Summary: The morning doesn't start—it erupts. As the world finally sees her, the internet's attention descends with chaotic speed, and the team scrambles to keep up. But beneath the noise, something sharper stirs—boundaries are tested, roles shift, and for the first time, she stands at the center. Not as a mystery. Not as a fantasy. But as someone who has already claimed her place, without even trying.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next morning hadn't so much begun as it had detonated—no slow shuffle into consciousness, no quiet descent down the stairs for coffee or idle teasing in the kitchen, just the sudden, overwhelming eruption of phones vibrating across every surface of the ZGDX base, buzzing with alerts, pings, flashes, and notifications that cascaded like dominos into chaos before anyone had even managed to finish their first sip of caffeine. It was Rui who noticed it first, his brow furrowing as he tapped open a news app mid-yawn, and then—two seconds later—cursed under his breath.
Because the photo shoot had gone live.
Not just the clean, curated version ZGDX's media team had prepared, but everything—the behind-the-scenes photos, the press-exclusive frames, the fan reposts, the threads already snowballing across every major platform from Weibo to Instagram to Twitter, moving so fast it was less like a release and more like a digital wildfire.
And it wasn't just about the team.
It wasn't about the latest roster update, the sleek shots of Sicheng's lethal focus, the sharp symmetry of the team in uniform, or even the rare smile they'd managed to catch on Yue's face.
It was about her.
Tong Yao.
Not a player.
Not a streamer.
Not a brand ambassador or a scripted PR figure.
But ZGDX's newly introduced, quietly dazzling, and unexpectedly captivating Data Analyst—the girl who had mostly existed in the background until now, who had moved through their halls like a soft presence, not unnoticed but never intentionally visible, now thrust into the eye of a digital storm she hadn't asked for and wasn't prepared to meet head-on.
She was the girl in the jacket—the red, black, and white ZGDX colors draped over her slight frame, her silver-platinum hair cascading in soft, effortless waves as she sat behind a laptop mid-calculation or glanced sideways at something off-camera, caught in that perfect second of stillness that had somehow captured everything about her—curiosity, calm, and an unshakable depth that made people want to know more.
The comments hit the internet like thunder.
"Who is she?"
"Since when does ZGDX have a girl on staff?"
"She looks like she belongs in a fantasy novel."
"She doesn't look like an analyst. She looks like a painting."
"Why haven't we seen her before?"
"She's beautiful—I want to protect her."
"Can we talk about how ethereal she looks in that hoodie?"
Some called her a fairy, others a doll, and more than a few threads were filled with unsolicited fantasies and speculations, shifting rapidly from admiration to something possessive, invasive, and unsettling.
"She's probably just eye candy."
"Bet she doesn't even know what a stat report is."
"Sexy without trying. I'd love to see her out of that jacket."
And inside the ZGDX base, the reactions were swift.
Ming, who had been calmly scrolling one second, clenched his jaw the next, his thumb pausing mid-scroll before he stood up and quietly excused himself to the other room—his expression unreadable but his pace sharp with intent.
Pang slammed his mug down and let out a groan that turned into a low mutter about online idiots needing to learn the difference between admiration and objectification before he accidentally choked someone in public.
Lao Mao cursed under his breath and muttered that if they'd let him wear the stern face and combat boots for once, maybe people wouldn't be looking at her like that.
Lao K didn't speak—he never really did when he was angry—but the way he stared at the threads on his phone with a death glare hot enough to set the screen on fire said more than words ever could.
Rui, ever the calm, corporate shield between the team and the world, was already pacing with his phone pressed to his ear, calling PR, making statements, flagging posts, controlling the damage—because he had known this might happen, but not like this. Not this fast. Not this sharp. Not this overwhelming.
And Lu Sicheng?
He didn't pace. He didn't speak. He didn't blink. He stood silently in the kitchen, coffee forgotten on the counter behind him, his phone still clutched in one hand as he scrolled through the whirlwind of attention now zeroed in on the one person who had never asked for the spotlight but had somehow walked straight into it without warning. His jaw was tight. His posture unreadable. But his silence said everything. Because they weren't just looking at her. They were trying to label her.
To own her.
