Summary: Pain brings her to his door. Comfort keeps her there. In the quiet hours between dusk and dawn, truths are spoken without words, protection takes shape in silence, and the people who once stood outside her world begin to understand what it means to be let back in. Some apologies come with words. Others arrive wrapped in warmth, in presence, in a space that was built just for her.
Author's Note: Making Amends is hard but it is the right step to do so.
Chapter Thirty
The base was dim and quiet, the soft overhead lights casting pale shadows against the base's walls as Yao slowly made her way down, one hand gripping the railing tighter than usual. Her movements were slow, careful—measured in the way only pain could force her to be. Her face was pale, almost paper-white beneath the soft glow of the hallway lights, and every step was a deliberate act of endurance. The cramps twisting through her abdomen were sharp now, brutal in a way that stole her breath every few minutes, and while she had endured worse in silence before, something about tonight made her feel smaller. Frailer.
Lonelier.
For most of her life, she'd learned how to be still in her pain, quiet in her discomfort, to tuck herself away somewhere private until it passed, until her body calmed, until she could breathe without wanting to curl into herself. She didn't ask. She didn't expect. She endured.
But tonight—tonight was different.
She reached the bottom step, swaying faintly as she adjusted her footing, one arm wrapping across her lower stomach instinctively. Her oversized hoodie swallowed her frame, and her socks barely made a sound as she shuffled down the hall, making her way toward the one room where the lights were still on.
Sicheng's office.
His door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling out across the floor like an invitation, soft and steady. She paused just outside it, hesitating, the weight of years of learned silence pressing down on her shoulders. She didn't want to be a burden. She didn't want to seem needy.
But—God—she hurt.
She wanted warmth.
Comfort.
Something solid and safe to hold her while her body tried to tear itself apart from the inside out. So, with a hesitant breath, she lifted one hand and knocked gently on the frame, three soft taps that barely broke the quiet.
Inside, Sicheng's head turned immediately, amber eyes snapping up from his screen the moment he heard it. He didn't say anything at first, just watched as she stepped into the room—slow, tentative, her arms folded tightly around herself, her posture small and withdrawn in a way that immediately told him something was wrong.
She lingered near the doorway, eyes cast down, one shoulder leaning slightly against the wall like she wasn't sure she should've come. And then, voice barely louder than a whisper, she murmured, "I… I know you're busy, but…" She swallowed, her fingers curling faintly into the hem of her sweater as her next words trembled out, soft and unsure. "…could I just… sit with you for a bit? Just—just a little while."
Because for once—just this once—Yao didn't want to be alone.
The moment her voice reached him—soft, hesitant, laced with a vulnerability that shattered something deep in his chest—Sicheng moved.
There was no pause, no thought spared for the laptop still glowing on his desk, no acknowledgment of the half-finished spreadsheet behind him. He rose from his chair in one fluid, purposeful motion and crossed the room with quiet intensity, reaching the wall and dimming the lights until the glow softened to something warm, something gentle, something that didn't bite into the edges of her already raw nerves.
And then—he was in front of her.
She didn't flinch. Didn't step back. Just stood there, small and pale in his oversized sweater, her arms curled around herself like she was trying to hold everything in. The moment she tilted her face up to look at him—those wide, glazed-over hazel eyes barely keeping their focus—he bent slightly, arms sliding beneath her with the same certainty he used when catching a game-winning throw. One arm behind her back, the other beneath her knees, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all. She gasped faintly in surprise, but didn't resist. Didn't protest.
Didn't want to.
He held her carefully, close to his chest, one of her arms slipping instinctively around his shoulder as he turned and carried her across the room, each step unhurried but deliberate. The door remained cracked behind them—left open just slightly, not enough for intrusion, but enough to show the others that she wasn't hiding. That she was here, and with him. He reached the couch, sank into it smoothly, adjusting her without letting her go, settling her gently into his lap as his back curved into the cushions. She curled into him without needing direction, her face pressing softly to the hollow of his collarbone, her body folding into the safety of his arms as if she belonged there—and she did.
