Summary: A lingering silence finally breaks, not with noise, but with the kind of truth that leaves no room for misunderstanding. In quiet corners and behind closed doors, fear gives way to honesty, and restraint is replaced by intention. What was once uncertain begins to take shape—deliberate, steady, and real. Some promises are loud. Others are made with held gazes, soft words, and a date circled on the calendar.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The entrance to the shoot location was flanked by double glass doors, sleek and polished, the kind that whispered exclusivity more than they announced it. The team stepped through in coordinated rhythm, all dark uniforms and practiced ease, Rui leading with his clipboard in hand while the others trailed behind with varying degrees of sleep-deprivation and caffeine withdrawal written across their faces.
Yao walked just slightly behind Sicheng, her expression composed but her fingers twitching against the sleeve of her jacket—the same oversized one she'd thrown on that morning to keep herself grounded, the scent of Sicheng's cologne still faintly clinging to her from the night before. She hadn't spoken much since they'd gotten in the van. Neither had he. But his hand had rested at the small of her back the entire ride over, a steady, wordless weight that said more than he ever would aloud.
They'd just barely cleared the lobby when a familiar voice curled through the air like silk laced with smirk.
"Well, well… if it isn't ZGDX's star kitten."
Yao froze. Subtly. The kind of freeze that someone like Sicheng would never miss—her shoulders drawing a fraction tighter, her chin dipping before it lifted again, calm and polite and detached all at once.
Su Luo emerged from behind a rolling rack of wardrobe pieces, tall and elegant in a sharp-cut blazer and platform heels, her long nails lacquered blood red as she offered the team a broad, professionally charming smile—only it dulled slightly when it slid over the boys and sharpened with unmistakable interest the moment her gaze landed on Yao.
"Still purring for the cameras, kitten?" Su Luo asked, tilting her head slightly as she stepped forward, her tone deceptively sweet but laced with that flirtatious edge that always made Sicheng's jaw tick.
And today?
Today it did more than tick.
He stepped instinctively closer, a breath behind Yao now, his gaze cutting toward the stylist like the edge of a blade unsheathed.
Yao, for her part, simply blinked. Her voice was flat but polite when she replied, "I'm here to represent my team, not perform tricks for attention."
A beat passed.
Behind them, Yue coughed into his fist to muffle a laugh.
Pang, less subtle, outright snorted. "Oof. That sounded familiar."
Sicheng didn't say a word. Didn't have to. His presence alone was enough to shift the air, his hand lightly brushing against the hem of Yao's jacket in a gesture so subtle most wouldn't notice—but Su Luo did.
Her smile slipped. Just a little.
"Touchy, touchy," she said with a light chuckle, eyes flicking between the two of them now. "Though I suppose you always did have claws, kitten. Just took someone brave enough to let you show them."
Yao's cheeks flushed as she averted her eyes to the side.
But behind her, Sicheng's voice dropped low, threaded with frost as he finally broke his silence.
"We're here for a photoshoot. Not commentary."
The words were smooth, professional. But the warning underneath? Lethal.
Su Luo arched a brow, clearly amused, but she stepped back without another word, signaling for the stylist team to begin their work as she turned with a flourish of her hair and strutted toward the makeup station, tossing over her shoulder with exaggerated nonchalance, "Lights up in twenty, kitten. Make sure you sparkle."
Yao didn't respond as she ducked her head down and mentally groaned.
But Sicheng did lean in, low enough for only her to hear, voice quieter than breath. "She calls you kitten again, and I'm going to start calling you mine in front of her. Loudly."
Yao flushed to her ears, the jacket suddenly feeling much too warm.
And behind them?
Pang muttered, "If the photo team doesn't catch that tension on camera, they're blind."