To define her without ever knowing who she was, without seeing her poring over heatmaps at 3AM or running simulations with data models no one else could understand, without knowing that it was her who'd quietly rerouted their counter-strategy before the LAN rematch and had mapped out four out of their last five victories with surgical precision.
They didn't know her.
But he did.
And she wasn't their fantasy.
She was his reality.
His responsibility.
His girl.
And when she came downstairs—barefoot, sleepy-eyed, wearing that oversized team hoodie with her name stitched over the wrist like it belonged there, like she had always belonged there—and offered a soft, blink-heavy smile to Pang before disappearing into the kitchen for tea, he watched the way every pair of eyes in the room turned to follow her. Watched the stillness that settled as they all quietly clocked the shift. Because the internet had seen her now. The world had seen her now.
And as Yao sat on the edge of the kitchen bench, tucking her legs under her and resting her head against the wall like she hadn't just gone viral overnight, like she wasn't currently trending across three major hashtags, like she hadn't just become the face of ZGDX without even trying—
Sicheng made a decision. Tonight, when the base went quiet, when the last light dimmed and the team faded into their own routines, when it was just her and him and the silence that only they could share—he was going to talk to her. Because she needed to know what she meant to this team.
To him.
And now that the world had seen her—he wasn't going to let her face it alone. Not when she belonged to them. Not when she had already, fully, absolutely, belonged to him.
Yao sat at the far end of the couch in the common room, her long legs folded beneath her, the soft sleeves of her team-issued sweater pulled down almost past her fingertips as she scrolled slowly through her phone, biting her bottom lip in that unconscious, distracted way she always did when she was focused on something a little too intently.
Around her, the others were still talking, still complaining about the photo release, still venting their frustrations in different volumes and tones—but she was quieter than usual, her silence edged not with discomfort, but with a growing flush that had already crept across her cheeks, staining her skin the soft pink of startled embarrassment. Her thumb hovered over a paused screen, her eyes wide as she blinked in disbelief at the comment nestled between countless others. And then, almost too softly to catch, she squeaked. It was the kind of sound that turned heads immediately. Not because it was loud but because it came from her .
Sicheng, who had been seated across the room, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed, his jaw tight and his brows furrowed as he flipped through his own phone's notifications, immediately looked up.
His gaze locked on her. And she was frozen. Eyes wide. Cheeks burning. Fingers gripping her phone a little too tightly. He was up and crossing the room before she could even react, his voice low and firm.
"Yao."
She looked up, startled, her lips parting as if she wasn't sure whether to hide the phone or throw it across the room.
He didn't wait. His hand reached down, deft and precise, plucking the phone from her grasp with a smoothness that didn't ask for permission—because he didn't need it, not when she looked that shaken. His eyes flicked to the screen.
Paused.
Read.
And froze.
The comment was short. The image attached to it wasn't explicit, but it was enough. A suggestive edit of Yao's face placed over a delicate, overly stylized Lolita cosplay frame, complete with ruffled skirts, stockings, and a caption that read: "Tell me she wouldn't be perfect in this."
Sicheng's entire expression turned cold. His thumb hovered over the screen, his jaw clenched, and that sharp, slicing heat that burned beneath the surface of his otherwise unreadable demeanor began to rise in full, unrelenting force. Because this wasn't admiration. This was objectification.
And she—his girl—had no idea what it even meant.
Still flustered, still clutching at the sleeves of her sweater like they might hide her, Yao looked up at him, her voice barely audible. "Why… why would they want to see me dressed in that?"
It wasn't judgment.
It wasn't disdain.
It was genuine confusion.
Innocent.
Honest.
Unaware.
And that's when Sicheng felt it, a wave of cold, hard fury colliding with the memory that had haunted him ever since their team medical check-up weeks ago.
The doctor's words echoed like steel behind his eyes:
"You need to be mindful, protective, and watchful over her. Because she might not pick up on some social cues the way you do. If someone cracks a dirty joke, or makes a very suggestive pass at her, she may or may not get it."
And this—this was exactly what he'd been warned about.
