Summary: One quiet question opens a door neither of them rush to name, but both instinctively walk through. Between flustered silences, unexpected teasing, and a shift that leaves the air just a little heavier, something changes. No declarations, no dramatics—just the quiet certainty that not everything needs to be explained for it to mean something. Especially when those watching already see it taking shape.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The room was quiet in the way that silence sometimes demands to be noticed—not empty, not cold, but full of weight, full of the kind of breathless stillness that usually follows a confession, the kind that lingers in the air like something suspended between expectation and revelation, waiting for one person to move, to speak, to react.
But Yao didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't react in any of the ways he had anticipated. She simply blinked once, calm, unhurried, completely unaffected—then tilted her head slightly to the side, her long silver hair sliding over her shoulder like a waterfall of moonlight, her hazel eyes narrowing ever so faintly in a look not of worry, or hesitation, or doubt, but something quiet and analytical, something thoughtful, something… confused.
She said nothing at first, just continued to look at him with that unreadable, disarming gaze of hers, the one that always felt like she was analyzing a complex equation in real time, like she was trying to solve for X with nothing but instinct and logic and sheer, relentless focus—and for a moment, Sicheng waited, let the silence stretch, let her process whatever it was she needed to, prepared for the moment she'd need time, space, distance to absorb what he had just dropped on her.
But instead—finally—after another few seconds passed, she spoke. Soft. Curious. Utterly, sincerely confused. "…Why does that matter?"
And Sicheng stilled.
Blinked.
Processed.
Because that—that right there—was not the reaction he had prepared for.
Not in the slightest.
He had braced himself for questions, for caution, for a long pause and a furrowed brow and maybe even a carefully worded request to slow things down. He had readied himself for the possibility that she might need time to reconcile the number, to wrap her mind around the idea that there were seven years of difference between their lives, their experiences, their emotional development, their places in the world. But she… hadn't. She wasn't shocked. She wasn't put off. She wasn't even remotely phased. She was just—perplexed. And that threw him far more than any protest ever could have.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers drumming idly against the desk, his gaze sharpening, narrowing slightly as he studied her, watching as she tilted her head a little more, eyes still on him, still waiting like he was the one who had some logic to explain. His voice, when it came, was lower now, more measured, more careful than before, smooth and even but laced with something unreadable. "Because there's a seven-year difference between us."
Yao blinked again, lips pursing slightly, her brows drawing just a touch closer as she processed, as she mentally sorted through whatever catalog of social understanding she had for relationships, trying—clearly—to figure out what emotional response she was supposed to have to that statement. And then, after a long pause, after visibly considering the information in front of her and finding nothing concerning about it whatsoever, she shrugged.
"Okay?"
Sicheng went completely still. Not tense. Not frustrated. Just… stunned. His jaw tightened slightly, not in anger, not even in disbelief, but in something heavier, something deeper, something bordering on awe—because this girl, this beautiful, blunt, logical, emotionally straightforward girl, genuinely didn't understand why he thought this mattered. She wasn't brushing it off. She wasn't pretending. She just… didn't care. Because it wasn't relevant to her. Because to her, it didn't change anything. And that realization—that—was more disarming than anything she had ever said to him.
Yao, still watching him expectantly, still clearly trying to work out what he was waiting for, leaned forward slightly, her fingers brushing the corner of the investment portfolio he had prepared, her voice quiet but steady as she asked again, slower now, like she was trying to meet him halfway in the explanation he never actually needed to give, "I don't understand why you're telling me this like it's supposed to change something."
And Sicheng just stared at her. Watched the way she sat across from him, completely relaxed, completely sincere, with no hidden layers in her voice, no attempt to avoid the truth, no nervousness, no retreat. And in that moment, something inside him shifted.
Not sharply.
Not suddenly.
But steadily.
Permanently.
Because she wasn't just okay with the truth—she had never even considered it a problem in the first place. And that kind of certainty, that kind of quiet, unwavering trust, settled into his chest like a lock finally clicking into place. Because she was already his. And whether she fully understood it yet or not—he was hers. So he exhaled once, long and slow, the tension that had crept into his shoulders bleeding out of him all at once, his amber gaze softening just slightly, and then—finally—he allowed a smirk to tug at the corner of his lips.
It was slow.
Sharp.
Unmistakable.
And then, with a voice low, smooth, threaded with something absolute, something settled, something final, he said, "It doesn't."
Yao blinked again.
And that was it.
That was all she needed.
And Sicheng?
Sicheng leaned back, the last of his hesitation slipping quietly into the past, because now—now—he had nothing left to hold back.
The moment Sicheng decided that there was truly nothing left to hold back, no further need for caution, no lingering thought to hesitate over, he knew—without a shadow of doubt—that there was still one thing left to say, one truth that needed to be spoken aloud, not later, not eventually, but now, while she was still seated across from him, still wrapped in his hoodie like it was a shield, still looking at him with that wide, open expression that meant she was ready to hear whatever he needed her to understand.
Because this wasn't just about affection. This wasn't just about dating. This wasn't about indulging in a feeling or entertaining the idea of something temporary just because it felt good in the moment.
No.
This was about her.
This was about the only person he had ever wanted with the kind of slow, terrifying certainty that made everything else he had once thought important fall completely out of focus.
So, with a steady breath that settled deep in his chest, with the same iron will that had carried him through years of pressure and leadership, with the same unwavering certainty that had always shaped the way he handled the things that mattered most—he leaned forward, rested his forearms against the desk, and met her gaze directly, letting the weight of what he was about to say settle between them long before the words themselves followed.
"There's one more thing you need to know, Yao."
And that was all it took.
Her hands, which had been gently fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie in that unconscious way she always did when her nerves were catching up to her thoughts, went still. Her breath hitched—just slightly—but it was enough. Her wide hazel eyes lifted to his, slowly, carefully, and when they locked onto his, he could see the shift. She was listening. Waiting. She knew something important was coming.
And he wasn't going to let her wait long. His voice, low, smooth, deliberate in its cadence, filled the quiet room like something final. "I don't date for the sake of dating." A pause. A breath. A moment of stillness. Then—softer. Heavier. Carried on a current of something deeper. "I have plans for you, Xiǎo Tùzǐ." Another pause. Then—lower now, quieter still, but piercing through the space between them like a promise. "I have plans to make you my wife."
And with that, silence.
Complete. All-consuming.
