Summary: Beneath a quiet sky and the still hush of midnight, a moment long in the making finally arrives—not with fanfare, but with breathless certainty. No games, no distance, no denial. Just a girl on a terrace, a boy who finds her, and the space between them collapsing with a touch that asks everything without ever needing to be loud. Some things aren't said. They're felt. And once felt, they change everything.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The night air, cool and feather-light, drifted across the terrace with the kind of hushed grace that only arrived after the world had quieted, after the last conversations had faded and the lights had dimmed, after laughter had been replaced by stillness and even the wind seemed to move more gently, as if unwilling to disturb what remained. The sky above stretched wide and open, scattered with stars that pulsed quietly in the distance, a soft, glittering breath that reminded her—on nights like this—that the world was far bigger, far older, and far more patient than anything she had ever carried.
Yao sat curled on the edge of the terrace outside the upper floor of the base, her knees drawn to her chest, her chin nestled lightly into the sleeves of the oversized hoodie she wore—not just any hoodie, but his hoodie, the one he had told her to keep, the one that somehow still carried the faint trace of him, the scent that always settled her breath when her thoughts ran too fast. She wasn't cold. Not really. The night wasn't sharp enough to bite, and the fabric was thick, warm, and worn in all the right places. But she needed the comfort. Needed the weight. Needed the quiet to press up against her like a second skin because, tonight, her thoughts were too loud to keep inside.
There was something about the stillness—the silence, the soft rustle of wind through the leaves, the distant hum of night settling into its rhythm—that had pulled her out here without fully realizing she'd moved. It wasn't an escape, not exactly. But it was something. Because today had been a lot. Too much. Enough to make her sit here now with her heartbeat finally beginning to slow, and her thoughts finally rising to meet her where she was instead of where she should be.
Everything had changed.
Not just her circumstances, not just the team, not just the ridiculousness that now colored her daily life like someone had thrown her into a world she wasn't trained to navigate. She had changed.
That was the part that sat with her now, quiet and weighty, pressing against her chest like a truth she had only just realized was true. Since the day she had walked up that hill with Ai Jia and Jinyang, eyes curious, head high even when her nerves had threatened to buckle her steps, since she had stopped in front of the ZGDX base and looked up—and caught his eyes for the first time—Lu Sicheng, impossibly unreadable, irritatingly observant, sharp-edged and magnetic in a way she still hadn't fully recovered from—since that moment…
Everything had shifted.
But not just around her.
Inside her.
She spoke more now. Not often. Not always. But when it mattered—when it truly counted—she didn't stay silent. She didn't let the discomfort pass her by just because she didn't know how to hold it. She didn't default to shrinking anymore, didn't fold in on herself when she felt overwhelmed. She still felt it, of course—still flustered when they teased her, still ducked her head when compliments hit too squarely, still fidgeted when she didn't know what to say. But the fear was no longer paralyzing. The silence wasn't absolute.
She had called Aunt Lan. Not once, but twice. The first when she had felt Jinyang slipping through her fingers like thread unraveling in places she didn't know how to mend. The second when the teasing from the team—the people she trusted most—had started to sting more than it should have, and she hadn't known how to ask them to stop without breaking something delicate in the process.
And they had listened.
They had heard her.
And it wasn't just that they'd apologized. It was that they had meant it. That they had stopped. That they had looked at her differently afterward—not like someone fragile, not like someone separate—but like someone who mattered. Someone whose voice carried weight. Someone who belonged.
That was the part she hadn't seen coming.
She had always thought she would eventually find her place. People said that often enough—that you'd stumble into it one day, like a pair of shoes that finally fit. But no one ever told you what it felt like when you actually did. It was quieter than she expected. Not triumphant. Not loud. Just... steady. Settled. Like the beat of something that had been there all along but had only just been given permission to be heard.
She still blushed. Still stumbled. Still hid behind sleeves that were always too long for her hands. But she fought now. Tossed pillows. Argued back. Stood her ground with shaking hands and a voice that didn't always rise, but never once wavered. And they saw it. Every single one of them. They weren't just her teammates anymore. Not just people she worked beside. They had become... hers.
Brothers, in everything but blood.
They teased. They poked. They rolled their eyes and made jokes and sometimes made her want to lock herself in her room—but they also shielded her, protected her, stood beside her with the kind of certainty that didn't need to be explained.