Not because she was fragile. Not because she couldn't stand on her own. But because she trusted too easily. Believed the best. Didn't always see the malice laced behind a smile or the exploitation hidden behind a compliment. She didn't understand that some people didn't see her as a brilliant analyst or a sharp-minded strategist or even as a member of their team.
They saw her as a fantasy.
A doll to be dressed up.
A thing.
And she didn't know enough yet to recognize it.
Sicheng handed her phone off to Rui without a word, his expression cold and unreadable as he murmured a clipped, "Handle it."
Rui, who had already seen enough in the last hour to know exactly what that meant—nodded and disappeared into the hallway with the phone and a growing list of names that were about to be blacklisted.
Sicheng, still standing in front of Yao, reached down and gently cupped the back of her head, his fingers weaving into her hair, guiding her forward until her forehead rested lightly against his stomach. His other hand rested on her shoulder, steady and warm. And his voice, low, firm, gentle in a way only she ever got to hear, broke through the silence. "Don't look at any more of that."
She nodded against him. Didn't ask why. Didn't argue. Just accepted the safety of his presence, the absolute certainty in his tone. Because somewhere deep down, even if she didn't understand the full extent of it yet, she knew he would always keep her safe. Even from the things she didn't see coming. Especially from those.
The quiet that had settled over the base was one born not of peace, but of recovery—a stretch of stillness that felt earned after the chaos of the morning, after Madam Lu's reign of disciplined fury, after Yue's dramatic collapse across the nearest couch like he'd survived a full-blown war. Some of the team had returned to their scrims, others had buried themselves in notes or retreated to their rooms under the excuse of mental resets, and through it all, Lu Sicheng had remained quietly posted in the front living room, watching with unreadable calm as the girl still curled on the far end of the couch remained tucked in the oversized sleeves of his jacket, her slender fingers occasionally twitching when her phone vibrated, though she never once looked at the screen. She simply flipped it face-down and let it buzz once, twice, then go still again, each time her shoulders tensing a little less, as if even that small refusal was its own kind of shield.
Sicheng hadn't said anything—not since he'd pulled her into him earlier and let her cry against his chest in the quiet aftermath of his confession. He hadn't pushed, hadn't hovered, hadn't tried to fix it. He had simply remained nearby, present in the silent way he always was when it mattered most. But that didn't mean he wasn't aware. He saw everything. He always did. The way her smile didn't quite reach her eyes yet. The way she laughed a little too quickly at Pang's attempts to lighten the mood. The way she never once came to sit by his side like she usually would, choosing instead to stay curled where she was with Da Bing stretched out like a feline wall between her and the rest of the world. She was recovering. Carefully. Quietly. But he could feel it. The distance. The hesitation. The ache she was still holding in her chest that he hadn't quite managed to erase.
So when his phone buzzed against the coffee table and he glanced down to see Liang Sheng's name flash across the screen, he didn't expect much—maybe a match query, maybe an update about the new Jungler YQCB was trialing—but what he saw when he opened the first message made his brow twitch, and by the third, he was already closing the app and standing up with the weariness of a man about to dive headfirst into a situation he knew would end in chaos.
Hierophant was missing.
Again.
And of course, it was the mall. Of course, it was the arcade. Of course, there had been a claw machine involved.
Lu Sicheng didn't sigh—he exhaled the sound of a man who had known this moment was inevitable. He grabbed his keys, slid his phone into his pocket, already mentally preparing for whatever ridiculous situation his best friend had managed to stumble into this time, and turned to head for the door—only to pause. Because his eyes had fallen on her again. Still curled up. Still small. Still quiet. And something in him pulled tight, a thread of impulse he didn't stop to question. He didn't want to leave her behind. Not for this. Not when it would've been so easy to let her rest, to leave her in the safe stillness of the base—but something in him needed her with him. Needed her to be part of this.
Not just because he didn't trust Hierophant to behave.
But because this wasn't just any friend.
This was the friend.
The one who had been there since the beginning. The one who had seen Lu Sicheng at his worst and still stayed. The one who, if anyone in the world had the right to see what Yao meant to him, it was him. And he didn't want to explain her to Hierophant. He wanted to show her.
