like that. No further questions. No follow-ups. No additional context requested.
Because Madam Lu, the terrifying matriarch who ruled over her household and the business world alike with an iron will and a gaze that could silence even the boldest of men, had already decided what needed to be done. And somewhere in the dining room, surrounded by clueless, unsuspecting fools who were still reveling in her humiliation, still chuckling, still making snide comments and overdramatic wheezes about her words, no one knew what was coming. They had no clue what she had just done. No idea what she had just unleashed. No understanding that they were about to be on the receiving end of a visit from the one woman even Lu Sicheng treaded carefully around when it came to emotional matters. Because she hadn't just called for backup. She had summoned judgment. And not one of them saw it coming.
Yao, face still warm, chest still tight, hands still curled into her sleeves from residual embarrassment, sat down without a word—calm, composed, with a stillness that was almost eerie in its quiet confidence—and simply began to eat. No warnings. No commentary. No warnings. Because they would learn. Oh, they would learn. And by the time Madam Lu arrived? She wouldn't need to say a word. Because the moment that front door opened… They would know.
Sicheng had barely made it back to his office, had barely let the door click shut behind him, the sound still settling into the air like the slow exhale of someone who had just delivered a precisely timed blow, had barely sunk down into the familiar leather of his chair with the quiet satisfaction of a man who knew exactly what he had done, when the sound of footsteps, soft but purposeful, unhurried but clearly intentional, cut through the thin veil of silence, followed almost immediately by a knock so hesitant, so carefully measured, that it couldn't have belonged to anyone but her.
His amber gaze shifted toward the door, sharp and focused in contrast to the way his fingers idly drummed against the edge of his desk, rhythm calm and unbothered, though his mind had already begun narrowing down the list of potential intrusions.
Not Rui.
Rui wouldn't knock—he would've barged in without preamble, clipboard in hand, armed with whatever tedious update he believed required attention, likely some poorly timed attempt to provoke him back into an argument, possibly about budgeting, or worse, team nutrition.
Not Yue, Lao Mao, Lao K, or Pang. They were still downstairs, still tangled in the aftermath of the chaos they themselves had created, still laughing too loudly over their own jokes, too amused by Yao's earlier meltdown to realize the weight of judgment already barreling toward them.
Which left only one person.
So Sicheng didn't bother asking, didn't call out to confirm, didn't wait for another knock—he simply stood, moved to the door, and opened it with the same unhurried confidence that defined every decision he made. And there she was. Exactly as expected.
Tong Yao stood just beyond the doorway, her frame small, her posture hesitant but not retreating, her silver hair slightly mussed from where she'd probably raked her hands through it more than once, her hazel eyes flickering with something unreadable—something fragile but determined, something anxious but rooted in intent, something that made him stop for just half a second and adjust.
Because this wasn't just a casual check-in. This wasn't about the hoodie she was still wearing, still curled into like it was the one familiar thing anchoring her to the floor beneath her. This was about something else entirely.
He leaned casually against the doorframe, his brow arching as he looked down at her, voice low, tone smooth but threaded with curiosity as he asked, "You hunting me down, Xiǎo Tùzǐ?"
She paused, inhaled a little too quickly, adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie again—nervous tells he had catalogued weeks ago—and then looked up at him with an expression so endearingly sincere, so absurdly innocent that it almost made him laugh, except her words had him freezing. "Do you want to hide with me in my apartment?"
Sicheng blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Let the question settle. Let the sheer audacity of it wrap itself around his ribs like a warm ribbon of amusement. His brow arched higher, slow and sharp, his lips twitching at the corners as he tilted his head slightly and asked, voice casual but with that unmistakable lilt of restrained curiosity, "Why?"
Yao fidgeted. Of course she did. Her fingers clutched the hem of her sleeves tighter, her shoulders tensing, her weight shifting from one foot to the other as she exhaled through her nose in a slow rush and finally muttered, her voice just barely above a whisper, "Because I may or may not have just called Aunt Lan."
For one long beat, silence.
Utter, perfect silence.
And then—
It hit.
The understanding.