And then there was him.
The one who wasn't a brother. The one who stood apart from all the others without ever stepping away. The one who saw through every flinch and every flicker of hesitation and never once mistook it for weakness. The one who touched nothing without intention. The one who had made her believe, without ever needing to say it, that he had chosen her.
She exhaled softly, letting her eyes lift toward the stars, letting her thoughts rise into the sky with them. She had come out here to breathe, to rest, to give herself permission to feel something without the weight of six other bodies watching her too closely.
And she might have stayed like that—still, quiet, suspended in thought beneath the velvet sky—
But then—
A voice.
Low.
Familiar.
Warm in a way that always hit just beneath the skin, soft in a way that never let her guard stay up for long, but threaded with that slow, teasing thunder that always, always, made her insides twist in ways she still hadn't figured out how to name.
"I'm fairly certain," he said from behind her, voice sliding like silk across the quiet, "that when I told everyone to be in bed early, that included you, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
Yao jolted—only slightly—her back going a little straighter, her heart giving one of those fluttery skips it always did when he showed up unannounced, even when she had spent the entire day with him. Not from fear. Never from fear. But from... him. From the way her body always recognized him before her mind had fully caught up. She turned just enough to see him—tall frame leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, casual but still him in every inch, from the tilt of his head to the unreadable gleam in his eyes. Moonlight edged across his cheekbones, painting him in silver and shadow, but it was his eyes she saw first.
Always his eyes.
They found her.
Every time.
No matter how big the room. No matter who else was in it.
They always found her.
And for the first time that night, the stars stopped feeling so far away.
Sicheng didn't move at first, didn't break the stillness of his stance or the quiet power that came with simply being there—his tall frame framed by the soft halo of moonlight and shadow in the doorway, arms folded, broad shoulders relaxed but never loose, and that golden-amber gaze—sharp, unreadable, unwavering—locked onto her like she was the only thing in the world worth focusing on. He said nothing, didn't repeat himself, didn't raise his voice or add even a hint of impatience to the command he had issued just moments before, because he didn't need to. He was waiting—for the resistance, for the deflection, for the soft-spoken refusal that usually followed whenever she was caught someplace she didn't want to be found.
But Yao didn't resist. She didn't argue or look away or even pretend to make an excuse. She just stayed where she was, her knees still curled close to her chest, her chin still tucked into the sleeve of the hoodie wrapped around her like armor, her expression still painted with that soft, contemplative stillness he had come to know so well—subtle, easy to miss if you didn't know her, but unmistakable once you did.
And Sicheng—who did—exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him not with frustration, but with understanding, because he saw it now, clearer than ever. She hadn't come out here to defy him, or to delay sleep for the sake of rebellion. She was thinking again—too much, too deeply, in that way she always did when the quiet settled in too thick and her brain wouldn't give her a break. He didn't need her to explain it. He'd seen the signs enough times to know. And so, with the silent precision that was so innately him, he stepped forward. He didn't ask permission. Didn't ask if she wanted company. He simply joined her.
Lowered himself beside her without ceremony, legs stretching out in front of him, elbows resting casually against his bent knees, their shoulders just barely not touching, the warmth of him close enough to feel but distant enough to give her space, as if to say—I'm here, but I'm not pushing. Not yet. And then, without looking at her, without trying to coax the moment into something more than it was, he leaned back on his palms, turned his head to the stars, and waited.
Because with her—this was how things worked. She didn't unravel with questions. She didn't open up to pressure. He waited. And he had all the time in the world. They sat like that for a while, with only the stars above them and the cool whisper of night curling through the silence between them. She didn't speak. Neither did he. But she didn't move away, didn't tense, didn't edge herself closer to the shadows. She let him stay. Let the presence of him fill the space that her thoughts had left hollow.
She was still curled into herself, silver hair tumbling over her shoulder, one hand idly toying with the fabric at the end of her sleeve, her hazel eyes unfocused, distant, lost somewhere between the sky and whatever weight she hadn't yet found the words for. And he—watching her through the corner of his vision, watching the way she folded into the silence like she belonged there—felt something settle into his chest like heat blooming under the surface, slow and steady.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, smooth, and just loud enough to cut through the quiet, but not enough to startle. "You're thinking too much again."