So instead of calling out her name or issuing some direct command like he usually might have, Sicheng walked over, stepped quietly into her space, and lightly tapped the crown of her head with two fingers—soft, barely a thud, but enough to make her blink and peek up at him from beneath the shadows of her sleeves, her expression tired but focused, alert in the way she always was when he touched her. He didn't crouch. Didn't kneel. He just looked down at her and smirked, small but meaningful, the corners of his mouth tilting with that familiar blend of certainty and something quieter. "Get your shoes," he said simply.
Yao blinked again, her lips parting just slightly. "What?"
He was already turning, already reaching for the front door, his voice over his shoulder the same unhurried command it always was. "We're going to the mall."
She sat up, brows furrowed. "The mall? Why?"
"One of my best friends got himself lost." His tone was flat, resigned. "Again. He's probably harassing a claw machine."
Her expression didn't shift immediately—still confused, still unsure if this was something she was supposed to laugh at or take seriously. "…You want me to come?"
He turned back, just enough for his eyes to meet hers again.
And this time, when he answered, his voice dropped into something a little softer, a little steadier, but no less certain. "Yeah. I do."
And though she didn't fully understand why, though she wasn't entirely sure what this meant, though she still felt raw and uncertain and hesitant beneath the surface—she felt the weight of that invitation settle in her chest. Felt what it meant. And she didn't ask again. She simply stood.
Da Bing flicked his tail in irritation as she moved, but made no attempt to stop her, his blue eyes narrowing as if to say You better bring snacks back.
Sicheng waited at the door, his stance casual, one hand resting in his pocket, the other holding his keys, but beneath that calm exterior there was something else simmering—something warm and constant and proud. He didn't smile. Not exactly. But when she stepped into her shoes, tugged her hoodie tighter around her shoulders, and walked toward him without hesitation, he felt it settle into place. He reached for the door, held it open for her, and as she stepped past him into the fading afternoon light, Lu Sicheng followed with a thought that carried more weight than he was ready to say aloud just yet.
Time to meet the other hurricane in his life.
Yao didn't speak as she moved, her body still holding the faint stiffness of someone who had spent the morning in an emotional haze—but her steps weren't hesitant, just thoughtful, like her mind was still catching up to everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. She made her way quietly to the entryway where her shoes were neatly placed beneath the bench, the ones she usually wore on outings with the team, nothing flashy or loud, just practical and comfortable—a soft reflection of the girl herself. But it wasn't the shoes that caught Sicheng's attention as he waited by the door, keys already in hand, his gaze half-focused on his phone.
It was what she wore when she came back. Gone was the ZGDX-issued jacket she'd been wearing earlier. In its place—his sweater. The same one he'd given her weeks ago when she had first moved into the base, oversized and worn-in from years of use, with the collar stretched just enough from being tugged over his head too many times and the faintest fray near the left cuff she always unconsciously tugged at when she was nervous.
It swallowed her completely.
Fell to mid-thigh.
Draped loosely off one shoulder.
And it looked so undeniably hers that the sight of it made something inside him shift—slow and deep and dangerously possessive. She didn't look at him as she reached for her bag, but she didn't need to. Because when she turned toward him, her cheeks slightly flushed and her gaze fixed somewhere near the floor, he caught the soft movement of her fingers toying with the edge of the sweater sleeve. And it wasn't random. She'd chosen to wear his sweater. Not for warmth. Not because it was closest. But because it was his. And that knowledge settled into him like a warm pulse low in his spine, quiet and dangerous and completely satisfying in a way that had nothing to do with pride and everything to do with the fact that she had picked him. Without a word, he opened the door wider, stepping aside to let her pass first.
She glanced up briefly—hazel eyes flicking to him, just once—before she stepped out into the sunlight with the softest, almost invisible smile pulling at the corners of her lips. And he followed, his keys jangling lightly in his hand as he pulled the door shut behind them, sliding his wallet into his pocket and already navigating their path to the car.
No words were exchanged as they walked. But it didn't matter. Because she was wearing his sweater. And he was taking her to meet the closest thing he'd ever had to a brother, besides his own pain in the ass little brother. And somehow—that felt like the beginning of something he hadn't even realized he'd been waiting for.