Yao didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Her lips parted in a soundless reaction, her entire body locking up in a way that told him, with crystal clarity, that she had not been expecting that—not here, not now, not yet. A flush bloomed across her cheeks, deep and vivid and spreading like fire from her collarbone to the tips of her ears as she immediately dropped her gaze, curling tighter into the sleeves of his hoodie like she could physically disappear into them. But she didn't run. She didn't protest. She didn't laugh it off. Because this wasn't something she could dismiss as teasing. This wasn't a joke. This wasn't a passing comment meant to fluster her. This was Sicheng.
And Lu Sicheng didn't say things he didn't mean. He didn't make declarations unless they were deliberate. And she—still processing, still swimming through the overwhelming surge of everything that statement meant—didn't know how to respond, didn't know what to do with the weight of the words he had just given her. But then—just as she began to spiral, just as she started to feel the panic rising, something surfaced.
A memory.
A moment from long ago.
Something her mother had once told her in that quiet, offhand way parents sometimes shared their own stories, when she was too young to understand their depth but old enough to remember them. And before she could overthink it, before she could even question why she was saying it—she spoke.
Soft. Shy. Honest.
"My mother told me once that my father said the same thing to her."
Sicheng froze as his amber gaze sharpened, narrowing slightly, zeroing in on her like he had just been handed something important.
And she wasn't finished. Still flushed. Still hiding behind her sleeves. Still speaking with that breathless, vulnerable tone that only surfaced when she was too flustered to guard herself. "He was older than her too. Eleven years older."
Sicheng said nothing. Just tapped his fingers once against the desk. Waiting.
"And my mother," she continued, her voice growing softer, more thoughtful, like the memory itself grounded her, "she'd only ever been with him. Her whole life." She paused again, then let out a slow breath. "I think… I think it might just be how it goes in my family." Her eyes dropped to the table, fingers still brushing the edge of the portfolio absentmindedly. "My grandmother was the same. She only ever loved my grandfather. And he was fifteen years older than her."
Sicheng leaned back slightly, his mind catching up with the weight of what she'd just told him, because this—this wasn't something light. This wasn't her joking or reacting blindly. This was her telling him, in her own quiet way, that she understood what he was offering. That she saw it. That she recognized it. That she respected it. Because maybe this wasn't about age. Maybe it wasn't about timelines or expectations or whether or not this was her first time being with someone. Maybe it was about something deeper. About instinct. About recognition. About belonging. And in that moment, with her voice still lingering in the air and her eyes cast down, unaware of the impact she had just made, Sicheng let himself smile—slow, satisfied, full of something dark and possessive and certain. His voice, when it came, was smooth and low, edged with warmth but also with something harder beneath it—something dangerous in its certainty.
"Then I guess you should get used to the idea of being mine, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
Yao's head snapped up just long enough to register what he had said—just long enough for her expression to freeze, for her lips to part in a soft, strangled noise, for her eyes to widen in pure, unfiltered disbelief—before she buried her face into her sleeves with a muffled, horrified squeak, shaking her head furiously.
And Sicheng?
Sicheng only smirked wider. Because she was flustered. Because she was overwhelmed. Because she was folding into herself in the way only she did when something reached too close to the core of who she was. But she wasn't running. She wasn't pulling away. And that? That was all the confirmation he needed.
Yao's entire face was burning, her skin practically radiating enough heat to warm the entire room, and she couldn't even bring herself to look at him as she pressed her sleeves up against her cheeks, as if the soft fabric could somehow absorb the blaze that had overtaken her since the exact moment Lu Sicheng had opened his mouth and said, with absolutely no shame and far too much smug satisfaction, "Then I guess you should get used to the idea of being mine, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
It had been too much.
Far, far too much.
Because what kind of man says something like that—so effortlessly, so smoothly, with that infuriating smirk that was both self-satisfied and devastating, like he knew exactly what those words would do to her? Her brain had short-circuited, her pulse completely derailed, and her hands were now curled tightly into the sleeves of his hoodie, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing anchoring her to reality, like it was the only barrier she had left between her and total emotional combustion.
And yet—he wasn't done.
Because even as she buried her face further, even as she silently begged the universe to grant her invisibility, even as she hoped with everything she had that he would have mercy and move on, she heard it—the low, smooth sound of laughter, soft and amused and utterly infuriating, the kind of laugh that said he knew exactly what he was doing and was going to enjoy every second of her unraveling.
And when she finally, slowly, hesitantly peeked up from behind her sleeves, when she risked a glance in his direction, she was immediately met with the sight of Lu Sicheng leaning back in his chair, one arm resting across the desk, completely relaxed, completely unbothered, watching her with the kind of lazy satisfaction that made her want to throw something at him—because his expression was far too smug, his smirk far too pleased, and his entire presence far too entertained by her suffering.
She scowled. Flustered beyond belief, drowning in her own overwhelmed silence, she summoned the only coherent insult her fried, spiraling brain could conjure—one that slipped out in a breathless, exasperated mutter, barely audible and yet still laced with the kind of wounded pride that only she could carry with such sincerity. "Stop being a hooligan."
Sicheng blinked.
Paused.
And then exhaled a short, sharp sound—half laugh, half disbelief—before his smirk deepened, his eyes narrowing with delighted amusement. "A hooligan?" he repeated, voice entirely too pleased with itself, like he'd just heard the most absurdly adorable thing in the world and fully intended to savor it.
Yao, immediately regretting the words the second they left her mouth, clenched her fists tighter into her sleeves and lowered her gaze again, her voice quieter but still flustered as she stubbornly muttered, "Yes."
"And what exactly," he drawled, shifting slightly in his chair, leaning back with that infuriating, confident ease, "makes me a hooligan, hm?"
Her breath hitched—because of course. Of course he wasn't going to let it go. Of course he was going to make her say it, make her explain, make her squirm. She exhaled shakily, lowered her gaze even further, and muttered under her breath with miserable honesty, "Saying things like that. Without warning. Making people—making me flustered."
There was a pause.
Then—his voice, softer now, teasing, but edged with something sharper, something that slipped under her skin. "So you're admitting that I fluster you?"
Yao froze. Absolutely, completely, utterly froze. Her eyes snapped up, expression horrified, lips parting as if to take it back, to undo what she had just accidentally confessed, to salvage what little composure she had left. But it was too late.
Because Sicheng had already seen it—had heard it, had felt the truth in her voice, and now it was written all over his expression, in the curve of his smirk, in the glint in his eyes, in the satisfied way he leaned back with the knowledge that she had just handed him exactly what he wanted.