She blinked, startled not by the words but by the timing, her head turning just slightly toward him, lips parted like she hadn't quite expected him to name it.
He smirked faintly, his expression relaxed, his eyes still on the sky. "I can hear it."
Yao frowned softly. "…Hear what?"
Sicheng turned to her then, head tilting slightly, the amusement in his voice curling like smoke as it dropped lower, more intimate. "The gears turning in your head."
A soft puff of breath escaped her nose, the closest thing to a laugh he knew he'd get from her in a moment like this, and before she could stop herself, her hand lifted—light and instinctive—and swatted gently at his arm in silent protest.
But Sicheng was faster. He caught her wrist mid-motion, his hand curling effortlessly around hers with the kind of ease that came from knowing exactly how to disarm her—not with force, but with certainty.
And suddenly, everything felt close.
Yao's breath caught. Her eyes dropped instantly to the point of contact, as if only then realizing what she'd done. What he'd done. As if the warmth of his palm against the inside of her wrist was something new and dangerous and impossible to ignore.
She didn't pull back.
Couldn't.
Because his hand was still there—firm, steady, gentle—and his eyes were on her again, burning in the dark with something unreadable, something far too quiet to name but far too loud to ignore.
Sicheng didn't speak for a long moment. Just let the silence stretch, let her feel the weight of the moment, let her sit in the closeness that he'd closed with one simple movement. And then—soft, low, teasing in tone but edged with something real—he spoke again.
"Relax, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
Her lips parted slightly, a breath hitching just beneath her ribs, her body tightening instinctively before remembering that she didn't have to run. That she wasn't in danger. That this—him—wasn't something she needed to escape. Her hazel eyes flicked up, just enough to meet his, and what she found there—sharp, amused, focused—made her entire body burn in a way that wasn't fear at all.
And Sicheng?
Sicheng didn't move. Didn't pull back. Didn't tease her further. He just held her gaze, his thumb brushing lightly—barely—across the inside of her wrist like a promise. Like a reminder.
You don't have to run.
Not from me.
The silence between them had transformed from something gentle into something weightier, something thrumming beneath the surface of the night like a pulse neither of them could quiet, heavy and slow and undeniably alive, wrapped tight around their breath and the space between them until it wasn't space at all—but tension. Coiled and heated and intimate.
Sicheng's hand remained around her wrist, not firm enough to hold her in place, but certain, the kind of touch that spoke of possession not by force but by recognition, a quiet declaration that he saw her—that he knew what this was and wasn't going to pretend otherwise. The pressure wasn't binding, but it was enough to anchor her, to remind her that she didn't have to run, didn't have to pretend this wasn't real, didn't have to fight the very thing she had already let herself fall into.
But it was his eyes—the way he was looking at her now, slow and deliberate, all the amusement replaced with something heavier, something burning just beneath the surface—that made her stomach twist, that made her fingers tremble, that made her lungs forget how to do anything but hold the breath she couldn't quite take. Heat settled behind that gaze, layered beneath quiet control, laced with want that had nothing to do with rush and everything to do with certainty.
And she knew he felt it too. She didn't speak—couldn't. Her mouth was dry, her thoughts scattered, and still, she couldn't look away from him. She didn't want to. Not when every glance pulled her deeper, not when his expression held no doubt, no hesitation, only intention—the kind of slow-burning hunger that didn't consume, but claimed.
His other hand lifted.
No rush.
No urgency.
Only intention.
Calloused fingers—those same hands she had watched on a keyboard, steady and sure—now brushed against her jaw, the backs of his knuckles trailing upward with a reverence that sent shivers dancing down her spine, until his palm cupped her cheek, warm and solid and heartbreakingly gentle. And when his thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, barely a whisper of contact, she couldn't help the sharp breath that escaped her, the slight stutter in her pulse that echoed all the way to her fingers.
The silence thickened.
Turned molten.
Because this wasn't flirtation.
This wasn't teasing.
This was real.
And Yao—trembling just slightly, heart a riot in her chest, breath catching in her throat, lashes fluttering as her wide hazel eyes searched his face for something she didn't know how to name—didn't move away. Her bottom lip, soft and full, caught between her teeth again—not in hesitation, not in nervous habit, not even in distraction.
It was want.
Raw. Unspoken. Uncertain but present.