The mall was a hum of motion and voices, filled with the constant rise and fall of footsteps, conversations, and the soft drone of music filtering in from overhead speakers—but the moment they stepped inside, Lu Sicheng noticed the change in her.
Yao didn't say anything. She didn't have to. It was in the way her shoulders tucked in tighter toward herself, how her gaze dropped just slightly, how her fingers—previously calm at her sides—twitched to grip the hem of the sweater she wore.
His sweater.
But even that comfort wasn't enough to shield her from the sudden awareness that followed them into the space.
Because the moment they passed the main corridor and into the stream of shoppers, it started—people turning, whispering, double-taking.
Not just at him.
Though his height and presence made him instantly recognizable to anyone with even passing knowledge of professional e-sports. No, this time, it was her too. He saw the exact moment it clicked.
A group of young women by the food court pointing, one with her phone out, whispering sharply while another's face bloomed with surprise. A man near the escalator elbowed his friend, muttering something while scrolling through a social media feed where her image had undoubtedly been trending all morning.
And Yao—his shy, quietly brilliant girl—did exactly what he knew she would do.
She stepped closer.
Not by much.
But enough.
Enough for her arm to brush his. Enough for her shoulder to barely graze his chest as she tilted her head slightly toward him, trying her best to look at anything other than the people beginning to glance their way.
She said nothing.
Didn't ask to leave.
Didn't complain.
Just stood a little straighter, a little closer, like she knew he would be the anchor she needed to navigate the storm around her.
And he was.
Without hesitation, he lifted a hand, resting it lightly at the small of her back, and steered her through the crowd with precision only he could manage—his body a shield between her and every curious, speculative glance. It wasn't far to the arcade. He knew exactly where it was—had known the moment Liang Sheng had messaged him. Because there was only one place his idiot of a best friend would have wandered to.
And sure enough—he spotted him immediately.
Tall, lean, casually handsome in that unbothered way only Hierophant could be, his dyed ash-brown hair falling just over his brow as he leaned against the glass of a claw machine, his expression one of deep concentration as he tried to rescue a violently pink plush rabbit from a pile of pastel chaos.
Sicheng's jaw tightened, and he exhaled through his nose—equal parts exasperation and relief.
Of course.
He crossed the arcade without pause, guiding Yao along until they reached the line of machines—and only then did he let his hand fall away. He didn't call out. Just narrowed his eyes and said something sharp and direct in Korean.
"You're a grown man, Kun Hyeok. Not a feral child. Why does your team keep losing you?"
Lee Kun Hyeok turned with that easy grin of his, bright and infuriatingly unrepentant. "Hyung," he replied in smooth Korean, spreading his arms slightly, "they said I couldn't take a break, so I took a break. I didn't go far."
"You went missing."
"Semantics."
Sicheng let out a soft curse under his breath, running a hand over his face before sighing. He stepped aside just slightly, nodding toward the girl at his side—and his voice shifted, softened, that rare warmth threading into it as he spoke. "This is Tong Yao."
Yao, still partially behind him, peeked up—wide-eyed and unsure, her lashes low, her fingers nervously brushing against the fabric of her sweater. And then—she stunned them both. Her voice came soft but clear, gentle but precise, and wrapped in perfect, polished Korean.
"Annyeonghaseyo, Lee Kun Hyeok-ssi. Bangapseumnida."
("Hello, Mr. Lee Kun Hyeok. It's a pleasure to meet you.")
Sicheng's head turned so fast he barely registered the motion. His eyes snapped to her, surprise flashing hard across his usually unreadable face. She blinked up at him, confused at his reaction, and then looked back to Lee Kun Hyeok, who grinned wide, clearly delighted.
"Your Korean is very good," he said, his voice equally impressed and amused. "Very polite, too. Is that just for me, or do you speak it often?"
Yao, flustered now, ducked her head slightly and muttered, "I… I don't use it much. I just… I studied a lot during my first year at university. I thought it would be useful."