So Yao, with no other option left to her, dropped her face into her arms again and hid, praying to every available power in the universe that he would somehow forget this ever happened.
He wouldn't.
Sicheng, watching her fold into herself like a collapsing star, shook his head slowly, amusement rippling through every line of his posture, his voice dropping lower, softer, warmer—but laced with something deeper, something possessive, something that was entirely, unmistakably his. "Get used to it, Xiǎo Tùzǐ," he murmured, "I'm not going to stop."
And Yao—helpless, hopeless, completely overwhelmed—knew, in that exact moment, without a shred of doubt, that she was doomed.
Still flustered beyond repair, her entire body brimming with flustered heat and mortified energy, Yao did the only thing she could think of, the only thing her scrambled brain could latch onto in the midst of his verbal onslaught—she grabbed the nearest object, which happened to be the portfolio sitting in front of her, and promptly buried her face in it, pressing the cool, stiff pages against her cheeks like they could somehow act as a shield between her and the insufferable man who was still watching her with that stupid smirk.
Because this was too much. He was too much. His words, his tone, his expression—all of it was designed to make her unravel and he knew it. It wasn't fair. How was she supposed to function around someone like him, someone who knew exactly how to throw her off balance, how to pull the ground out from under her feet, how to leave her scrambling for words and breath and dignity without even lifting a finger?
It wasn't fair at all.
So with her face still pressed firmly to the pages, voice muffled but no less laced with sheer exasperation, she blurted out the only defense she had left—the last petty shred of retaliation her overheating mind could summon.
"You're an ass."
It was quiet.
Barely audible.
But he heard it.
Oh, he definitely heard it.
Because the moment the words left her mouth, she felt it—that sudden shift in the air, that slow, creeping pull of attention locking onto her with full force, like the atmosphere itself had frozen in place to acknowledge the moment.
And then—
She heard it.
That low, smooth, amused chuckle that always spelled disaster. The one that crawled down her spine like electricity and made her want to disappear. "What was that?"
His voice was lazy.
Teasing.
But beneath it was that dangerous edge—that quiet, confident dominance that said he wasn't going to let it go.
Yao refused to move. Refused to look up. Refused to acknowledge any part of what she had just done. Because if she did—if she dared to meet his eyes now—she knew she would never recover.
But Sicheng?
Sicheng was thriving. He had no intention of letting this slide. Not when she had whispered it like she thought he wouldn't hear. Not when she was hiding from him like he couldn't already see every inch of her flustered regret. So, with unbearable patience, with the kind of slow, playful cruelty that came naturally to someone who had already won, he leaned forward just slightly, propped his chin against his palm, and let his voice drop into something deeper.
"Did you just call me an ass, Xiǎo Tùzǐ?"
Yao stiffened.
Immediately.
Utterly.
And Sicheng smirked. Because she wasn't denying it. Wasn't protesting. Wasn't even breathing right. She was just sitting there, hidden behind his carefully selected investment portfolio like it could save her from the consequences of her own mouth. But it couldn't. He wouldn't let it. Tilting his head, his voice dipped further, smoother now, a touch darker, velvet-wrapped danger.
"Say it again."
And Yao—completely defeated, completely overwhelmed, completely done—let out a tiny, breathless whisper, her voice so soft it could barely be heard. "…I take it back."
Sicheng laughed.
Low.
Dark.
Smug as hell.
And Yao, still hiding, still burning, still absolutely buried in her own embarrassment, knew—without even lifting her head—that she had just lost. Completely. Irrevocably. And he wasn't going to let her forget it.
A sharp, deliberate knock against the office door shattered the moment like a stone hurled through glass, cutting clean through the lingering tension and breaking the fragile silence that had wrapped itself around them in the aftermath of her mortified surrender, forcing Yao's already scrambled, thoroughly flustered mind to register the undeniable presence of someone standing on the other side. And before she could even react, before her body had the chance to twitch or rise or breathe, before she could savor the temporary illusion of safety that came from burying her face in the portfolio she had weaponized as a shield, a voice rang out—clear, firm, smooth as polished stone but edged with unmistakable, indisputable authority.
"Tong Yao, come to the living room."
It wasn't soft. It wasn't warm. It wasn't a question. And it sure as hell wasn't optional. That voice, calm yet commanding, familiar in its elegance and steel, belonged to no one but Aunt Lan.
Madam Lu.
Yao swallowed hard, the sound dry and uneven in her throat, her heart still pounding from the complete disaster of a conversation she had just barely survived, her nerves frayed to the point of snapping, her skin still prickling with the warmth of embarrassment that clung to her like static, refusing to be shaken off no matter how many times she closed her eyes or told herself to breathe. Her fingers remained curled tightly around the edge of the portfolio as though the structured paper could protect her, as though it might anchor her in place when everything else inside her was a whirlwind of mortified panic and confusing exhilaration. She heard it then—the slow, deliberate click of heels retreating down the hallway, Madam Lu's perfectly measured stride echoing against the floor as she walked away, her tone and timing making it clear that she expected to be obeyed without delay, without question, without excuse.
And Yao, knowing better than to test that kind of expectation, knowing that whatever waited for her in the living room was almost certainly going to be a whole new level of mortifying, knowing that staying behind would only prolong the inevitable—finally moved.
Slowly.
Carefully.
She pushed herself to her feet, exhaled once, inhaled deeply, trying to summon whatever shreds of composure she had left, trying to shove down the overwhelming weight of everything that had just happened—his words, his smirk, that voice—so she could just get through whatever was about to come next. She reached for the doorknob, her fingers curling tightly around the cool metal, her movements quick, sharp, deliberately efficient—because she needed to get out of this room, she needed to move, she needed to escape before he said one more word that might finish what little was left of her dignity.
But then—she paused.
Stopped short.
Her fingers curled tighter, not out of panic, but out of something else—something sudden, something unfamiliar, something that surprised even her. Her heart was still thundering in her chest, her breath still shallow, her body still practically vibrating with residual embarrassment—but underneath all of that was something else.
A flare of defiance.
A pulse of boldness.
A spark of pride.