She looked up through her lashes, eyes impossibly open, and Sicheng could see every inch of hesitation and every ounce of surrender bleeding across her face like morning sunlight on frost. And still—she didn't pull away. She didn't hide.
He watched her come apart beneath the weight of the moment, the way her body tipped forward, how her eyes seemed to shimmer with the force of what she was feeling, of what she couldn't say aloud—and it undid him. Because she was his. Maybe not in name. Maybe not yet in form. But in this moment, in this breath, she was his. And something in his chest, something he didn't often let rise, surged forward with the force of that truth.
He leaned in.
Not in haste.
Not to take.
But to offer.
His breath mingled with hers, warm and shallow in the quiet space between their lips, and his thumb shifted lower, tracing the soft line of her bottom lip where her teeth had just been. It was reverent. It was aching. It was the barest hint of everything he was holding back.
And when she tilted her face into his touch—when her eyes fluttered half-closed like the moment itself was too much, like she could no longer keep still beneath the weight of it—
He knew.
She wouldn't stop him. She didn't want to stop him. But still, he didn't move. Not yet. Not until she gave him the last word that mattered. Because as much as he wanted her, as much as the fire in his blood pushed against the edge of his control, as much as his body ached with the need to close the distance that had already disappeared in every way but touch— He wouldn't take unless she gave. Not because he doubted her. But because he respected her. Because she was everything.
The air was thick now, not just heavy but glowing, the kind of atmosphere that built not from words but from tension drawn tight across every slow breath, from eye contact that lingered too long, from hands that touched without claiming but still declared intent. Every inch of space had collapsed around them. Only want remained.
Yao's lips parted softly, not to speak, but to breathe—and even that breath trembled. It wasn't a plea. It wasn't a signal. It was surrender.
And Sicheng—who had always known control, who had spent his life tempering instinct with strategy, who had built walls around himself that no one had ever climbed—moved. His palm slid down to her jaw, thumb anchoring at her chin as he tilted her face upward, his body leaning in until the breath between them was a whisper, until the distance between skin and skin was nothing more than a promise not yet broken. His nose brushed lightly against hers, his breath catching just slightly as the moment caught fire inside his chest.
And she let him. Her fingers—small, trembling, but certain—rose to clutch the edge of his shirt like a lifeline, like if she didn't hold on she'd lose her balance entirely, and he swore under his breath because she trusted him. Trusted him enough to hold this moment steady, trusted him enough to let go. His lips hovered above hers, close enough to taste the warmth, close enough to feel the way her chest rose in unsteady rhythm with his own, and when he spoke—
It was low.
Rough.
Unfiltered.
"Tell me to stop, Xiǎo Tùzǐ…"
But she didn't.
She couldn't.
And her silence?
Was permission.
The moment her lips parted slightly, the moment her breath slipped free in a soft, trembling exhale that barely counted as sound, that wasn't speech or sentence but something far more primal—far more telling—Sicheng knew. Knew she wasn't pulling away, knew she wasn't uncertain anymore, knew that whatever fear or hesitation she might have once carried had melted, just for this moment, into something far simpler, far purer, far more impossible to ignore. Her answer wasn't in words. It was in want. Quiet, aching, breathless want.
And Sicheng—Lu Sicheng, who had waited, who had paced his emotions like a man guarding a wildfire beneath his skin, who had stood at the edge of every impulse and held himself back for her, because he had refused to rush what she wasn't ready to give—finally stopped holding back. Finally closed the distance. Finally reached for what had always been his, whether either of them had known it or not.
He kissed her. Not gently. Not hesitantly. Not like a man unsure of what he wanted. But with heat. With certainty. With the kind of overwhelming, consuming pressure that only came from restraint finally breaking. The kind that didn't ask—it claimed. His mouth was firm, insistent, his hand braced at her jaw, angling her just so, pulling her fully into the space between them, into the kiss, into the truth of what had been simmering there for far too long. It wasn't rough—not yet. It wasn't desperate—not exactly. But it promised both. Every breath he took, every slow, searing drag of his mouth against hers, every subtle shift of pressure, every exhale into the space between them carried the undeniable weight of weeks—months—of held-back hunger.
The kiss had started deep but controlled, anchored in the discipline he'd carried through every step of their quiet becoming. He kissed her like a man who knew exactly what he was doing—because he did. Because he had been doing it in his head for longer than he would ever admit aloud. Every tilt of her head, every shift in her breath, every soft flutter of her lashes had become part of his mental map, part of the careful structure he'd built around the desire he refused to act on until she gave him permission.