Sicheng, still watching her with something unreadable in his eyes, felt a slow heat spread through his chest. Not the kind born from irritation. But something else. Something deeper. Because she hadn't told him. Hadn't said a word about knowing another language—and she'd learned it not for show, not to impress, but because she'd thought it might be useful. And now, she was using it to greet his best friend. Not because she wanted praise.But because she wanted to meet him on his terms. And in that moment, watching her blush, watching her fidget, watching her shyly hold her ground while Kun Hyeok smiled at her like she was made of sunlight—
Lu Sicheng fell just a little harder and he knew without a doubt, he would remember this moment forever.
The moment hung there, suspended between the three of them like a drawn breath.
Lee Kun Hyeok, the notoriously relaxed and charming ADC with a habit of flustering entire press rooms in two syllables, was grinning down at Yao like she had just single-handedly restored his faith in humanity. His head tilted slightly, the kind of smile that was too easy, too fond for someone who had only just met her—and Sicheng saw it. Saw it and felt it. That subtle shift in his best friend's demeanor. That telltale glint in his eye. The way his entire stance eased into something far too casual, far too pleased. And that was all it took.
Before Kun Hyeok could open his mouth to offer another compliment, or ask Yao another question in that low, velvety Korean of his, Sicheng stepped forward—smooth, effortless, but unmistakably final. One arm curled around Yao's waist, firm but gentle, drawing her back flush against his side as if it was the most natural thing in the world, because by now, it was. His voice, when he spoke, was low and even. But there was no room for interpretation.
"She's mine."
The words weren't boastful.
They weren't loud.
But they were absolute.
And Kun Hyeok blinked—once, twice—before his lips curled up into a smirk that was both entertained and mildly scandalized. He leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest, and let out a soft snort, shaking his head with a grin. "You?" he echoed in Korean, brows raised in mock disbelief. "A cold, stingy, sharp-tongued bastard like you ended up with this?" He gestured to Yao, who was now very much flustered, very much pink, and trying not to bury her face in Sicheng's sleeve out of sheer embarrassment. "This sweet little ball of sunshine? This gentle, soft-spoken girl with manners, charm, and actual human emotion?"
Sicheng's eyes narrowed, but there was no real anger in it. Just possessiveness. A silent yes, without the need to say it again.
And Kun Hyeok—ever the devil-may-care second half to Sicheng's control—grinned wider. "God, you've got to be the luckiest man in China and Kirea." Then he glanced back at Yao and added in Korean, softer this time, "Be careful with him. He'll try to convince you he has no heart. But he's just scared someone will actually see it."
Yao blinked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted, still glowing from the subtle contact and the weight of the declaration that had come without hesitation. And Sicheng, who would never usually allow anyone to speak to him like that—didn't say a word. Because Yao was his. And for the first time, he wasn't interested in hiding that from anyone. Not even his best friend.
The soft laughter that spilled from Yao's lips caught both men off guard, not because it was loud or abrupt, but because of how completely unexpected it was. It started as a quiet breath, barely audible, her shoulders twitching slightly as if she were trying not to react, not to laugh in the middle of what had become a territorial standoff between two of the most intense ADCs in the league. But then it slipped out a genuine, breathy giggle muffled by her hand as she raised it to her mouth, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, sparkling gold and green in the soft arcade lighting.
Not from amusement at someone's expense. Not from awkwardness. But from something sincerely warm, something that glowed from her chest and softened the tension that had momentarily filled the air.
Sicheng, still standing beside her with his arm comfortably curled at her waist, blinked down at her, his jaw tightening as if he wasn't quite sure whether he should be concerned that she found anything Kun Hyeok said funny.
And Kun Hyeok, for his part, straightened a bit, clearly pleased with the reaction, the curve of his mouth settling into something less teasing and more genuinely amused.
Yao tried to compose herself, her fingers still curled at her mouth as she tilted her head ever so slightly, those expressive eyes flicking between the two men—one sharp and brooding, the other a touch too relaxed and her gaze glittered with something closer to mischief than they were used to seeing from her. "I can see it now," she murmured between soft giggles, her voice touched with playful affection, "why he's your best friend."
She didn't mean it in jest.
Not really.
There was no sarcasm, no biting edge.
Just quiet acknowledgment, the kind that came from truly seeing someone, and understanding something unspoken that even they hadn't intended to reveal. She could see it in the way they talked, the shorthand in their language, the banter layered with years of trust, the ease with which they understood each other's silences.