Lu Sicheng had been patient, ruthlessly, agonizingly patient. He had pulled back on that terrace not because he wanted to, not because the fire between them hadn't already burned hot enough to justify more, not because he didn't feel every inch of her against him like a brand he still hadn't recovered from—but because she mattered more than want. More than hunger. More than that single moment of aching closeness that had nearly consumed them both. He had made the right decision, he knew that, damn it, he had made it for her. But now? Now she was looking at him like he'd done something wrong. Like she couldn't decide if she was grateful or disappointed or both. And that—that—was what twisted beneath his skin like a slow burn, what narrowed his gaze with every second she kept herself at a polite distance, what made his fingers curl into a tighter grip when she passed by him on set and didn't brush against him like she used to, didn't glance up like she was waiting for his approval.
She was hiding.
Not obviously.
Not intentionally.
But Sicheng could feel it in the way she smiled at everyone but him. In the way she stayed close to Ming and Yue during the group shots, in the way she quietly let the stylist fix her braid without a word. She hadn't said anything about last night. She hadn't referenced the kiss, hadn't blushed over it or muttered or shyly tried to dissect what it had meant. And maybe she thought that was fine. Maybe she thought they could both pretend it hadn't turned his entire goddamn world upside down. But Lu Sicheng wasn't built for pretending. He wasn't built for silence. Not when it came to her. Not when she had wrapped herself around him like that, gasped against his mouth, trembled in his hands and left him with the ghost of her lips burned into his every breath. So when the photographer called for a short break, when the team began wandering off toward the refreshment table or off to stretch or check their phones, Lu Sicheng didn't hesitate.
He didn't speak.
Didn't announce it.
He simply moved.
Crossed the distance between them like it was nothing, like they weren't surrounded by stylists and assistants and stage lights and half a dozen other people who had no idea that beneath the quiet professionalism of their Data Analysis and Captain, something far more personal had been building like a fuse left half-lit.
"Come with me." he said, low enough that only she could hear.
And Yao?
Yao froze as she turned slowly, lifting her eyes just enough to meet his gaze, and he saw it—the flicker of something uncertain, the subtle tightening of her hands at her sides, the hesitation she was trying so hard to mask with that neutral expression she always defaulted to when overwhelmed.
But he didn't give her a chance to answer. He just stepped back, turned, and walked. And she followed. Because of course she did. Because even now, even with everything between them unspoken, unresolved, unfinished—she always followed him. He led her just around the corner, out of view of the main set but still within the soft hum of activity, behind one of the backdrop walls that hadn't been used yet, and only when he was sure they were alone—only when he turned and saw her standing there, arms lightly folded across her middle, chin ducked just slightly like she wasn't sure if this was going to be a conversation or a confrontation—did he finally speak.
"You're avoiding me."
Her lips parted, then closed again. She shifted slightly on her feet. "I'm not."
"You are."
"Sicheng—"
He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough to make her lift her gaze to him again, enough to remind her that space was something he allowed when it came to her, not something she could hide behind. "I didn't do anything wrong last night," he said, voice low and even, but edged with the weight of everything she hadn't said since then. "I didn't take advantage. I didn't push you."
"I know."
"I stopped when I should've."
"I know, Sicheng—"
"Then why are you acting like I crossed a line?"
Her mouth opened again, but the words didn't come. And that? That was worse than anything.
Because for a second—for just a split second—he saw the doubt flicker across her face. Not doubt in him. But in herself. And suddenly, he understood. She didn't know what to do with how much she wanted. She didn't know how to carry the weight of that kiss. That intimacy. That hunger. She was afraid of how much it meant. And that—that was something he could work with. So he stepped even closer, his voice dropping into that low, smooth cadence that always reached her, always cut through whatever flustered fog she was drowning in. "I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen, Tong Yao. And I'm not going to let you pretend either."
She looked at him then—really looked at him—and the heat that rushed into her cheeks, the way her fingers curled tighter around the sleeves of her jacket, the way her breath hitched—
That was her answer.
And Lu Sicheng?
Lu Sicheng had never been more sure. Because she wasn't pulling back out of regret. She was pulling back out of fear. But fear never stopped him before. And it wasn't going to start now. Because it wasn't just that she was more distant. It was who was watching her. He waited. Not because he was uncertain. Not because he doubted himself.
