Summary: It starts with a whisper of concern, too subtle for most to notice—but not for her. What follows is a chain of quiet decisions, heavy with intention, each one revealing more than words ever could. Between fevers, hospital chairs, and one very stolen car, care becomes something tangible. And by the time the night ends, what they're all left holding isn't just relief—it's the undeniable truth of who shows up when it matters most.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It started with the little signs—the subtle kind no one else noticed. Yue skipping breakfast, brushing off questions with jokes that landed slower than usual, or blinking just a little too long when they were reviewing clips together. Yao hadn't been looking for anything in particular. But she knew the patterns. Of gameplay. Of data. Of people. Especially her people.
And Yue's pattern was off.
It was the muffled coughs he tried to hide behind his sleeve. The flushed cheeks he passed off as leftover heat from training. The soft rasp curling into the end of his sentences when he laughed. He was getting sick. And he was pretending he wasn't.
By the second day, Yao had confirmed it. She watched him shrug off a second hoodie even as he visibly shivered, watched him lean too long against the scrim chair after rounds, and worst of all, saw the way he tried to wait until everyone was gone to quietly head upstairs early, something he never did without protest. That night, after the rest of the team had settled into their usual rhythm and the buzz of post-practice had faded into the familiar quiet of the base, she made her way to the one person who would understand.
Sicheng's office door was cracked open, low light spilling through. She hesitated once before gently pushing it open. He didn't look up at first, still typing with that precise focus that came with his late-night work blocks—but the moment she stepped inside, his attention shifted, eyes flicking up, finding her immediately. "You okay?" he asked, voice quieter, already noting the tension in her shoulders.
She shifted once in place, not quite meeting his eyes. "Um… can I talk to you about something?"
He pushed his chair back a fraction, closing the lid of his laptop with a soft click . "Always."
Yao swallowed, gathering the words like she was threading them one by one. "It's Yue," she said quietly. "I think he's sick."
Sicheng's eyes narrowed slightly, his attention laser-focused now. "What kind of sick?"
She tugged her sleeves tighter. "He's trying to hide it. But… he's coughing a lot. And he didn't eat today. And I saw him wince when he stood up earlier. He's getting worse."
A long pause stretched between them.
Sicheng's jaw flexed slightly, and she knew him well enough to recognize the silent calculation that always preceded his decisions. But she wasn't finished.
She stepped closer, voice still soft but steady now. "I don't think he should go to the kickoff match on Saturday."
He blinked, jaw tightening slightly. "It's official, even if he is the Sub. He should be there."
"I know," she said quickly, "but I'm just part-time Data Analyst. I'm not needed on stage. Coach Kwon can manage without me for one match. I've already logged the draft rotations and the most recent playstyle stats. What they need in person… is someone healthy."
A long silence followed.
Yao looked down, voice dipping further. "If he travels like this… with the noise, the lights, the schedule… it'll get worse. He won't rest. He won't let himself rest." She looked back up at him, shy but determined. "But if I stay… he might. If I'm here, I can make sure he eats. I can make sure he sleeps." Her meaning was clear. She wasn't asking for permission. She was asking for trust.
Sicheng stared at her for a long, unreadable moment. Then—quietly, steadily—he nodded. "You'll stay," he said, voice low but final. "But not because you're unnecessary." Her breath caught. "You're staying because Yue's going to fight anyone else who tries to take care of him. But not you. He'll listen to you."
She nodded slowly, the relief soft and blooming across her chest.
Then, with a quiet sigh, Sicheng stepped around the desk, brushing his fingers gently against the edge of her sleeve. "And when this match is over," he added, voice dipping as his thumb traced the inside of her wrist, "I'm bringing you takoyaki. So don't argue." He was making sure she ate still and remembered to eat even if he had to bribe her with her favorite food.
She blinked—flustered now—but didn't protest. Because deep down, she knew. He'd just made his decision too.
It didn't take long to find him.