And Sicheng, who had spent most of his life never really needing to explain himself to anyone, felt something flicker deep in his chest. Because she had seen it. Because she understood. Not just what they were. But what it meant.
And Kun Hyeok, grinning wider now, tilting his head with that same devilish glint in his eye, let out a pleased hum and threw a glance at Sicheng. "I like her."
Sicheng didn't flinch. Didn't smirk. Didn't blink. His arm just tightened a little around Yao's waist as he murmured, "I know."
And in that moment, between the lingering laughter in her chest, the warmth that curved around the corners of her smile, and the sharp, protective presence at her side, Yao realized she had been folded into something she hadn't expected. Not just his world. But his circle and it didn't feel overwhelming. It felt like belonging.
Because it was so her .
So devastatingly, beautifully her.
She hadn't asked for attention. Hadn't tried to insert herself. Hadn't performed. She had simply stood beside him, quiet and deliberate, absorbing the weight of every glance, every word, every shift in atmosphere—and then, without prompt, without push, she had stepped forward and offered something. Not for credit. Not for admiration. But because it was what she does . She adapts. She prepares. She meets people where they are. Even when her hands are trembling. Even when the eyes on her are too many. Even when it costs her a breath just to speak. And standing there in the blinking glow of claw machines, surrounded by the chaotic energy of children and teens, the synthetic hum of music overhead, and the low thrum of game sound effects—it hit Sicheng with the sharp, sudden clarity of truth that refused to be pushed aside.
She was already part of his world. More than anyone had ever been. More than he had expected. And without even meaning to, without realizing she'd done it, she had walked right past every wall he'd spent years building—and stayed .
Lee Kun Hyeok, who had been watching his hyung for long enough to know when something was changing beneath the surface, arched a brow slightly, though the easy grin never left his face. "She's the one, isn't she?" he asked, switching to Korean, his voice teasing but not unkind, not mocking—just curious.
Sicheng didn't answer. Didn't confirm it. Didn't deny it. He just looked at her—still slightly flushed, still nervously brushing her sleeve with her fingers, still blinking up at the claw machine like she was cataloging each individual plushie by brand, size, and placement—and exhaled slowly, the edge of his smirk softening into something far more dangerous.
Final.
Possessive.
Permanent .
And Kun Hyeok—smart enough to read everything in the silence—chuckled, his voice light as he reached forward and casually slung an arm around Yao's shoulders, friendly and entirely too familiar as he pointed at the claw machine and said, "Then she should get the first prize, don't you think?"
Yao blinked.
"Me?"
"You picked my language. I pick your prize. Fair trade."
She opened her mouth to protest but Sicheng was already moving. Sliding a token into the machine like he'd done it a thousand times, the movement precise, focused, predatory and when he turned to look at her, there was something dark in his eyes, something amused and knowing and so thoroughly him it made her heart skip. "What do you want?" he asked, voice low, pitched only for her.
Yao stared at him. Then, quietly, she pointed at a small white plush in the back row—soft, foxlike, with big round eyes and a slightly crooked ear.
And Sicheng, professional gamer, infamously unbothered, terrifyingly accurate Lu Sicheng, leaned in without looking away from her, hit the buttons once …
And won it.
First try.
He pulled it from the chute, held it out to her without fanfare, no smug smile, no comment, just a plush pressed gently into her hands as if that had been the only goal all along.
Yao clutched it like it was breakable, stared at him with eyes wide, and managed only a breathless whisper of his name.
And Kun Hyeok, watching them both, exhaled through a grin and muttered to himself in Korean. "Oh yeah. He's gone ."
The sun was beginning its slow descent as they made their way back through the mall's upper-level walkway, the glass ceiling filtering golden light that spilled across polished tile floors and shoppers who were beginning to thin with the late afternoon lull.
Yao walked beside him, her steps a little quicker than usual, not because she was in a rush, but because she was still flustered. Still pink. Still very much trying to process what had just happened in the arcade—because while Sicheng might have looked cool and unaffected on the outside, she knew better.
Especially after what he'd done.
Winning that black bunny plush.