And for the first time since Lu Sicheng had started this insufferable, maddening, completely infuriating game, for the first time since he had turned her world into a series of breathless reactions and flushed silences and emotional chaos, for the first time since she had realized that she was undeniably, irrevocably in a relationship with a man who thrived on making her flustered—
She decided to be brave. Her spine straightened. Her grip on the doorframe tightened. And before she could talk herself out of it, before she could let the fear or the nerves or the mortification win, before he could walk away from this with one more undisputed victory tucked under his belt—she glanced over her shoulder. Hazel eyes, still wide with heat and embarrassment, but burning now with something else—something stubborn, something sharp, something quietly fierce—locked onto his golden-amber gaze with a focus she had never dared direct at him like this before.
And then—she scowled. Her voice, still soft, still flustered, still barely steady—but carrying the unmistakable undercurrent of defiance—cut through the air between them like the sharp point of a blade she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"I don't take it back."
Sicheng's smirk twitched.
Barely.
But she saw it. Saw the flicker of something dangerous in his gaze, saw the way his amusement darkened with interest, saw the exact moment her words registered—and pleased him. She exhaled sharply, her cheeks blazing, her heart racing, her entire body humming with the intensity of what she had just done—but she wasn't done yet.
Not this time.
Because this time?
She was going to land the final blow. "You are an ass!" she snapped, cheeks still flushed, voice still trembling but resolute, eyes locked on his like she was daring him to say something back, daring him to push her just one step further. And then—before he could open his mouth, before he could raise a brow, before he could drawl out one of those slow, smug, devastating lines that would have her hiding under the couch—
She bolted.
Darted out the door like her life depended on it.
Slid it shut with a sharp slam behind her.
And escaped.
Leaving behind a stunned silence, a flicker of displaced tension, and one very entertained, very amused, very thoroughly impressed Lu Sicheng who didn't even bother trying to chase after her, didn't call her name, didn't say a word. He just leaned back slowly in his chair, let out a breath that was equal parts humor and victory, and stared at the closed door with the kind of smirk that only deepened with each passing second.
Because now?
Now, his Xiǎo Tùzǐ was finally learning how to fight back and he had never been more entertained.
The sound of the door slamming shut behind her echoed down the hallway like a final, closing statement—sharp, definitive, and entirely too loud—and yet the pounding of her heart still managed to drown it out, thudding wildly in her chest as she moved, her steps fast and purposeful, fueled less by dignity and more by the desperate need to put as much physical distance between herself and that infuriating man as humanly possible before she completely lost control of whatever was left of her composure.
Her breath came quick and uneven, her fingers still clutching the fabric of his hoodie as though it could somehow act as armor, as though it could shield her from the memory of the last few minutes, as if the feel of it pressed against her skin might keep her grounded while her thoughts spun like a carousel that refused to slow down. Because she had done it. She had actually done it.
She had turned around.
Looked him in the eye.
Called him an ass—to his face.
Twice.
And then she had run.
Bolted out of that office like a flustered, outmatched idiot who had used up every last ounce of courage she possessed and hadn't trusted herself to survive whatever smug, devastating thing he would have inevitably said in return. Because she knew he would've said something—something infuriating, something clever, something that would have left her melting into the floor in total emotional ruin—and so she had fled, slammed the door, and fled like the barely functional, wholly embarrassed disaster she was. And of course she had slammed the door. Because what else would she do? Because nothing about this day—nothing—had even flirted with the idea of dignity. Because being in the same room as Lu Sicheng for more than five minutes at a time now seemed to guarantee her complete psychological collapse.
Yao groaned under her breath, her hands curling into fists against the cotton sleeves still too big on her, her frustration now tangled more with herself than with him. And yet—even as her mind replayed the moment with a mounting wave of panic, even as she tried to force her body to stop reacting, to stop burning from the inside out—her lips twitched. Just barely. Just slightly. Because as much as she had absolutely, unquestionably embarrassed herself... she had also gotten the last word. And that—tiny as it was—still counted for something.
By the time she reached the living room, her breath had evened out slightly, her expression pulled back into something neutral, something measured, something that she hoped looked at least mildly composed. Her hands still trembled slightly at her sides, but she shoved that down, forced her shoulders to roll back, her chin to lift, her steps to slow. She had survived. She had escaped. Until the moment she stepped into the room and felt the entire atmosphere shift.
The tension that had filled the space following Lan's arrival hadn't disappeared—it had simply morphed into something quieter, more dangerous, like the calm before another storm. The teasing had stopped, but not because they were done. Because they were waiting. Watching. And then—like a blade through silence—Madam Lu turned her gaze to her.
Sharp. Focused. Knowing.
And Yao stopped cold. Not because she was afraid. Not because she was intimidated. But because she knew—without a doubt, knew—that Madam Lu had already seen everything.
"Yao-er." Lan greeted smoothly, her tone composed but edged with something too calm, too precise, too measured to be anything other than a warning.
Yao straightened instinctively, swallowing down the lump in her throat, trying with every fiber of her being to shake off the heat still clinging to her skin like a second layer. "Aunt Lan," she answered softly, politely, her voice steady despite the chaos still crashing inside her skull, her posture rigid in the way of someone desperately trying to appear like they weren't just fleeing from their love interest five seconds ago.
But Lan?
Lan was nothing if not sharp. Her gaze narrowed just slightly, her eyes sweeping over Yao with quiet calculation, her expression still smooth, still elegant—but unmistakably laced with awareness, as if she could see straight through the girl's skull and into the exact moment Yao had turned and called her son an ass. Twice. And then—with that same calm, unshakable tone that carried more force than shouting ever could—she asked, "Did my son say something to fluster you again?"
Immediate. Utter. Devastation.
Yao choked.
Visibly.
Audibly.
Emotionally.
Her back stiffened, her entire body locking up as her brain shut down, the fragile illusion of composure she had clung to for the past thirty seconds exploding into oblivion with a single sentence.
How?!
How did she know?!
What did she know?!
Why did she sound so amused?!
The room was silent.
Not out of respect.
But out of anticipation.
Because then—of course—Yue, who had clearly been lying in wait like a predator scenting blood in the air, grinned so wide it was practically criminal. "Oh? What did he say to fluster you, Salt Maiden?"
Lao Mao, ever the opportunist, leaned forward like a shark that had just seen the surface ripple. "Yeah, Ting Boss Bunny. You ran in here pretty fast. Everything alright?"
Pang didn't even pretend to hide his grin. "You're looking kinda red, too. You sure you're okay?"