Sicheng moved through the base with purpose, his footsteps measured, unhurried, but each one laced with the kind of weight that only Yue, out of everyone, recognized as trouble. Not shouting. Not scolding. Just quiet intent—the worst kind. The kind that came when his older brother had already decided something and was now coming to make sure everyone else fell in line. He found him exactly where he suspected—tucked halfway into the beanbag in the rec room, hoodie pulled up, blanket from the couch haphazardly thrown over his legs, a half-empty water bottle discarded beside him, and his Switch tilted against his stomach like he'd fallen asleep mid-round.
Sicheng stopped just inside the doorway and didn't speak at first.
Didn't need to.
Yue cracked one eye open—and groaned. "I'm fine."
"You're not," Sicheng replied flatly, arms crossing as his eyes swept over the flushed cheeks, the faint sheen of sweat across his forehead, the slight rasp in his breath. "You're staying at the base on Saturday."
Yue blinked again, slower this time, pushing himself upright as he swiped a sleeve across his face. "What? No. It's the kickoff match."
"And you're not going."
"It's just a—"
"Lu Yue."
That shut him up. The name wasn't barked, wasn't sharp—it was quiet, but heavy. Laced with authority, and something far more dangerous: concern.
Sicheng stepped closer, gaze cutting through every lazy denial Yue hadn't even said yet. "You're sick. I know it. Yao knows it. And if you try to get on that bus, you'll just drag your dumb ass to the hospital after."
Yue opened his mouth.
"Try arguing with me. Please." Sicheng tilted his head, voice low and steady.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Yue grumbled under his breath, slumping back against the beanbag with a dramatic sigh. "…traitor."
Sicheng arched a brow. "She's not your nurse."
"She's worse. She's gonna make me drink tea and count how many hours I sleep." Yue muttered, tugging the blanket higher, his voice rough with something halfway between resignation and embarrassment.
"Good. If she catches you out of bed, I'll let her use the erasers again." Sicheng replied, already turning toward the door.
Yue groaned.
Sicheng didn't smile. But his shoulders eased slightly as he left, because the brat could complain all he wanted. He was staying and he'd be taken care of.
By the time she had eased Yue into the passenger seat, her whole body was trembling—not just from the sharp, relentless cramps tearing through her abdomen, but from the rush of adrenaline that had carried her through every movement without hesitation. He had been burning up, barely coherent, slumped over and retching so violently it had sent a jolt of fear straight through her chest, eclipsing the pain that had been building inside her all afternoon.
She hadn't stopped to think. She couldn't. Not when he looked like that. Not when he couldn't stand on his own. Not when he needed her. Now, seated in the dim hush of a hospital room, the IV drip casting a soft rhythm of beeping and sighing around them, she was finally starting to feel the weight of it all settle—her body aching, her stomach clenching with every new cramp, the quiet exhaustion threatening to pull her under. Yue was asleep, pale and unmoving save for the rise and fall of his chest, the worst of it finally managed now that the doctors had stabilized his fever and nausea.
She hadn't eaten. Hadn't rested. Had barely remembered to grab a jacket on the way out. But none of that mattered. He was stable. He was safe. And for now, that was enough.
Curling tighter into the chair beside his bed, her arms wrapped protectively around her stomach, she pulled out her phone with fingers that still trembled slightly and opened the thread labeled
ZGDX_Chessman.
No flourish. No lead-in.
Just the truth.
ZGDX_LittleBossBunny: Yue's sick. Really sick. They've admitted him. Flu and stomach virus. Dehydrated. We're in Room 211, East Wing.
She hovered a moment, her thumb pausing over the keyboard. But that was all she wrote. Nothing about how bad she felt herself. Nothing about the pain. Nothing about how cold the hospital chair was or how she hadn't told anyone else yet. And especially nothing about the car.
Not yet.
She knew he'd be on his way soon. She knew they'd be returning from the arena now, the adrenaline of the match still fresh in their blood.