But then—she made a sound.
Barely there.
Barely shaped.
Just a soft, fragile whimper, high in her throat, broken with breath, something caught between surrender and sensation. And that single sound? That was what undid him. That was the moment the match dropped into the dry hay of his restraint and set everything ablaze. Because it wasn't seductive. It wasn't calculated. It was raw. And it shattered him. Every wall, every practiced patience, every quiet oath to wait until she was ready fractured the second she whimpered into his kiss and leaned closer—closer—like her body had decided for her that she needed him and her mind was too slow to argue.
His response was immediate. Unthinking. Instinctive. A low sound, guttural and rough, broke from his chest—more growl than voice, more possession than language—as his grip at her jaw tightened slightly, just enough to ground her, to steady them both as the kiss tipped into something sharper, something heavier. His other hand slid to her hip, anchoring her there, fingers splayed wide, branding heat through the fabric of her clothes as if he needed to feel every contour, every subtle tremor, every second of her pressed against him.
And then—he moved. Not away. Not back. But into her. Quick, fluid, deliberate. The same precision he brought into every match, every strategy session, every decision he ever made—except this time, it wasn't about games or leadership or control. It was about her.
His mouth never left hers, not even for breath, as he turned and brought them both down in one seamless shift, his back hitting the cool brick wall of the terrace, and her—his Yao—suddenly straddling his lap. She gasped, half from surprise, half from need, her knees bracketing his hips, her hands flying to his shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to reality.
And Sicheng—he didn't stop. Didn't give her time to think. Because he wasn't thinking anymore. He was feeling. Every part of her now pressed to every part of him, her breath hot against his mouth, her chest rising and falling with ragged need, her soft, broken sounds pulling deeper responses from him than he even knew he was capable of. His hands gripped her tighter, one sliding from her hip to the small of her back, dragging her closer, pressing her fully against him, fitting her exactly where he had known—always known—she belonged. His fingers splayed possessively, not just holding her in place, but claiming the curve of her waist, the dip of her back, the way she trembled when he moved his mouth over hers with more pressure, more hunger, more want than any man should be allowed to feel.
Because this wasn't restraint anymore.
This was fire.
Slow, molten, unstoppable fire.
This was weeks of stolen glances and almost-touches. This was sleepless nights and unread messages drafted but never sent. This was every single moment he'd held back breaking. Because she was in his lap. And her hands were still on him. And she was kissing him like she needed it to breathe.
And he—Lu Sicheng, the man who had once prided himself on control, who had never let his emotions dictate his actions, who had waited—was burning. And this? This was him finally letting it consume him.
Her body was soft and trembling where it pressed against him, not in fear, not in resistance, but in the delicate, instinctive stammer of something new—something uncharted—her breath catching in uneven waves as she clung to him with that sweet, fragile determination that undid him more with every second. One hand had curled into the collar of his shirt, fisting the fabric like it anchored her, like it steadied the way the ground had suddenly disappeared beneath her feet, while the other pressed lightly against his chest, fingers twitching with every slow, deliberate pass of his mouth over hers, tightening each time he deepened the kiss and taught her without words what it meant to be wanted.
And though she was responding, though her lips were moving with his, shy but open, hesitant but trusting, though she was kissing him back with everything her inexperience could give—Sicheng felt it. Felt the tremor of uncertainty beneath every breath, felt the soft stumbles of unfamiliarity in the way her mouth parted for him, felt the way her body instinctively pressed closer and yet held just a fraction of itself back, not from doubt, not from fear—never fear—but from the kind of innocence that no one had ever reached before.
It was that untouched, unguarded, breathless innocence that undid something inside him. That unraveled him. It coiled low and tight in his chest, in his gut, in the hunger that he always kept leashed, always controlled, but which now stirred with something feral, something possessive, something dark and primal that whispered in the back of his mind—no one else has ever touched her like this, and no one else ever will.
A low groan broke from his throat, muffled against her mouth, the sound vibrating between them, rough and unfiltered, a crack of raw desire that made her breath hitch and her fingers clench tighter. His restraint strained, every inch of control burning beneath the weight of how much he wanted—not just to touch her, not just to taste her, but to keep her, to own this part of her, to mark every part of her with the certainty that this moment belonged only to them.