But because Lu Sicheng had learned long ago that timing was everything—and if he approached her too soon, with the burn of Su Luo's presence still lingering across her skin, with the flustered confusion still clouding her mind, she would shut down. Retreat. Curl herself back into the armor of polite professionalism she wore when the world felt like too much. He reached her, his hand gently curling around her wrist—not hard, not forceful, but firm enough that she stopped mid-step, head turning slowly, hazel eyes blinking wide as they met his. He simply stepped in—closer than polite, closer than professional, closer than anyone else was ever allowed to stand near her—and said, his voice low, smooth, laced with something darker beneath the surface, "What did she say to you?"
Yao stilled.
Her mouth parted. But no words came. Not at first. Because she knew that tone. She had felt it the moment he started watching Su Luo like a man about to break something. And now—now it was turned on her, not in anger, but in focus.
Singular.
Sharp.
Possessive.
She swallowed, her lashes lowering slightly. "It wasn't anything bad," she muttered. "She just said I looked softer than she expected. And that… that my mouth moved like it had secrets."
Sicheng's jaw tightened. Not because the words were overtly inappropriate. But because they weren't. Because they were subtle. Calculated. Designed to make Yao second-guess herself. Designed to confuse her, draw her in, unsteady her with something as simple as observation. Familiarity masked as professionalism. And it had worked. He saw it now. The flush on her cheeks wasn't just embarrassment. It was the slow-blooming discomfort of being seen wrong. And he would not have that. He stepped in even closer, and Yao, breath catching slightly, didn't retreat. Her fingers, still curled by her sides, tightened once as if trying to anchor herself.
"She doesn't get to look at you like that," Sicheng said softly, and the edge in his voice made it clear—this wasn't about jealousy. It was about protection. "She doesn't get to touch you like she knows you. Doesn't get to speak in riddles just to watch you squirm. Doesn't get to treat you like you're something she can dress up and rearrange and mold into something she likes better."
Yao blinked, startled, her breath catching.
"Because you're not hers to assess," he finished, voice dropping lower, rougher. "You're mine." And the moment the word left his mouth—possessive, sure, final—it echoed louder in the stillness than anything else had all day.
Yao's eyes widened. She stepped back—not away, not in rejection—but out of sheer reaction, like the weight of what he'd just said had hit her like a tidal wave. Because he meant it. Every word. And there was no apology in his gaze. No room for misunderstanding. No retreat. Only certainty. Yao's breath trembled. And then—quietly, carefully, without looking away from him—she nodded.
Just once.
But it was enough. Because he saw it. She wasn't afraid. She wasn't doubting him. She was still overwhelmed. Still sorting through the thousands of emotions she didn't know how to name yet. But she wasn't running. And Sicheng, watching her, stepped forward one last time, brushing a strand of platinum hair away from her face with the back of his knuckles—gentle, reverent, final. "I'll protect what's mine," he said, "Even from people who think they mean well."
And Yao?
Yao whispered the only word she could manage. "I know."
The moment they stepped through the base doors, the others peeling off toward their rooms and post-event routines with the easy rhythm of a team used to long days and chaotic schedules, Sicheng didn't give her the chance to slip away, didn't give her room to retreat into the quiet corners she usually occupied when she needed space to think or breathe or hide. He waited until she had started up the stairs, her shoulders just a little too stiff, her steps just a little too hesitant, her fingers curled around the strap of her bag like she needed it to anchor her, before he called her name.
"Yao."
Soft. Low. Firm.
She stopped immediately.
Sicheng could see the tension ripple through her shoulders, the faint, instinctive twitch of her fingers tightening, the pause of her breath like she was already bracing for something—but because she always answered when he called, because some part of her still belonged to the sound of his voice no matter how much she was retreating, she turned slowly, her eyes not meeting his, her lips already parting like she wanted to make an excuse, to find a polite way to slip back into whatever quiet, tangled headspace she'd retreated into since last night.