But she also knew, Sicheng would understand. He always did. So she locked her phone, pulled the blanket the nurse had offered tighter around her legs, and let herself exhale a little—just a little—into the soft hum of hospital machines and the quiet steadiness of the boy she'd chosen to stay behind for.
The low hum of the team bus rolled beneath them like white noise, a soft mechanical rhythm underscoring the muted conversations and exhausted silence in the aftermath of the match. The windows reflected the shifting lights of passing buildings, fractured by the movement of streetlamps, neon signs, and the occasional flicker of another car drifting past in the opposite lane.
Sicheng sat near the back, angled in his usual spot, one leg stretched forward, elbow resting against the windowpane, fingers absentmindedly scrolling through messages on his phone as Rui quietly discussed footage with Kwon a few rows up. Lao K and Lao Mao were trading muted commentary over a scrim clip on one of the tablets. Pang was already dozing off, arms crossed over his chest, while Ming chewed halfheartedly on a protein bar that looked more like penance than sustenance.
Then—his screen lit.
A message.
ZGDX_LittleBossBunny.
He tapped it instantly, brows pulling together as his gaze locked on the words.
Yue's sick. Really sick. They've admitted him. Flu and stomach virus. Dehydrated. We're in Room 211, East Wing.
No fluff. No excuses. No emojis. No nervous qualifiers. Just clean, clinical truth. But that alone told him everything. Because she didn't bury things unless she was trying not to fall apart. And if she'd sent that message with no buffering, no softener, then she was holding herself together with pure instinct.
His jaw tightened. His fingers gripped the phone a little harder. She didn't say anything else. Not about herself. And that was what made his stomach clench, because he knew her. She had stayed behind for Yue. She had volunteered for this. And she had messaged him alone.
No group text. No broadcast to Rui or the others.
Just him.
Sicheng didn't move right away. But his silence was loud enough that Ming—half-asleep beside him—lifted a brow in sleepy confusion.
"What's wrong?" Kwon finally asked from two seats ahead, tone low, professional.
Sicheng's voice was even. Calm. But it was the kind of calm that made every man on that bus go still. "Yue's in the hospital. Yao's with him."
Six heads turned.
"What—?!" Pang jolted awake.
"Is he okay?" Lao Mao asked immediately.
"She said flu and stomach virus," Sicheng replied. "Room 211. East Wing."
"She took him? Wait, how did she—?" Rui's voice cut in, halfway between confusion and disbelief.
But Sicheng was already pocketing his phone, already standing, already reaching for his jacket as the bus slowed for a red light. "She didn't tell me everything," he said, voice clipped. "But she didn't have to." Then—he turned to Rui without missing a beat. "Have the driver take me straight there. Don't go back to base first. Drop me off."
No one questioned it. Because the look in his eyes left no room for argument. And as the city lights blurred past outside, the entire bus moved just a little quieter— Because they all knew: Lu Sicheng wasn't heading to the hospital just for his brother. He was going for her.
The automatic doors to the hospital slid open with a low hiss, the scent of antiseptic and the muted hush of night-shift calm seeping into Sicheng's senses as he stepped inside. His steps were brisk but not rushed—purposeful, focused, his mind already locking onto the information Yao had given him in that single message.
Flu. Stomach virus. Dehydration. Room 211.
East Wing.
His phone buzzed again in his pocket just as he reached the corridor junction, and he pulled it free instinctively, thumb swiping the screen—and then, the notification popped up.
A reminder.
Subtle. Silent.
Reminder: Xiǎo Tùzǐ—Cycle Predicted Start: Today.
He stopped walking. For a full second, he just stood there, staring at the glowing screen in his hand as his jaw clenched and a sharp, low curse pressed through his teeth. Because of course. Of course she hadn't mentioned it. Because she never did. Not unless he asked. Not unless it got so bad that she couldn't hide it anymore. And if she was already at the hospital looking after Yue—already curled up in some chair beside him, likely cramping, likely nauseous, likely in pain and too focused on someone else to say a word about herself—then she was suffering.