Yao felt her soul leave her body. Her arms flailed slightly, her voice shooting up in pitch as her hands waved wildly in the air in some combination of protest and sheer existential despair. "It's nothing!" she yelped, her face now glowing, her entire being vibrating with flustered outrage. "Just—just eat your food!" And behind her—behind the chaos, behind the onslaught of teasing, behind the laughter she could already hear building in Yue's chest—was the soft, unmistakable sound of Madam Lu chuckling, the kind of quiet, elegant amusement that said one thing with absolute certainty:
She knew everything.
And Tong Yao?
Tong Yao was completely, utterly, and in every imaginable way doomed.
The warmth still stubbornly clinging to her face, the heavy pull of lingering mortification clenching tight in her chest, and the soft, deeply amused sound of Madam Lu chuckling behind her made Yao want nothing more than to simply vanish into the floor, to disappear completely and never be perceived again—but she didn't get the chance to retreat or even collect the pieces of her dignity before the older woman's voice sliced through the room like silk-wrapped steel.
"Tong Yao."
The name alone was enough to make her flinch, the sharpness of the tone, the way it rang out with smooth, poised authority making it abundantly clear that this was not a casual call, not a soft invitation, not a gentle prompt—it was a summons. And one did not ignore Madam Lu when she summoned. Still wired from her escape, still coiled tight with the residual tension from what could only be described as the most emotionally chaotic conversation of her life, Yao forced herself to turn around, slowly, deliberately, her hands clutching the sleeves of the hoodie she refused to acknowledge still smelled faintly like him, her hazel eyes flickering with wariness because nothing ever good followed when her name was said like that.
And Madam Lu? Madam Lu looked every inch the composed, unshakable, effortlessly terrifying matriarch she was, her eyes cool and assessing as she studied the younger woman, her expression unreadable but heavy with expectation.
Yao, willing her voice not to shake, nodding slightly as she responded with the same careful deference she used when faced with complex emotional terrain she didn't know how to navigate. "Yes, Aunt Lan?"
Madam Lu's gaze swept over her once more before she exhaled softly, tilting her head in that calm, inevitable way she did when she was about to drop something completely unarguable. "The boys," she said, her tone as smooth and unhurried as ever, but carried on the kind of quiet finality that left no room for question, "have something to say to you about their behavior from earlier."
Yao blinked. The silence that followed was dense. She turned, slowly, cautiously, her heart still not quite sure what rhythm it should be beating in anymore, and what she saw nearly sent her spiraling all over again. Five fully grown, battle-hardened, shamelessly relentless esports professionals looking like children who had just been told they were about to write formal apology essays for breaking the class hamster's leg.
Ming—normally the calm in the storm, the one who held it together no matter the chaos—stood like a man resigned to the gallows, his arms crossed tightly, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he gave a brief glance toward Madam Lu, the unmistakable look of a man who knew better than to argue written all over his face.
Lao Mao, who usually had a joke or sarcastic quip on the tip of his tongue, now looked like someone re-evaluating all of his life choices, shoulders a little too stiff, his mouth pulled into something dangerously close to a grimace.
Lao K, always observant, always measured, always watching, sat perfectly straight, posture too careful, too calculated, eyes averted and distant like a man mentally rehearsing the exact number of syllables in "I'm sorry" just to make sure he didn't screw it up.
Pang, who had built an entire identity around being the loud one, the unbothered one, the guy with a punchline for every problem, looked like someone very aware that he was currently trapped in a very serious, very dangerous situation with no viable exit.
And Yue—Yue, who had laughed the loudest, poked the most fun, fueled her embarrassment with merciless enthusiasm and thrived on the chaos—was sitting there with slumped shoulders and the unmistakable energy of someone who had just met a force he couldn't charm, couldn't joke past, couldn't escape.
They had already been scolded.
Madam Lu had already torn them apart.
And now?
Now, they were being made to apologize. To her.
Yao blinked again, the flustered chaos she'd been trapped in momentarily overridden by sheer disbelief. Because never—not once—had this happened before. They teased her constantly, pushed her buttons for sport, left her red-faced and sputtering so often she'd practically come to accept it as a personality trait. But no one had ever stepped in. No one had ever said it was too much. No one had ever made them stop.
Until now.
And apparently, not only had they been stopped—they were about to be publicly corrected.
Still trying to process this, Yao turned slowly back to Lan, voice small, still not convinced this wasn't some strange fever dream. "…Are you making them apologize to me?"
Madam Lu's brows arched with elegant amusement, her lips curving just slightly. "Of course."
Yao opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "…Why?"
Madam Lu tilted her head with that same calm, sharp poise, her tone cool and clear. "Because, my dear, there is a difference between teasing someone in good fun and making someone uncomfortable." Her gaze swept toward the row of uncomfortable men, her voice never once rising in volume but carrying enough weight to press on every chest in the room. "And I suspect none of them ever considered that." The silence that followed was no longer awkward—it was contemplative, shamed, corrective. Because now, even the men who had never thought twice about their words were thinking about them now. Because Lan wasn't just teaching them a lesson—she was correcting a culture.
And Yao, standing there, still unsure what to do with this moment, realized—this wasn't about punishing them. This wasn't about retaliation. This was about recognition. That her discomfort mattered. That her place on the team came with dignity, not just toleration.
And Madam Lu?
She had drawn the line. Clearly. Unflinchingly. Permanently.
Yao exhaled slowly, overwhelmed but steadier now, turning back to the team. And waited.
And in that thick, weighted silence, Ming—ever the level-headed one—exhaled and broke first. "We didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, Yao-er." His tone was calm, but there was no mistaking the care in it. No mistaking that he meant it.
And it was the first time she had ever heard one of them say it out loud.
Lao Mao followed next, his voice low, rougher than usual. "Yeah… we get carried away sometimes."
Lao K nodded once, simple, clean, no preamble. "We'll be more mindful."
Pang scratched at the back of his neck, frowning a little. "Didn't think about how it'd land, I guess. That's on us."
And then, finally, Yue—quiet, subdued, uncharacteristically hesitant—lifted his gaze, the usual playful sharpness in his expression dulled with sincerity.
"We weren't trying to be assholes, Salt Maiden," he murmured. Then, quieter, with no defense, no smirk. "…I'm sorry."
And just like that, it was over.
The lesson had been taught.
The line had been drawn.
The apology had been given.
And Yao? Yao didn't know what to do with it. Didn't know how to respond to five men she loved like family—who, for the first time, had shown her that they were willing to listen, to change, to own the ways they'd gone too far.