But he wasn't going to let her—not this time, not when he could feel the distance in her silence like a wedge pressed between them—so without a word, without asking, without needing to explain himself, he tilted his head toward his office, the quietest place in the base, their place, the one room where nothing and no one else existed once the door was closed, a single gesture asking—not forcing—her to follow.
She hesitated, just for a breath, just long enough to let the weight of her uncertainty settle between them, but she followed.
Inside the office, he didn't ask her to sit, didn't take his usual place behind the desk, didn't let any formality stand between them, he stood by the window, hands in his pockets, jaw tense, eyes fixed on her, not demanding but waiting, giving her space but not distance, and she stood just inside the door like she wasn't sure whether she was allowed to come any closer. The silence between them wasn't cruel, it was careful, measured, coiled with the weight of everything unsaid—but it pressed against her nonetheless, made her fidget slightly, made her eyes drop to the floor like they always did when she was trying not to break under the weight of her own thoughts.
And than. he asked.
Quiet. Steady. Uncompromising.
"What's going on with you, Xiǎo Tùzǐ?"
She flinched—not visibly, not in a way anyone else would've noticed—but he saw it, the way her shoulders curled inward ever so slightly, the way her chin tucked down, her platinum braid slipping forward over her shoulder like a curtain she could hide behind, and then came her voice, soft and unsure, not quite broken but threaded with something dangerously close to guilt.
"…I thought maybe… you were disappointed in me."
The words landed like a punch to the chest, because she wasn't looking at him, wasn't braced for his reaction, just standing there with her arms folded in front of her like she needed them to be a shield, her voice trembling slightly but still carrying, still honest.
"Last night…" she continued, her fingers twisting into the edge of her sleeve like she was trying to hold herself together, her gaze locked somewhere far beneath his own, "You just… stopped and told me to go to bed."
And Sicheng felt something twist violently inside his chest, something cold and sharp and cutting, because of course... of course she had read it that way, of course she had taken his silence and his restraint as rejection, and now, standing there, watching her shrink into herself, watching her try to hold her composure while quietly crumbling under the weight of something she didn't even know how to name, he realized how badly he had handled it. She thought he didn't want her. She thought she had done something wrong. She thought he had changed his mind. And the idea that she had carried that for an entire day, that she had smiled politely and kept her head down and stayed away from him because she thought he regretted touching her, that thought made his hands curl into fists, made his jaw clench, made something ugly coil tight beneath his skin because this, all of it, was his fault.
He hadn't told her. Hadn't explained. Hadn't said what needed to be said. And now, she was standing in front of him like she was already bracing for the blow that would confirm every doubt she hadn't dared to say out loud.
He took a step forward, slow, measured, unthreatening, but final, closing the distance between them until the only thing separating them was her hesitation. And he didn't speak. Not right away. Not until she finally, hesitantly, nervously, with a flicker of something broken in her eyes, looked up.
And when she did, he saw it all.
The doubt.
The ache.
The quiet, hollow ache of someone who didn't understand why silence hurt so much but still felt it like a wound. And in that moment, as she looked at him like she was preparing herself for rejection, for the words that would make her worst fear true, he hated himself—quietly, deeply, thoroughly, because she deserved so much more than silence. And this time, he was going to give it to her.
Sicheng stood before her in absolute silence, the weight of her words still hanging between them like smoke, invisible, but impossible to ignore, laced with all the unspoken pain she hadn't intended to reveal but had, because she didn't know how to hide something once it cracked through her composure. And he, who had always been composed, always calculating, always measured in everything he did, suddenly found himself standing in the wreckage of that restraint, because for the first time, his silence had done real damage.
Not to his team.
Not to his pride.
But to her.
To the one person he had sworn—quietly, inwardly, without ever needing to say it aloud—that he would never hurt. Her soft admission still echoed through his chest, every syllable sharpened by her honesty, the quiet ache in her voice, the way her eyes had dropped to the floor like she couldn't bear to look at him when she said it— "I thought maybe… you were disappointed in me."