He rubbed a hand down his face.
Goddammit.
He changed directions without hesitation, heading toward the elevators and jabbing the button with a little more force than necessary, every step sharpened now by that tight coil in his chest, the mixture of guilt and frustration and concern that only she ever triggered in him. Because he knew her. Knew how much she hated being seen as weak, hated being fussed over, hated the thought of anyone thinking she couldn't handle something. But he wasn't anyone. He was hers. And he had every intention of reminding her of that the moment he walked through that hospital room door.
Room 211 was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a single overhead light and the quiet beeping of a monitor tucked near the head of the hospital bed. Yue was sprawled across it, the IV line taped to his hand, his expression pale and slack with sleep—breath shallow but even, the fever clearly being managed now.
Sicheng's gaze swept over his brother once, quick and precise, before shifting to the other side of the room.
And there she was.
Curled up in the hard, uncomfortable hospital chair, her knees drawn tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them like she was trying to keep herself held together by sheer force of will. Platinum hair spilled across her face in waves, her cheek pressed against her sleeve, the edges of his oversized sweater visible beneath the ZGDX jacket she'd thrown over herself earlier that morning. But she was trembling. Just slightly. Subtly. Like the pain was something she was trying to breathe through, quietly, stubbornly, in silence.
Sicheng moved before he even finished the thought, crossing the room in two strides, shrugging off his leather jacket as he went. Without a word, he gently laid it over her, making sure it wrapped around her shoulders fully before crouching down in front of her, his voice quiet and low. "Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
She stirred, lashes fluttering as she blinked herself back into the moment, her hazel eyes soft and unfocused before they met his. And than, she winced. Because she knew. And before he could say anything, she reached into the sleeve of the sweater and shyly, guiltily held out a familiar object.
His car key.
To his Maserati.
Her face was flushed, not just with feverish warmth but with unmistakable guilt, her lips pressed into a tight line as if she were bracing herself for his reaction.
Sicheng blinked once, looked down at the key resting in her small palm, and then slowly, deliberately, lifted his eyes back to hers. She opened her mouth, likely to explain—to apologize—to say that she didn't mean to take it, didn't want to drive it, didn't want to get them in trouble, but… He reached out, closed her fingers gently around the key.
And said nothing.
Because she'd done the right thing. Because she had driven his brother to the hospital. Because she was cramping and exhausted and in pain and still hadn't thought of herself once. So no—he wasn't going to scold her. He wasn't going to ask why. He was just going to take care of her now.
Sicheng pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, letting it linger for just a breath longer than necessary, not just affection, but thanks, quiet and unspoken, the kind of wordless gratitude that said I know what you did, and I know what it cost you. She blinked up at him, still guilty, still small in that chair, still curled in on herself like she didn't know what to do with the pain or the weight of his silence. But she didn't move when he stood. She just let her eyes follow him until the door softly clicked shut behind him.
Once outside, Sicheng exhaled, shoulders rolling slightly to shake off the tension before he walked to the nurses' station. The hallway buzzed faintly with the low hum of distant voices and medical equipment, but he cut through it with quiet certainty as he approached the nearest nurse. "Excuse me," he said, his voice low but polite, the edge of command unmistakable even when he wasn't trying. "Do you have any ginger tea? And something light—maybe congee? Also a hot water bottle, if possible."
The nurse blinked up at him, mid-sentence with a clipboard in hand, but quickly registered the seriousness in his tone. "Of course, sir. Who is it for?"
He paused, just for a second. And then, with that familiar steady weight to his voice, said, "My girlfriend." A flicker of surprise crossed the woman's face, but it faded as he continued. "She brought my younger brother in when he spiked a fever and began throwing up," he added. "She has her period. It's...bad. And she hasn't eaten."
That softened everything.
The nurse nodded with real understanding then. "I'll bring it all as quickly as I can."