His hand slid from her waist, the long, reverent drag of his palm gliding upward along her spine before settling at the nape of her neck, fingers threading into the thick, silken spill of her hair. He held her there, not harsh, not demanding, but steady—anchoring her to him, grounding her as he tilted her head, careful and intentional, angling her mouth to his in the precise way he needed, guiding her into a rhythm he had no intention of rushing.
Because this—this was not just a kiss. This was instruction. This was the moment she would remember—the first real kiss, the first time someone had taken the time to teach her not just how to meet lips, but how to melt into them, how to give and take, how to press and yield and breathe into another until the line between giver and receiver no longer existed.
Yao whimpered softly, the sound delicate and breathless, the kind of sound that made his blood heat and his composure splinter, as her body instinctively leaned forward, her knees tightening around his hips, her frame curling closer to his like it wasn't a choice but a need. Her fingers curled deeper into his shirt, fisting the fabric like she was holding onto something solid in a world that had suddenly gone fluid.
And then—his teeth caught her bottom lip.
Not hard.
Not rough.
Just enough pressure to send a spike of sensation down her spine, enough to make her gasp—a sharp, startled little sound that left her mouth parted and her breath undone. And that sound—that exquisite, raw, involuntary sound—was all the invitation he needed.
He moved.
Fluid.
Hungry.
But precise.
With the kind of calculated control that only made the devastation worse—better—and he slipped his tongue into her mouth with slow, deliberate intent, claiming her with a heat that was as much worship as it was want. The first contact was like falling through fire and velvet—heat, depth, and something possessive and reverent all at once.
She tasted like something sweet and uncharted, like warmth and innocence and startled trust, and her breath caught again as she made a soft, almost soundless moan, her hands clinging tighter, her entire body pressing flush to his like she didn't know where else to go—because there was nowhere else but him. He groaned again, deep in his chest, this time into her mouth, unable to help it, because she was letting him in—she was opening to him, yielding to him, trusting him with this, with herself, in a way that made every inch of his self-control strain at the edges.
And her inexperience?
It was beautiful.
The way her tongue moved tentatively against his, the uncertain flickers of movement that sought his guidance, the way her breath kept stuttering like her lungs couldn't quite keep up with the way he kissed her—it was perfect.
She didn't need to know what she was doing. She only needed to want. She only needed to try. She only needed to let him lead—and she was. With every soft gasp, with every tremble of her mouth against his, with every unintentional whimper that slipped from her lips, she was learning, and he was teaching—and it was the most intoxicating, destructive, addicting thing he'd ever felt. And as she clung to him, all flushed skin and trembling fingers and breathless surrender, as she melted into him with the kind of trust that broke men, as she kissed him back like she didn't know how but needed to—
Lu Sicheng burned. Burned with something deeper than lust. Burned with something darker than just desire. Because she was his first. And he had already decided—quietly, irrevocably, completely—that she would be his only.
Her breath came ragged and shallow, breaking unevenly in her throat as she pulled back just enough to create the smallest distance between them, her chest rising and falling in quick, shaky waves that pressed into him with every trembling exhale, her body still perched in his lap, still wrapped around him, still caught in the aftermath of a kiss that had shattered whatever innocence still stood between them like a final wall crumbling in the dark. Her hazel eyes, wide and glassy, stared into his with pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the color, her cheeks flushed in deep, lingering red that bled down her neck and disappeared beneath the fabric of his hoodie, while her kiss-swollen lips parted with a soft, stuttering breath that told him everything he needed to know—that she was wrecked, undone, unraveled by the weight of something she had never experienced before and never imagined could feel this overwhelming.
And Sicheng—still holding her close, still cradling her against him like letting go might unmake the entire moment—did not move. His hand remained in her hair, his fingers gently curled at the nape of her neck, possessive without force, steadying without demand, while his other hand stayed firm at her waist, his thumb grazing bare skin where her shirt had ridden up, the warmth of her body pressing into his palm like a brand, like a silent confession that he had no right to touch her like this and every right all at once. His gaze didn't drift. Not once. Not even when her eyes fluttered like she might look away, or when her hands twitched against his chest like she didn't know whether to pull him closer or push herself away. He watched her—closely, intensely, reverently—tracking every tremble of her lips, every flicker of uncertainty across her face, every breath she took like it was a prayer.