He didn't breathe. Didn't move. Didn't trust himself to speak until he knew he could do it without the roar in his chest cracking through his voice. Because she meant that. Because she believed that. Because sometime between him walking away on the terrace and her standing in front of him now, she had convinced herself that the heat, the desire, the trembling want they had shared, meant more to her than it did to him.
And that wasn't just wrong.
That was a failure.
His failure.
So when he finally spoke, his voice was low, not quiet from hesitation, but heavy with the depth of emotion he rarely let anyone see. "You think I walked away because I didn't want you?"
Yao flinched again, not violently, but enough that he felt it like a strike to the ribs. She didn't answer, but she didn't need to. The silence, the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes shimmered with something she was trying very hard not to let fall, that said everything.
He took another step, closing the distance, his voice tightening, jaw flexing as he pushed the words out. "I wanted you so badly I couldn't see straight, Tong Yao."
She gasped softly, not in fear, not in confusion, but in sheer, stunned disbelief. And that sound, that small, broken noise of realization, hit him harder than her earlier confession. Because how could she not know? How could she not understand what she had done to him with one kiss, one whimper, one trembling shift of her hips? How could she still believe that he would have let her go because she wasn't enough, when the truth was, he had walked away because she meant everything?
He reached for her then, slowly, carefully, reverently and cupped her cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing against her skin like she was made of something too rare, too precious to touch without permission. Her hazel eyes, wide, dark with confusion and something rawer, something vulnerable and waiting, lifted to meet his. And what he saw there nearly undid him. So he gave her everything. "You're not some girl I want to take to bed and forget, Xiǎo Tùzǐ." His voice cracked, just barely, and still he pushed forward. "You're the girl I want to wake up next to. The one I want beside me when the season ends, when we win or lose. You're the girl I want to build something with, slow, real, permanent."
A tremble passed through her, small, involuntary and her lips parted like she couldn't quite take in the full weight of what he was giving her.
"I walked away because you deserve better than a man losing control and rushing something that should be sacred. And I knew," he said, voice dipping lower, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye, "if I kept going, I wouldn't have stopped." And then, softer. Raw. Absolute. "Not because I don't want you, Yao... but because I do, more than I've ever wanted anything in my goddamn life."
She broke then, not with tears, but with breath. A shuddered inhale, a staggered exhale, and something inside her crumbled and gave way. And when she moved, stepping forward, burying her face against his chest, her hands fisting into his shirt as if she needed something solid to hold on to. He wrapped his arms around her like he had been waiting to do it for a lifetime. Not to claim. Not to control. But to hold her together. Because this? This wasn't a confession. This was a promise and she would never have to question it again.
Before she could say another word, Sicheng moved, swiftly, decisively, with a kind of quiet urgency that left no room for resistance or second-guessing. His arms slid beneath her, one around her shoulders, the other beneath her knees and without a sound, he lifted her as if she weighed nothing, as if holding her close was something as natural as breathing, something he was always meant to do.
She gasped softly, more from surprise than protest, her hands clutching instinctively at the front of his shirt as he carried her the short distance across the room. Then, just as fluidly, he sat down on the couch, the one they'd ended up sharing more than once when she fell asleep in his office during long nights of strategy or soft conversations and with that same careful ease, he pulled her into his lap, cradling her against him like she was something breakable but fiercely protected. Her knees folded beside him, her arms curling slightly between them, her body tucking in against his with such heartbreaking familiarity that he wondered if she even realized how naturally she fit there. And than, his chin lowered, resting gently atop her head as his arms wrapped around her fully, grounding them both in the silence that followed. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the only sound in the room the quiet echo of her breath against his chest and the muted thrum of his own heartbeat pounding against her ear.
She was warm.
She was trembling.
And she was still carrying it, that weight, that fear, that belief that she had done something wrong, that her feelings were a burden, that her hesitance or her inexperience or her needing to be loved gently somehow made her less. He could feel it in every small, unconscious twitch of her fingers, in the way her body pressed tighter into his as if trying to make herself smaller. And then—in the quiet, fragile voice that cracked something deep in his chest, "I'm sorry."