The full gravity of what she had just confessed settled over him with the slow, deliberate realization that she really had, that she hadn't just joked, hadn't just bluffed—she had actually called his mother. And with that knowledge, his smirk finally broke through. His arms folded slowly over his chest, his weight shifting as he leaned slightly forward, his gaze darkening—not in anger, not in frustration, but in the kind of amusement that came from watching something unfold exactly the way it deserved to. But still, he asked—because he wanted to hear it, wanted to savor every word, wanted to make her say it.
"What exactly did you tell her?"
Yao's eyes widened, her face heating up all over again, but to her credit, she didn't back down, didn't stammer this time, didn't look away. She just exhaled sharply and blurted out, "I told her everything."
And Sicheng—calm, composed, already imagining the absolute destruction about to rain down on the team—ran a slow hand down his face, a quiet, helpless sound of restrained laughter slipping from his chest, low and dry. She really did it.
She actually summoned the dragon.
And now?
Now the fools were about to be taught a lesson they would never forget.
His smirk deepened, but his voice remained smooth, deliberate, unreadable as he asked, "And now you want to hide from the aftermath?"
Yao nodded quickly, her eyes still wide, her cheeks still bright, her voice serious despite the embarrassment written across every inch of her face. "Yes."
And Sicheng, no longer bothering to suppress the grin that threatened to take over, stepped aside with a slow, graceful ease, gesturing into the room with a lazy sweep of his hand. "Then get in, Xiǎo Tùzǐ," he murmured, voice rich with amusement, "Let's watch the fireworks from a safe distance." And as she stepped past him, her breath still a little too quick, her body still vibrating with nervous energy, he let the door close softly behind them, the sound almost poetic. Because while chaos brewed below and Madam Lu's judgment approached like a storm… They would be exactly where they needed to be. Far enough to be safe. Close enough to enjoy the show.
It was too late for them now.
The moment Madam Lu's sleek, black luxury car pulled up to the ZGDX base with the kind of quiet precision that always preceded absolute chaos, the moment the engine silenced with ominous finality, the moment the door opened with that soft, deliberate click that might as well have sounded like a judge's gavel sealing their fate—the idiots in the living room were already doomed, their foolish laughter still lingering in the air like the final breath of a man who didn't realize the guillotine had already been dropped.
Because she had arrived.
And she was not impressed.
Seated comfortably on his office couch with a very quiet, very small-looking, very guilty girl curled beside him, her legs tucked under herself, her fingers wrapped tightly around the sleeves of his hoodie, her body language screaming regret-meets-smug-satisfaction—Lu Sicheng didn't even bother glancing at his watch, didn't check the time, didn't need to verify anything, because he already knew exactly what was about to happen, could already feel it in the atmosphere shifting below, could already hear the moment his mother's presence would crash through the base like a typhoon, ruthless and absolute, and leave behind a wake of stunned silence and emotional devastation.
And sure enough, right on cue, not even ten seconds later. The front door opened with the sharp, echoing precision of a final warning bell.
And Typhoon Lu Wang Lan entered the building.
The reaction was instantaneous. The once-lively living room, which had only moments ago been echoing with laughter, teasing, and at least one loud retelling of Yao's unfortunate spiral of honesty, went dead silent in an instant. Gone was the boisterous, overconfident energy. Vanished was the smug amusement. Erased completely was any trace of levity.
Because the moment she stepped inside—heels clicking with precise, practiced force, her designer coat sliding off her shoulders with the kind of grace that only the terrifyingly powerful possessed—the very air in the room shifted.
And the men who had, just minutes ago, been howling with laughter? Now looked like small, guilty children caught playing soccer in the living room after breaking a priceless vase.
Yue, who had been rolling on the floor moments earlier, practically sat upright by instinct alone, his posture snapping into something vaguely presentable as the laughter drained from his face with alarming speed, as though his entire spinal cord had sensed the danger and gone into survival mode.
Pang, usually one to lean back, relax, and take the hit with a grin, sat very still, his shoulders tense, his eyes slightly wide, clearly calculating whether the massive serving of noodles he had just prepared for himself would somehow now be seen as disrespectful.