But he didn't speak. He didn't dare break the moment. Because she wasn't pulling away. She wasn't retreating. She wasn't asking him to stop. She was still straddling him, still flushed and trembling and breathing like she'd just been dragged into something far deeper than she was prepared for—but she wasn't leaving. She was still here. Still choosing him.
So he moved.
Slowly.
With precision that came not from calculation but from control honed over years of denying himself things he wanted. He lowered his head, deliberately, his mouth brushing the flushed curve of her jaw, trailing a soft, slow path along the delicate line of her skin, the edge of his teeth grazing just enough to make her breath stutter again, his fingers sliding higher up her back to keep her steady, to hold her close, to keep her exactly where he needed her.
And then—
He reached the place just beneath her ear, the softest, most sensitive hollow of her neck, and he nipped.
Not to hurt.
Not to frighten.
But just enough to feel her react, to hear the breathy, helpless little sound that escaped her lips, to feel her entire body go tight, shuddering in his lap as her hips jerked forward in instinctive response—a small, tentative grind that wasn't intentional but wasn't entirely accidental either.
And that?
That was the end of him.
Because it was real.
It was her.
Reacting.
Responding.
Wanting.
And it made something deep in his chest twist, something raw and possessive that rose like fire, like hunger, like a storm barely held back by the last thread of his restraint, his hand tightening at her waist, pulling her harder against him, making sure she felt the full weight of what she was doing to him—the undeniable pressure of his arousal straining between them, the hard, punishing heat that pulsed beneath his skin and left nothing to the imagination. His breath came hot against her skin, grazing the shell of her ear as he spoke, his voice a low, guttural thing that vibrated through his chest and into hers, soaked in dark promise and burning truth he wasn't going to pretend to hide anymore.
"You're playing with fire, Xiǎo Tùzǐ…"
And Yao—still dazed, still shaking, still flushed and wide-eyed, still reeling from the intensity of everything she was feeling for the first time—didn't answer. Didn't argue. Didn't back away. Because she was burning too. And for the first time in her life, she didn't want the fire to stop.
But Sicheng did.
He had to.
Because his self-control was fraying at the edges, held together by threads so tight they hurt, his fingers pressing into her skin just a little too hard, his breath coming in uneven bursts as every part of his body screamed to keep going, to keep touching, to keep taking, to give her more, to give her everything—until she couldn't remember how to breathe without him.
Because she had kissed him back. Because she had clung to him. Because she had let him kiss her like that and responded with so much raw, hesitant innocence that it had shattered every rule he had ever lived by, made a mockery of every boundary he thought he'd set for himself, turned every second into a countdown to when he was going to lose control.
But he couldn't.
Not like this.
Because she didn't know.
Didn't know what it meant to kiss a man like him, didn't know what it meant to move her hips like that, didn't know what it would do to him to feel her open up like that, to feel her trust him like that, to realize that this—she—wasn't just temptation or affection or love.
She was everything. And if he took that step now, if he crossed that line, he wouldn't be able to take it back. And she deserved more than that. She deserved everything. So he breathed. One long, slow, agonizing breath. And he pulled back. Carefully. Painfully. Completely. He let his hand slide from her waist, his other easing out of her hair, his touch leaving ghost-heat behind as he pulled himself out of the moment with every ounce of strength he still possessed.
And when she blinked up at him, confused and breathless, her lips still parted, her body still trembling with aftershocks, he almost faltered. Almost gave in. But he didn't. Instead, his voice came low, hoarse, frayed around the edges with restraint and something far deeper—something reverent, something claiming. "Go to bed, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
She didn't move at first.
Just stared at him.
And he stared back.
Waiting.
Not because he didn't want her to stay. But because he needed her to go. Because if she stayed, he wouldn't stop next time. And when she finally moved, slowly sliding off his lap, still unsteady, still pink-cheeked and breathless, he let her. He didn't reach for her again.
Even when she hesitated in the doorway. Even when she looked back at him with those wide, uncertain eyes. Even when she whispered a soft, shaky goodnight and disappeared down the hall. Only then—only then—did he let out the breath he had been holding, dragging a hand through his hair, his voice low and dark and wrecked as he muttered into the silence.
"This is going to be a problem."
Because now?
Now she was in his system and there was no getting her out.