The words were whispered against his collar, muffled by the fabric of his shirt, and yet they landed with the force of a fist to the ribs.
Sicheng stilled, his arms tightening around her just slightly, not enough to crush, but enough to anchor. And then, voice low, calm, and cutting in a way only he could manage when it mattered, "No." She flinched softly, her head still tucked beneath his chin. But he didn't stop. Didn't let her retreat. Didn't let her believe she had done anything that warranted regret. "Don't say that. You don't get to apologize for something that was never wrong." His tone wasn't sharp but it was absolute. Final.
And she felt it.
The weight of his words, the truth behind them, the unwavering conviction that she was not a mistake, her feelings were not mistakes, her heart, tender and trembling and full of hesitation, was not something that requires repentance. She said nothing, but her fingers curled tighter into his shirt, her breath catching, and he knew she was listening. So he kept going, softer now, but no less firm. "You don't apologize for needing time. You don't apologize for not knowing. You don't apologize for feeling too much." He pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at her, one hand lifting to gently tuck a strand of platinum hair behind her ear, his gaze burning with something far deeper than desire. "And you sure as hell don't apologize for being the only thing in my life that makes me want to be better without even trying."
Her breath hitched, and for a moment, he saw it, the wall she'd built around herself trembling, cracking. Not breaking apart because he forced it but because he was holding her still, holding her real, and showing her that she didn't have to hide anymore. She was safe. Not just because she was held. But because she was understood and for Yao, that was everything. The quiet between them had changed, no longer weighted with fear or uncertainty, no longer filled with the echo of things left unsaid but warm, steady, grounding.
Yao's body had begun to relax, little by little, as Sicheng held her close, as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calmed the rapid flutter of her own, as his words, unflinching and absolute, wrapped around her like armor she never knew she'd needed. Her fingers still curled loosely into the front of his shirt, her cheek pressed lightly beneath his chin, her breathing no longer tight or uneven but soft, the kind of breathing that only came when a person finally began to feel safe again.
He could have held her like that forever and he just might have. But then, after a long, lingering moment of silence, he shifted slightly beneath her, his fingers tracing small, absent-minded circles along her lower back as his voice broke the quiet, low and genuine. "If you could choose… what would your ideal date be?"
Yao stilled at the question—not from discomfort, not from fear, but with a kind of inward pause, as if the question had touched something she hadn't allowed herself to consider before, not fully. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, her gaze drifted to the side, toward the corner of the office where the soft golden light spilled through the window, her brow furrowing slightly, not from confusion, but from quiet thought. And when she did speak, her voice was barely above a murmur, carried more on breath than sound. "A home-cooked meal… and a movie on the couch."
Sicheng blinked, eyes lowering slightly to glance down at her, but he said nothing—just let her continue, his grip on her soft but steady.
"I mean, it's nice when people take someone out to fancy restaurants or try to do something impressive, but… I don't really need that." She shifted just slightly, her voice still soft but gaining a little more certainty with each word. "Even small places by the bay, even if it's quiet and not crowded—it's still not the same. Not for me." Another breath, another quiet moment passed before she finished, her fingers toying lightly with the hem of his shirt. "What matters more to me is… just spending time with someone. Talking. Being comfortable. Just… being together. So I guess… the home-cooked meal and a movie still wins."
Sicheng felt something shift deep in his chest—not the sharp pull of desire this time, not the slow burn of want, but something heavier, quieter… more permanent. Because of course that would be her answer. Of course she didn't want to be shown off or whisked away to some overdecorated place with music too loud for her to think straight. Of course she would choose stillness. Warmth. Familiarity.
Her.
That was so her and it only made him fall deeper. So he leaned back just enough to tilt her face up with the curve of his fingers beneath her chin, his thumb brushing lightly along the edge of her jaw as he held her gaze with his own. "Then let's make it a routine."