Sicheng dipped his chin in thanks, jaw still tight, but his shoulders relaxed slightly as she disappeared down the corridor. Because for now, he couldn't take the pain away—but he could make sure she wasn't bearing it alone.
Once Yao had eaten the warm congee in small, quiet spoonfuls and sipped down the ginger tea, her shoulders visibly relaxed, the sharp lines of pain in her expression softening ever so slightly. Sicheng didn't rush her—not once. He simply sat beside her, his hand resting gently on her back, thumb brushing slow circles through the soft fabric of her sweater while she finished everything the nurse had brought.
Only when the tray was cleared, and the nurse returned with a hot water bottle wrapped in a towel and an extra set of light, folded blankets, did he move—carefully, deliberately. Wordless in that way that meant he didn't need to ask. He slipped one arm behind her knees and the other around her shoulders, lifting her slowly, cradling her against his chest as if she were made of something fragile, something irreplaceable, even though he knew just how quietly strong she really was.
Yao didn't protest. She let herself be moved without a sound, curling against him with only the faintest of exhales as he crossed the small room and gently lowered her onto the padded lounge seat near the window. The blankets were already there, waiting. He settled her down first, then adjusted the hot water bottle against her lower stomach before tucking the blankets carefully around her. But as he started to step back, her fingers caught his. Soft. Barely there. Just a whisper of touch. He looked down and she was already looking up, eyes glassy and half-lidded from exhaustion, but still tracking him. She didn't say anything, just pulled gently, a silent plea rather than a demand.
So he gave in. He sank down onto the lounge beside her, sitting at the edge, one leg drawn up, the other hanging loosely. And then, with slow, sleepy trust, Yao shifted, her head turning, her body curling closer, until her cheek settled against the top of his thigh, her arm wrapping instinctively around it as she buried herself beneath the warmth of his jacket and the extra blankets. And Sicheng stilled. Only for a moment. Only long enough to feel the sharp punch of something he didn't quite have words for settle in his chest. Something deep. Something whole. Something irrevocable.
She had chosen this spot.
Him.
His hand moved before he realized it, fingers drifting into the long strands of her silver hair as she dozed, the soft rhythm of her breathing growing steadier, slower, warm against his leg. Outside the window, the city lights flickered in the distance, but inside that quiet room—with his brother resting in the hospital bed, and the girl who had risked too much curled up beside him like this—it was calm.
Still.
And in that stillness, Lu Sicheng realized something with absolute clarity. She wasn't just his to protect. She was his to come home to.
Sicheng's fingers never stopped their slow movement through Yao's hair, each gentle pass carefully avoiding the tangles as she remained tucked against his leg beneath the weight of his jacket and the layers of blankets the nurse had brought. Her breath, soft and rhythmic now, stirred faintly against the fabric of his jeans, her pain-muted rest so light that he adjusted even the slightest twitch of his body with care to avoid waking her. The tension that had wrapped around her earlier had finally eased, her body no longer trembling, her breathing soft and even against him, and still—he didn't stop. Wouldn't stop. Not while she needed it.
The sound of sheets rustling and a sharp cough broke through the quiet of the hospital room, and his eyes—those sharp, amber eyes that missed nothing—lifted from the girl in his lap and landed squarely on the hospital bed across from him.
Yue was finally stirring.
Bleary-eyed, pale, and still visibly drained from the double assault of a stomach virus and the flu, the younger Lu brother blinked toward the light, groaned softly, and tried—weakly—to sit upright. His voice cracked when it finally came, dry and coated with sarcasm even through the fog of exhaustion. "…And here I thought you were the one who always refused hospitals."
Sicheng arched a brow, his expression flat, unimpressed, his fingers never once stilling in Yao's hair. "I am."
"That's rich. You've got her dragging me in at death's door and holding a medical vigil like it's the finals and I'm about to respawn." Yue gave a rasping snort, collapsing back against the pillow with an exaggerated sigh.