He had done it without saying a word—stepping once more up to the claw machine after Kun Hyeok wandered off again to battle a DDR machine like his life depended on it, sliding in tokens, and moving with the focused intent of someone who had already decided he wasn't walking away from that glass case empty-handed.
She hadn't even realized what he was going for until the claws dipped once and, he'd caught it, snared the little soft black bunny with its floppy ears and red ribbon bow to go with her white plushie and turned toward her with a smugness that needed no words to underline it. And then, just as casually as breathing, he had handed it to her.
"For my Xiǎo Tùzǐ," he'd said.
Simple. Soft. Completely matter-of-fact.
And it had destroyed her composure.
Now, as they neared the car, the bunny clutched to her chest like it might shield her from further emotional damage, Yao huffed softly—a little breath of air through her nose, her eyes darting sideways toward him, half-glare, half-bewildered affection. Her voice came out quiet, but with a clear trace of long-suffering embarrassment. "You really have to keep calling me that?"
Sicheng—walking beside her, hands in his pockets, gaze forward—didn't bother to look surprised. He just turned his head slightly, side-eyeing her with the barest hint of a smirk. "It suits you."
Yao ducked her head, muttering something unintelligible under her breath as she squeezed the plush a little tighter, her cheeks blooming pink again. "It's embarrassing."
"It's accurate," he replied easily, his tone smooth, laced with just enough warmth to soften the teasing. "Small, quiet, soft. And have you seen yourself when you're upset? You glare like a bunny about to bite someone's hand off."
She made a sound between a squeak and a groan, turning her face away from him as her fingers tugged at the bunny's ears like she could redirect all her flustered energy into the fabric. But she didn't deny it. Didn't correct him. Didn't give the plush back. And when they reached the car and she slipped into the passenger seat, still holding the bunny against her chest like some kind of silent rebellion, he looked over at her once more—and there it was.
That flicker of amusement in his eyes. But deeper than that—affection. Claim. Because it wasn't just a nickname. It was his name for her and even if she huffed and glared and blushed about it, she was still holding the damn bunny and white plushie. Which, to him, said more than words ever could. And that was all he needed.
Because Tong Yao, for all her muttering and sidelong glances, for all her flustered expressions and soft-spoken protests, was still sitting beside him in the front seat of his car, curled slightly toward the window like she was trying not to think about the way her heart was still doing laps through her chest—and she was still cradling the plush like it meant something. Like she didn't want to let it go. Like she didn't want to let him go.
Sicheng slid the key into the ignition, the quiet hum of the engine filling the space between them as the A/C kicked in against the warmth of the afternoon sun, but even then, he didn't pull away immediately. His fingers stayed on the gear shift, unmoving, as he turned his head just enough to look at her—really look at her.
Yao felt it, of course. The shift in the air. The way his attention sharpened. Her gaze flickered toward him cautiously, the corners of her lips twitching as if caught between a smile and a protest she hadn't decided whether to voice. "You're thinking something smug," she murmured, clutching the bunny a little tighter, as if she could use it as both a shield and a distraction.
"I'm always thinking something smug," he replied smoothly, not even bothering to deny it—but his voice was lower now, quieter, touched with that velvety edge that only surfaced when she had his full attention.
Yao peeked up at him, her brow furrowed slightly in question.
And then—softly, deliberately—he leaned in just enough that the words didn't have to be loud. "I like seeing you flustered."
Yao's entire face went up in flames. "You—!" she sputtered, her hand rising instinctively to swat him, but Sicheng caught her wrist midair with the kind of practiced ease that made her scowl harder.
And all he did was smirk—slow and lazy and unrepentantly fond—as he lifted her captured hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, brief and light and so casual it made her heart skip. Then, just as easily, he let go. "You're cute when you're mad."
Yao groaned, slumping in her seat like the plush bunny might actually help her sink through the car floor and escape the sheer level of emotional destruction she'd just endured.
But Sicheng didn't press further. He just glanced at the road, shifted into drive, and pulled away from the curb—one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting on the console between them, palm up, fingers slightly open.
And after a long beat, after several more seconds of internal mortification, Yao's fingers slipped into his—soft, uncertain, warm.
She didn't look at him.
Didn't say a word.
But she held on.
And that?
That was more than enough.