Ming, seasoned veteran that he was, exhaled slowly through his nose and pinched the bridge of his nose as if already bracing himself for the migraine he could feel building at the base of his skull.
Lao Mao and Lao K exchanged a slow, pointed glance, one of those silent, telepathic conversations that lasted all of two seconds but conveyed everything.
We're dead, aren't we?
Oh, completely.
And Rui—poor, unfortunate Rui—who had been so smug, so self-assured, so convinced that his clipboard-powered commentary was harmless fun, now looked like he had seen the face of God and realized she was angry.
But the worst part?
The absolute, crushing, soul-stealing worst part?
She hadn't even spoken yet.
Madam Lu, long known for commanding rooms with silence alone, stood at the center of the living room, arms folded, back straight, chin slightly lifted, eyes cold and unreadable, her expression not angry, not even disappointed—just blank, which was always so much worse. And she said nothing. Nothing at all. For ten full seconds, she simply looked at them. Let them sit in it. Let them wither. Let them stew in the uncomfortable, all-consuming realization that they were not only caught—but already sentenced.
Then—finally—she exhaled.
It wasn't a sigh. It wasn't a groan of frustration. It was the kind of exhale that carried judgment, the sound a woman makes when she is so thoroughly unimpressed that even her disappointment is efficient. And then, in a tone so calm, so surgically cutting, so utterly composed that it might as well have been issued from a throne, she said, "So this is what happens when you put a group of men together without proper supervision."
Devastation.
Silence fell harder this time. No one dared blink. No one dared shift. Because there was no recovering from that kind of statement. There was no witty comeback. No sarcastic reply. Just the dull, hollow ache of being put in your place without even being yelled at. And she wasn't done. Oh, she was not done.
Madam Lu tilted her head ever so slightly, gaze scanning the room like a military commander reviewing a lineup of disappointing soldiers, her voice as calm and clear as ever as she added, "I suppose I should be grateful my eldest son isn't as much of an idiot as the rest of you, or else poor Tong Yao would have no one looking after her."
Yue, who had just recovered enough to inhale, flinched. Flinched visibly. "Hey, I—" he tried, his voice breaking mid-word.
She turned her head.
Just turned her head.
And Yue—Lu Yue, the eternal instigator, the sarcastic menace, the boy who had never once backed down from confrontation—fell completely, utterly, and immediately silent.
Madam Lu gave a single nod, a queen's approval of his finally-correct behavior, before turning back to the group at large, adjusting the bracelet on her wrist with smooth elegance, as if she were merely discussing the weather. "Now," she said, voice still deceptively pleasant, "since it seems none of you understand the concept of sensitivity, let's go over a few key points, shall we?"
The collective exhale that followed was long, drawn-out, and filled with the sort of misery usually reserved for students who had just realized the pop quiz wasn't a bluff—and not one of them doubted that they were about to be thoroughly, efficiently, and irrevocably educated. Because they weren't just dealing with a team manager. They weren't dealing with a coach or a sponsor or a mentor. They were dealing with Madam Lu Wang Lan and she was going to teach them. Whether they wanted the lesson or not.
Sicheng, still comfortably seated in his office, one leg draped casually over the other, feet propped up on the edge of his desk, arms folded across his chest in a posture of pure, unbothered composure, allowed the corners of his mouth to curl into the faintest smirk, amusement flickering behind sharp amber eyes as he listened to every word of his mother's unrelenting lecture echoing from the living room below like divine retribution wrapped in Chanel.
Yao, curled quietly on the couch beside him, knees tucked up, her face still warm from the memory of her earlier meltdown, her embarrassment lingering like a low hum beneath her skin, blinked once, then leaned slightly into the back cushion as she whispered with equal parts guilt and amusement, "Is it bad that I don't feel bad for them?"
Sicheng, tilting his head slightly in her direction without looking away from the ceiling, his smirk deepening with unmistakable satisfaction, exhaled through his nose, voice smooth and certain, "Not even a little, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
And with that, they both went still, the room descending into a peaceful, luxurious silence, content to sit in absolute, undisturbed calm as the rest of ZGDX's male roster received the lesson of a lifetime from a woman whose presence was as terrifying as it was surgically precise.