And before she could try to fumble through a response, Madam Lu's voice cut through one final time. "Good."
The collective exhale was immediate—shoulders dropped, tension bled away, and for a moment, it felt like the air itself relaxed.
But Lan wasn't finished.
Her gaze turned, sharp and soft at once, back to Yao. "And you, my dear?"
Yao, blinking rapidly, overwhelmed and a little off-kilter, swallowed and gave the only answer she could manage. "I… appreciate it." It wasn't eloquent. But it was honest. And that was enough. Because this wasn't about humiliation. This wasn't about scolding. It was about growth. And as she stood there, watching the men she had grown so close to sit awkwardly in their hard-earned discomfort, watching them grapple with the idea of boundaries and care and accountability, she knew—things had changed.
They wouldn't cross that line again.
Not after this.
The tension that had settled like fog over the room, the weight that had sunk deep into the air and pressed down against every breath, every movement, every sound, was not something Yao could ignore—not when she stood at the very center of it, not when all eyes had briefly, uncomfortably, turned to her with something that wasn't quite guilt but was certainly close. She felt it in the quiet, in the heaviness, in the unspoken shift that had taken place—not just in the tone of the room, but in something deeper, something foundational between her and the men she had come to consider more than teammates, more than coworkers, more than friends.
She felt the shift in the silence. Felt the difference in the way no one dared to joke, to nudge, to brush it off the way they always had before. Felt, most of all, how seriously they were taking her. And for someone like Yao, someone who had grown up being told she was too much and not enough all at once, someone who had never known what it truly meant to be included without condition, someone who had always found herself on the edges of things—watching, analyzing, never quite certain if she was meant to be there—this meant something.
And yet—
As she stood there, fingers twisting into the sleeves of the hoodie she'd long since claimed as hers, the sleeves she always pulled over her hands when she needed to feel smaller or braver or safer, with the faint, grounding scent of Sicheng still clinging to the fabric like something permanent, she hesitated. Not because she didn't want to speak. Not because she didn't know what to say.
But because, despite all of it—despite the teasing, despite the way her skin still burned with embarrassment, despite the fact that yes, they had crossed a line they hadn't known existed—she wasn't angry. Not really. Not in a way that needed retribution. Because she wasn't someone who held grudges, wasn't someone who found comfort in punishment, wasn't the type to let anger fester just to make a point. She didn't like making people uncomfortable. She didn't like holding power over others. She never had.
And more than anything, she had never—not once—felt like she didn't belong with them. If anything, it had always been the opposite.
So, after a slow breath in and out, the kind that tried to shake off the last tremors of flustered nerves clinging to her spine, after grounding herself in the softness of the fabric wrapped around her fingers, she let her gaze fall slightly, her foot scuffing softly against the floor in a nervous gesture she didn't even realize she was doing. Her voice, when it came, was quiet—but not weak. Steady. Carefully honest.
"I… I don't mind some teasing."
The words, small and gentle, slipped into the room like a ripple across still water, breaking the tension just slightly, enough for the men in front of her to lift their heads, to shift their gazes, to truly listen. Her hands curled tighter into her sleeves as her heart beat a little faster, but she pushed through the hesitation, pushed through the vulnerability laced into her voice, and kept going.
"It's… nice."
That pause—so brief, yet so heavy—seemed to hang in the air, not because the words were earth-shattering, but because of what they revealed, because of the unspoken why beneath them, because they were a bridge between discomfort and something tender, something fragile that none of them had quite known how to name.
And then, softer, almost like she wasn't sure she was allowed to say it aloud, but needing them to know anyway—
"It feels like I have brothers."
Everything stilled.
Because for all the apologies they had offered, for all the lessons Madam Lu had delivered with her quiet authority, this—this was the thing that made their breath catch. This was the part they hadn't expected. Because Yao, who had always been the one they teased, the one they gently prodded, the one they swarmed and circled and annoyed with their loud presence and ridiculous antics, had never once told them what any of it meant to her. And they'd never asked. Because in their minds, she was one of them. That had always been enough.
Until now.
Now, they realized it had meant something more.
Ming, who had led the apology, exhaled quietly, his shoulders easing just slightly, his gaze flickering downward as if trying to absorb what her words had just cracked open. Lao Mao and Lao K exchanged a glance—one of those rare, serious looks that passed between them without words—something quiet settling between their usually amused expressions, something that looked a lot like realization. Pang, who always had something to say, didn't say anything at all. And Yue—Yue, who never shut up, who lived to poke at her, who had probably pushed the farthest—looked like he had been caught in the middle of a step and had forgotten how to move forward. Because none of them had known.
And now they did.
And Yao, cheeks burning, nerves twisting again, eyes darting toward the floor, spoke one last time—quieter still, but steady. "J-Just… just try not to take it too far next time."
A breath.
A shift.
And then—finally, finally—the atmosphere softened.
Not entirely.
Not all at once.
But enough.
Enough for shoulders to loosen.
Enough for the air to feel like it could move again.
And then—one by one—they nodded.
Ming, first, of course. A small but certain dip of his head. Then Lao K, steady as ever. Lao Mao, quieter than usual but no less genuine. Pang, slower, still looking like he didn't quite know what to do with himself but knowing that this mattered. And Yue—silent, for once, just nodded, eyes meeting hers without deflection. A silent pact. An unspoken promise. Not just to apologize. But to understand. Because this wasn't about whether or not she could handle it. It was about respecting the fact that they never should have made her feel like she had to.
And Yao—standing there, still wrapped in Sicheng's hoodie, still burning slightly with residual mortification, still unsure if she was going to survive the emotional whiplash of the day—finally felt the tension in her chest loosen, the storm inside her quiet just enough to breathe again.
Just as the moment finally began to settle—just as the tension, the awkward stillness, the thick weight of a hard lesson learned had finally begun to dissipate into something softer, something almost peaceful—Yao's quiet admission unraveled what little discomfort still remained, stitching something honest and fragile into the atmosphere that none of them quite knew how to name.
It could have ended there. Should have ended there. But then, like a shadow emerging from the periphery, a presence made itself known—one that had been there all along, unseen, unheard, but very clearly watching. And with that low, smooth voice that could slide between sharp amusement and iron command without missing a beat, Lu Sicheng finally stepped forward, not with heavy strides or dramatic timing, but with the kind of calm, calculated patience that said he had been waiting for this exact moment.