"You were burning up. If she hadn't taken you, we'd be talking about pneumonia." Sicheng said, voice low but firm, eyes narrowing.
"Right, right. I get it," Yue groaned, waving a hand weakly in surrender before muttering under his breath, "I just wasn't expecting you to be the one sitting still in a hospital of all places. You hate needles."
Sicheng didn't deny it. Didn't need to. They both knew he hated everything about checkups, medical forms, antiseptic smells, the cold touch of stethoscopes, the taste of medication he always spat out, the waiting, the vulnerability. Lu Sicheng, in all his towering, commanding presence, would rather walk into a championship match on no sleep and a sprained wrist than sit through a routine examination. But none of that mattered now.
Because Yao had taken care of his brother. Because she had dragged herself out while in pain, pushed past her own discomfort, and driven Yue to the hospital without telling anyone—not even him because she thought it was the right thing to do. And now she was asleep against him, worn down, curled up, small and soft and still trying to be strong even while exhausted. So yeah. He'd endure the hospital. He'd sit through every beep, every cough, every sterile silence if it meant making sure she didn't do it alone again.
Yue, finally catching on, glanced over at the way she was curled into Sicheng's side, the way his brother moved as if any disruption would be too much for her, the way his hand never stopped its slow rhythm against her hair. "…You're still the dramatic one," he muttered weakly.
Sicheng didn't look up but his voice was calm, even, and absolute. "She's worth it."
"I was trying not to ruin kick-off…" Yue groaned again, dragging a hand over his face.
Sicheng tilted his head slightly, his gaze flat.
Yue coughed into his sleeve, then sighed. "You're still an ass," he muttered. "But I guess you're her ass now."
Sicheng smirked faintly. "Glad we're clear."
Yue flopped back onto his pillow with a quiet groan. "Tell her thanks for dragging me here… even if she did steal your car."
Sicheng's jaw ticked.
Yue snorted weakly.
And from his lap, Yao stirred faintly, her hand tightening softly around his leg as if the moment had shifted—just slightly—enough to remind him that no matter how much chaos his brother caused, the girl he loved was already home.
The hospital room remained dim and quiet, the faint beeping of machines soft in the background, the kind of stillness that only came in the hours before dawn. Yao hadn't stirred once, her breath steady as she remained curled against Sicheng's thigh beneath layers of warmth, the weight of exhaustion still holding her under.
Sicheng didn't move either, wouldn't have moved, not unless she needed him to. His hand continued that slow, constant rhythm through her hair, his expression unreadable but calm, the kind of calm that masked just how sharply he was still thinking, still watching, still waiting.
The soft creak of the door was the only signal before a shadow appeared in the entryway, and Ming's familiar silhouette stepped through, his dark hoodie pulled low over his eyes and his keys still dangling from one finger. He paused just inside, taking in the scene, the girl asleep under layers of blankets, the exhausted younger Lu brother now tucked into bed and halfway dozing again, and Sicheng seated in the lounge chair like a statue that had been placed there hours ago and had never left.
Ming didn't speak right away. He didn't need to. Instead, he crossed the room slowly, his voice a low murmur when it finally came. "I brought my car."
Sicheng's gaze flicked up.
Ming gave a small nod toward Yue's bed. "I'll stay. Let the nurses do final checks, wait for discharge." His eyes softened just a touch, shifting to Yao, then back to his Captain. "You should take her home. She's dead on her feet."
Sicheng looked down at the girl against him, at the way she clung to the edge of his jacket even in sleep, fingers curled loosely in the leather. A brief pause settled between them before he nodded once, slow and certain.
"I owe you."
Ming shrugged, already moving toward the chair near Yue's bedside. "You owe me a lot of things. This one's free."
Sicheng didn't argue. He simply shifted, carefully, like someone handling something too precious to jostle, gathering Yao into his arms with deliberate gentleness as she instinctively curled closer into his chest. She didn't wake. She didn't even stir. He adjusted the blankets over her before stepping toward the door.