Sicheng hadn't moved, his body still relaxed, but his mind was fully engaged—his mother's voice carried through the walls with the unmistakable cadence of practiced authority, every syllable calculated, every pause deliberate, every remark slicing with clinical efficiency into the foolish egos of the boys downstairs, and while most people would have found it uncomfortable to eavesdrop on such a dismantling, Sicheng merely listened, his expression unreadable, his gaze half-lidded but focused, absorbing each word like it was a checklist being neatly fulfilled.
Because everything she was saying?
Everything she was laying out for them in that quiet, damning tone of hers about respect, about knowing where the line was drawn, about understanding that teasing had a time and place and that working with a young woman required a level of awareness, of emotional intelligence, of basic human decency—it all made sense to him.
He had never treated Yao carelessly. Never teased her when he saw her withdraw. Never pushed when she needed space. Never once mistook her silence for an invitation to laugh, or her confusion for something to mock. Because he had understood from the very beginning that she was different. That she experienced the world in a way that wasn't always visible to others. That trust, for her, wasn't automatic—it had to be earned, and protected, and kept. And then, just as he was beginning to turn his attention back to the portfolio he had been reviewing before she arrived—his mother's voice rang out again.
Calm. Crisp. Unshakable.
"Especially a 20-year-old girl."
And in that moment, his entire body went still. The thought hit him with a force so abrupt, so sharp, that it carved through the haze of calm he had maintained until now, freezing the breath in his chest and knocking loose a truth he should have been holding at the forefront of his mind all along.
Tong Yao was twenty.
Barely twenty.
And he—Lu Sicheng—was twenty-seven.
A full seven years older.
It wasn't as though he felt it, not really—not in his body, not in his pace, not in the way he moved or lived or led—but it was there. Inescapable. Quantifiable. Concrete. Seven years. A gap that wasn't insignificant.
He dragged a hand slowly down his face, mind beginning to spin with the sudden weight of that realization—not because he hadn't considered it before, but because he hadn't felt the pressure of it until this exact moment, until the words had been spoken aloud by the one person whose opinion on such matters could not be ignored.
Because it mattered now. Because if she was going to trust him enough to be with him, if she was going to give him a place in her world, in her space, in the parts of herself she never offered freely—then she had a right to know. She had a right to understand what she was choosing. Because he wasn't the kind of man who dated for the sake of dating. He didn't get involved unless he meant it. He didn't want things unless he was willing to keep them. And he wasn't looking at her with fleeting thoughts. He was looking at her and thinking—wife. And she needed to know that. She needed to know all of it.
Across from him, oblivious to the sudden storm now flooding his thoughts, Yao sat quietly on the couch, her brows slightly furrowed in concentration as she carefully flipped through the investment portfolio he'd compiled for her, her fingers brushing delicately over the pages, her lips pressed together as she read, her silver hair spilling across one shoulder like it always did when she tilted her head like that—and she looked so calm, so small, so focused that it almost made his chest ache.
Because she had no idea. No idea how deep he already was. No idea that when he looked at her now, he didn't just see the girl who had joined the team or the woman with unshakeable logic and ridiculous bluntness—he saw everything.
A future.
A life.
Something his.
And now, she needed to know it too.
So, with a long, slow breath, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk, his voice low, steady, edged with a seriousness he didn't use often, something final, something true.
"Yao-er."
She blinked, looked up immediately, her hazel eyes locking onto his with curiosity, her voice soft, unaware. "Hm?"
He exhaled again, carefully, deliberately, choosing his words the same way he approached every critical moment in his career—with precision. "I'm seven years older than you."
And then he watched. Watched for her reaction. Watched the way her expression shifted, her posture stilled, her lips parted slightly—not in shock, but in quiet processing. Because if she hesitated, if she recoiled, if she showed even a hint of discomfort—then he needed to know now. Because he wouldn't lie to her. Wouldn't hide from it. And if she wasn't ready—then he would respect that.
But if she was…
Then this?
This would be the moment everything changed.