"Glad to see you all finally learning your lesson."
The reaction was instantaneous.
Every man in that room flinched like they'd just been caught stealing from a sacred temple.
Ming, who had just begun to relax, sat up a little straighter, his expression carefully schooled back into neutrality like he'd never even considered feeling relief. Lao Mao and Lao K, who had been slowly, cautiously reclaiming their dignity, immediately adopted their most serious postures, like guilty students pretending they'd been attentive the entire time. Pang, who had clearly been halfway to cracking a joke, froze, lips parting before he silently closed them again with the resigned energy of a man who had no desire to tempt fate.
And Yue—poor, battered, emotionally fried Yue—groaned loud enough for the heavens to hear, dragging his hand down his face like he had just been sentenced to another round in the arena. "Oh, for fuck's sake."
Because of course. Of course his brother had been listening the entire time. Of course the man who had spent the better part of his morning toying with the Salt Maiden like a particularly smug cat batting at a mouse would be lurking just out of sight, waiting for the moment the heat was off her and squarely back on the rest of them. Of course Lu Sicheng would wait until the end, just so he could insert himself with that infuriating timing he was known for.
And yet—
Just as the others were mentally preparing themselves for whatever cold, amused barb he was about to deliver, just as they were bracing for more embarrassment or the inevitable power play that was sure to follow, something else happened. Something none of them saw coming.
Because Yao—still flushed from her own awkward confession, still recovering from the emotional rollercoaster that had been the past hour, still blinking from the momentous weight of Madam Lu making five grown men apologize on her behalf—snapped.
Not violently.
Not loudly.
But in a way that made everyone in the room still. She turned toward him, expression flustered and furious, the sleeves of his hoodie still pulled over her hands like armor, her eyes blazing with a mixture of betrayal, mortification, and raw indignation. And before anyone could blink, before anyone could brace themselves— She muttered, voice laced with venomous exasperation and betrayal born from emotional devastation,
"You're one to talk, you ass of a hooligan."
Silence.
Complete.
Devastating.
Beautiful.
Silence.
Ming, who had been mid-sigh, paused with his hand still hovering over his temple, his gaze slowly shifting to her as though trying to confirm if she had actually said what he thought she said.
Lao Mao and Lao K, who had expected to be the next targets of their captain's amusement, both froze mid-adjustment, expressions going slack with disbelief.
Pang, who had already resigned himself to verbal death by smug sarcasm, blinked and straightened, suddenly far more interested in this new development than his own impending doom.
And Yue—Yue, who had endured his mother's wrath, who had suffered through apologies and near-existential collapse, who had almost found peace—lit up like someone had just thrown confetti in his face. "Oh?" Yue's voice practically dripped with glee, his expression lighting up in a way that was borderline unholy as he turned toward his brother with a grin that could cut glass. "Did I hear that right? Did my brother just get called an 'ass of a hooligan'?"
Lu Sicheng, whose entrance had been perfectly timed, perfectly executed, and entirely intended to reclaim his dominance in the room, froze. He hadn't seen that coming. His amber eyes snapped toward Yao—sharp, unreadable, suddenly very focused.
And Yao?
Yao realized. Realized what she had said. Realized what she had done. Realized that she had just called him out in front of the entire team, that she had just turned the tables on the man who had spent hours driving her into a puddle of blushing, flustered chaos. And now—now—he was looking at her like that. That look. That damn look. The one that was half amusement, half warning, and all Sicheng—dark eyes slightly narrowed, his mouth pressed into a line that wasn't quite a smirk and wasn't quite a scowl, but carried with it the promise of consequences she definitely wasn't ready for. Her pulse stuttered. Her face went even hotter. Her breath caught. Because he wasn't saying anything. He was just watching her, letting the silence drag, letting it stretch, dragging it out just to make her squirm. And it was working.
The others?
The others were thriving.
Ming actually smirked for the first time in twenty minutes. Lao Mao and Lao K exchanged a look that practically screamed this just got good. Pang leaned back in his chair with a grin, like a man who'd been handed a front-row seat to a show he hadn't known he needed.
And Yue?
Yue was practically glowing. "This is the best thing I've ever witnessed," he whispered, gleeful, "I might actually survive today."
But Yao?
Yao was panicking. Because Sicheng still hadn't looked away. Still hadn't said a word. Still hadn't moved. And that was when she made her second mistake.
She ran.
Not in the literal, full-body sprint way—but in the very obvious way her gaze broke from his and she turned on her heel, the way her hands flailed for something—anything—to do, the way her voice died in her throat as she fled toward the other side of the room in the desperate, doomed hope that maybe—maybe—he would just let it go.
But it was already too late. Because the moment she moved, the moment she tried to escape, the moment her retreat signaled to him that she knew she had crossed a line—
Sicheng was already in motion.
Smooth.
Measured.
Predatory.
Amused.
And Yao?
Yao had just unknowingly declared war against a man who never played fair, never gave up ground, and never lost. And she had no idea what was coming next.
The moment Lu Sicheng moved, the moment his weight shifted with the clear intent to pursue the girl who had so brazenly called him an ass of a hooligan in front of their entire team, the moment he began to act on the gleam of retribution that had flickered across his eyes—he stopped. Not because he changed his mind. Not because he was feeling merciful. But because he had forgotten something.
Or rather—someone.
A presence that had remained carefully still, strategically quiet, radiating calm but never ceasing to observe, the kind of presence that didn't need to say a word to command a room. And just as Sicheng was preparing to step back into control, to tilt the balance of power back in his favor, a single voice cut through the room—soft, sweet, polished, and dangerous in its ease.
"Lu Sicheng."
The name, spoken in full, was not a call. It was not a prompt.
It was a warning.
And every man in that room felt it.
Ming, who had spent years perfecting how to keep his cool, closed his eyes slowly, like he was silently counting down to impact.
Lao Mao and Lao K, who had seconds ago been grinning at their captain's unexpected downfall, immediately leaned back with the practiced instinct of men who knew when to exit the splash zone.
Pang froze with his drink halfway to his mouth, choosing instead to study the bottom of the cup like it held ancient wisdom that might save his life.
And Yue?
Yue—who had been reveling in his brother's public humiliation, who had practically ascended into heaven at the sight of Sicheng being knocked from his pedestal—went dead silent.
Because Madam Lu was speaking. And Madam Lu was not pleased.