And as Ming settled into the chair, kicking one leg up over his knee and pulling his phone from his pocket, he spoke again—dry, quiet, but honest. "Drive safe, Cheng. And tell her thanks… for looking after your idiot brother."
Sicheng didn't say anything. But the faint nod he gave said everything.
The quiet night air wrapped around him like a weighted blanket as Sicheng stepped out of the hospital's front entrance, Yao cradled securely in his arms, her head tucked beneath his chin, one arm looped loosely around his neck even in sleep. She barely stirred as he moved, her body still heavy with exhaustion, the lingering haze of cramps and worry keeping her utterly still against him.
The security guard, a middle-aged man with a soft spot for ZGDX—if not esports as a whole, immediately straightened as soon as he saw Sicheng approach. Without a word, he fell into step beside him, nodding respectfully, not asking questions, simply reaching for the keys in Sicheng's hand after he pressed the unlock button. The familiar double-click and chirp of his Maserati's lights responding was the only sound that broke the silence before the man moved ahead to swing the passenger side door open for him.
"Thanks." Sicheng murmured, his voice low, rough with sleep deprivation and quiet gratitude as he adjusted his grip and bent slightly to ease Yao into the seat. She curled naturally into the plush leather, her fingers still clutching the lapel of his jacket, refusing to let go even as he gently coaxed her hand free to help her settle.
Only when she was fully reclined, her seat-belt secured with the faintest tug of resistance, did he step back and move around the car. He opened the driver's side door, snorted under his breath the second he saw the seat setting, and muttered with mild exasperation, "Of course." With a few short, sharp movements, he hit the adjustment switch, watching as the seat slowly rolled back and lowered itself to accommodate the height difference between him and the tiny, stubborn girl currently passed out in his passenger seat.
"Barely five-foot-three and still manages to hijack my car like she owns it," he muttered, mostly to himself, sliding in and shutting the door with a soft thud. As he pulled out of the hospital lot, his hand instinctively reached across the center console, brushing lightly against her arm, making sure she was still warm, still breathing evenly. She didn't stir. And for the first time in hours, the tension in his chest finally eased.
She was safe.
His little hurricane was safe.
The Maserati's headlights swept across the front of the base as Sicheng eased the car into park, the soft hum of the engine quieting as he shut it off and exhaled, fingers still curled lightly around the steering wheel. A glance to the side told him what he already knew—Yao hadn't stirred once the entire ride home, still curled beneath his leather jacket, her head tilted gently against the window, lips parted in soft sleep. Without hesitation, he stepped out into the cool night air, moving swiftly to her side. The passenger door opened with a low click, and in one practiced motion, he gathered her back into his arms. She shifted faintly, murmuring something incoherent into his collar but didn't wake, simply nuzzled into the warmth of him as if even in sleep, she knew who was holding her.
As he turned toward the base entrance, the front door creaked open. The moment his silhouette appeared beneath the awning, carrying Yao bridal-style in his arms, the conversation inside the base died instantly.
Lao Mao, who'd been leaning over the back of the couch with his phone in hand, froze mid-scroll. Lao K blinked once from the bottom step of the staircase, eyes wide. Coach Kwon, standing just behind Rui, narrowed his eyes as if trying to process the fact that Yao was not only in Cheng's arms—but wearing his jacket. And Pang—bless Pang—broke the silence with all the tact of a man who had clearly seen too much in his three years with the team.
"She actually took Cheng's car," Pang whispered, half in awe, half in dread. "Without asking…"
Another beat.
"…and she's still alive."
There was a collective pause as that settled in, the gravity of it almost too much to process.
"If that's not true love, I don't know what is." Pang shook his head slowly, crossing his arms as he let out a soft whistle.
Sicheng didn't say a word, didn't even glance at them as he moved past, steps even, gaze fixed straight ahead. But the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—the ghost of a smirk—said he'd heard every word. And none of them would ever let Pang forget that he'd called it first.