Yao blinked, startled slightly by the sudden suggestion, her lips parting as if to ask what he meant, but he didn't let her wonder for long.
"One night a week," he continued, his voice smooth, certain, the way it always was when he meant what he said, "we pick a day and make it ours. Date night."
She stared at him, wide-eyed, still caught off guard by the simplicity of it.
And then he added, softer, but edged with a smile just behind his words. "And if you pick the home-cooked meal and movie night then we'll use your apartment. I'll cook one week, you the next… assuming you can cook."
Yao flushed immediately, her eyes flicking away as she shifted in his lap again, her hands nervously smoothing the fabric at his shoulder. "…I'm not a chef," she murmured under her breath, "but I can cook."
Sicheng exhaled a low, satisfied hum as his thumb traced her cheek, gaze dropping to her lips with affection now threaded deeply into the hunger that had only earlier burned through him. "Good because I'm already looking forward to it." he said simply, before leaning in to press a kiss—not heated, not demanding, but soft and warm, against her temple.
The warmth of his lips against her temple lingered long after the contact faded, seeping into her skin, settling deep beneath the layers of uncertainty that had only hours ago held her in silence and hesitation. And now, here she was—cradled in the arms of the man she'd once only studied from a distance, the one whose name had been inked into her research notes and strategies before she had ever thought she'd speak to him, let alone feel the quiet intensity of his heartbeat beneath her palm.
Yao's head rested against his shoulder, her breath evening out as she let herself melt more fully into him, no longer trembling, no longer flinching from closeness. She was thinking now—not in that overwhelmed, scattered way that spiraled into anxiety, but in the soft, focused way that came only when she felt safe. And with that thoughtfulness came the gentle murmur of her voice, barely louder than a whisper, but carrying the kind of weight that only she could place behind such soft-spoken words.
"Mondays."
Sicheng shifted slightly, tilting his head enough to glance down at her, his brow arching in quiet question.
Yao, her fingers lightly toying with the hem of his sleeve where it bunched at his elbow, continued, her tone still soft but laced with that careful logic that he'd come to love—the kind that unraveled from her like lines of code, always deliberate, always considered.
"If we're going to do this... date night," she said, the words shy but unflinching, "it makes sense to do it on Mondays." She paused, lifting her head slightly to meet his gaze, her expression now thoughtful in that calm, analytic way that sometimes made her seem older than twenty. "You and the boys usually have matches Friday through Sunday," she explained, her voice threading through the quiet between them with unhurried clarity. "Sometimes Saturdays only, but often all three, and those nights are always late—plus you're either too wired or too tired by the end of them." She paused, her fingers brushing a thread off his sleeve before she added, "Tuesday through Thursday are usually for strategy reviews, team training blocks, and whatever adjustments Kwon or Rui need to implement." Another pause, a breath, then—gentle but certain. "So Monday works. It's the only day where no one expects anything urgent from you—or from me."
Sicheng stared at her for a moment, something deep and quiet flickering through his gaze—not surprise, not amusement, but a kind of quiet awe at the way she thought not just of herself, but of him, of the team, of how everything fit into place with such seamless consideration.
She wasn't just trying to fit herself into his life. She was finding space for both of them, carefully, deliberately, without forcing anything, without demanding more than what already existed. And that, more than anything, struck him with a force that left his throat tight. She wasn't asking for his time. She was making room in hers, quietly, logically, with the kind of thoughtful sincerity that didn't dress itself in romantic declarations but meant more than any dramatic gesture ever could. He reached up, brushing his knuckles gently against her cheek, his voice low and full of something he rarely gave anyone—softness.
"Monday it is, then."
Yao flushed again, her lips twitching with the faintest, almost reluctant smile, and she ducked her head against his chest to hide it, though her fingers curled just a little tighter into his sleeve.
And Sicheng, feeling the way she tucked herself back into him, let his arms wrap fully around her again—holding her close not because she was fragile, but because she was his.
And Monday—that was just the beginning.