Sicheng, who had spent a lifetime learning when to push and when to very quickly back down, turned—slowly, precisely, deliberately—his expression still composed, still in control on the surface, but anyone who knew him well could see it. The subtle pause. The faint narrowing of his gaze. The way his breath caught—so briefly it would have gone unnoticed, were the room not frozen in utter silence. He looked at her. And instantly regretted every single decision that had brought him to this moment.
Because his mother, who had already scorched the team with nothing more than well-placed words and a cool smile, was now focused entirely on him—and she was smiling. Not warmly. Not fondly. Not even with the indulgent exasperation of a parent watching their child make a minor mistake.
No.
This was the smile of a woman who had spent decades turning powerful men into obedient diplomats, who had raised her son with equal measures of steel and silk, and who, despite the affection that occasionally surfaced behind her eyes, was still the most terrifying person in the building.
And now?
Now she was aiming that smile at him.
Directly.
Yao, who had barely taken three steps away in her retreat, who had been ready to flee to the furthest edge of the building to avoid whatever torment her earlier words had earned her, stopped. Frozen in place. Her wide eyes turned toward the same figure the rest of the team had instinctively braced for. And when she saw Lan—poised, regal, unshaken—still standing there in the same spot she had been since the apology had concluded, still smiling with the exact kind of calm that promised consequences—she did something she'd never done before.
She felt bad for Sicheng.
Only a little.
But still.
Because if today had taught her anything, it was that Lan was not a woman who let things slide. Not when it came to her team. Not when it came to standards. And certainly not when it came to her son.
Sicheng, his voice carefully smooth, even as the corners of his mouth drew tight with something that looked too close to resignation, responded at last. "Yes, Mother?"
Lan smiled wider.
And Yao felt an honest-to-god chill rush down her spine.
Because that smile—that was the one that preceded a lesson. A real one.
A quiet, controlled, devastating one.
The kind of lesson that didn't raise its voice. It didn't need to. It simply unraveled you with elegance.
And Sicheng?
Sicheng knew it, too. Because for the first time in the years any of them had known him, for the first time in all the meetings and tournaments and fights and chaos they had weathered as a team, he was the one who had just become the target.
Lan's voice remained soft, warm, edged with deliberate sweetness as she tilted her head just slightly to the side. "You have a choice, my dear."
A pause.
A glint of polished power behind her lashes.
"We can have this conversation in your office…" she said, her nails tapping lightly against her folded arm. "…or we can have it here." She smiled again. "In front of everyone."
The silence that followed was so suffocating it may as well have sucked the oxygen from the room.
Ming inhaled through his nose, as if already preparing to not be involved in what was about to happen.
Lao Mao and Lao K both shifted, clearly wondering if disappearing into the couch was a viable option.
Pang looked so still it was like he had turned to stone.
And Yue?
Yue looked delighted. This—this—was the kind of miracle that happened once in a lifetime. His brother. His perfect, unflinching, smug older brother, the one who always walked into every room already two steps ahead, was finally cornered. He looked ready to record it for posterity.
Sicheng remained perfectly still. Still leaning. Still watching. Still calculating. But his jaw tightened—barely. His fingers curled once—subtle. His breath shifted. He knew. He knew he'd already lost. Because Lan never offered ultimatums without already knowing how they would end.
And Yao—standing there, sleeves of his hoodie still bunched in her fists, still recovering from the chaos of the day—watched as the man who had been in control of everything only minutes ago, who had seemed untouchable, invincible, untouchably confident—hesitated.
Lan arched a brow.
"Well?"
Sicheng exhaled, slow, sharp, dragging a hand down his face like a man accepting his fate before finally muttering the only response he had. "Office." There was a pause. Then his eyes cut sharply toward Yue, voice low, calm, but edged with warning. "And if I hear a single word from you about this, you're running five miles in the morning."
Yue's mouth, which had just begun to open, snapped shut.
Lan, satisfied, nodded once.
"Lead the way, then, darling."
And Sicheng—former king of this room, former predator stalking the field, former smug executioner of chaos—turned and walked.
No words.
No glares.
Just a long, slow exhale and the quiet resolve of a man heading toward his own carefully designed downfall.
Because he had made his choice.
And now?
Now he was going to pay for it.
The entire team sat in collective, stunned silence as Sicheng—Lu Sicheng, the man who had always commanded the room with nothing more than a glance, who could strip a person down with one cutting word, who never followed anyone unless it was on his terms—walked after his mother without a single sound, his long strides smooth but resigned, like a man heading into battle with full awareness that the outcome was not going to be in his favor.
And the moment the door to his office clicked shut behind them, a soft but final sound that echoed through the now-liberated living room like a signal flare of victory, it happened.
Yue, lounging with all the smugness of a cat who had knocked an expensive glass off the counter and gotten away with it, leaned back in his seat with an exaggerated sigh of contentment, a grin stretched across his face so wide it looked almost painful. "That just made my entire day," he declared, eyes gleaming, voice rich with the satisfaction of a younger sibling who had been waiting his entire life for this moment.
Ming, always more composed but no less amused, took a slow sip from his drink, his smirk subtle but present as he murmured, "I've never seen him choose silence so fast."
Lao Mao, who had spent the better part of the day trying to suppress his laughter and his guilt in equal measure, shook his head slowly, arms crossed as he muttered, "I almost feel bad for him."
To which Lao K, ever the realist, replied with a half-lifted brow and a nonchalant shrug, "Almost."
And Yao—sweet, mortified, emotionally spent Yao—who had spent the morning red-faced and overwhelmed, who had been dragged through the depths of her own embarrassment by a man who had absolutely no mercy, who had assumed that she would be the one limping out of the day emotionally broken—
Let herself breathe. Let her shoulders finally drop. Let the warmth in her cheeks cool to something soft and residual. Because she wasn't the one being chased, scolded, cornered, or lectured. Not anymore. Not right now. Not with Lan in the room. And for once—for the first time since she had met Lu Sicheng and joined this chaotic, exhausting, absolutely overwhelming team—she wasn't the one being tormented. She wasn't the one flustered beyond comprehension. She wasn't the one spiraling into awkward, stammering defeat while the rest of the team watched like spectators at a live comedy show.
No.
This time, it was him.
He was the one under fire. He was the one walking into a storm he couldn't outmaneuver.
And that?
That rare, beautiful moment of peace, of vindication, of seeing the man who had mastered the art of throwing her off-balance get a taste of his own medicine. That was something she was going to cherish for the rest of her life.