He tugged the blanket from the side of the couch and wrapped it around her without a word, one hand threading through her hair, the other resting warm and steady along the curve of her spine. His voice never came, not yet—because he knew she didn't need words right now. She just needed to be held and for as long as she needed that, he wasn't letting her go.
Sicheng shifted slightly beneath her, his hand gliding slowly down the curve of her spine until it reached the small of her back. He paused there for a moment, his fingers mapping out the tense lines of her posture, the faint tremble in her muscles telling him more than words ever could. Then—with the kind of precision that came not from guesswork, but from paying attention, from observing her over the last few cycles of this—he pressed gently into the pressure point just above her tailbone, his thumb applying a slow, careful amount of pressure.
Yao let out a soft, shuddering breath, her arms tightening around his torso, her face pressing further into the crook of his neck. Not from pain but relief. The kind that hit deep and low, where the cramping had curled tight and sharp for hours.
He didn't say anything. Just kept his hand there, working slow, practiced circles with his thumb, easing the worst of the tension from her hips and lower back. The silence was warm. Heavy, but in a way that grounded her. Because this—this steady rhythm of his breath, the warmth of his chest against her cheek, the slow pressure of his hand against her spine—this was what comfort felt like. Not sympathy. Not words.
Just him.
Knowing exactly what she needed. And giving it without being asked.
As the first faint light of dawn began to bleed through the edges of the blinds, Sicheng stirred, his lashes parting slowly as the muted gray of morning settled over his office. For a moment, he didn't move—didn't need to—because the warmth against his chest, the soft weight curled so delicately into him, anchored him more than any alarm ever could.
Yao was nestled beneath his chin, her breathing slow and even, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, her fingers still curled lightly against the front of his shirt. Her hair spilled over his chest in soft platinum strands, tickling the edge of his jaw with each slow exhale. He shifted his gaze slightly, careful not to jostle her, and noted that at some point during the night, the lights had been turned off and a blanket had been draped gently over the both of them—likely Rui, or Ming if the Midlaner had already made it back from the hospital with his miserable younger brother in tow.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just lay there, one arm tucked securely around her waist, the other curled beneath her shoulders, holding her in that soft, breath-stealing silence that only existed in the earliest hours of morning. And as he looked down at her, at the girl sleeping so peacefully against him—shoulders no longer tense with pain, lips parted just slightly in sleep.
Sicheng let out a breath so quiet it barely counted. This girl—his girl—had stolen into his life like a whisper and made a place for herself he hadn't realized was waiting to be filled. And now, with her tucked into him like she belonged there, like she had always belonged there, he knew with quiet certainty. He wouldn't let her go for anything.
Pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head, the warmth of her hair brushing gently beneath his lips, Sicheng exhaled slowly—deep and quiet and content—as he let his eyes fall shut once more. The steady rise and fall of her breathing anchored him, dulled the restlessness that always came with early mornings and schedules, muted the ever-spinning gears in his mind. With her in his arms, curled so naturally against him, the world could wait. What he didn't know—what he wouldn't realize until later—was that just outside his office door, still quietly cracked open, Rui stood like a sentry, arms folded, his ever-present clipboard gripped tightly in one hand like a divine symbol of judgment. Kwon stood beside him, leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but his presence spoke volumes. Between the two of them, an unspoken wall had formed.
Pang, Lao Mao, and Lao K had wandered down the stairs just minutes earlier, drawn by the absence of noise and the ever-persistent curiosity that came when their Captain disappeared. Lao Mao had spotted the cracked door first, nudging Pang and pointing.
"He's not in his room," Pang whispered. "Think he crashed in the office?"
Lao K raised a brow, quietly speculative.
They got close enough to hear the even, quiet breathing inside—two people, not one.
But just as Pang reached for his phone, the flat sound of Rui's voice stopped him mid-motion.
"Take one step closer? I'll deduct your bonus for the entire quarter and your pay gets halved for the next two months."
Pang froze.
Lao K cleared his throat and began a slow, respectful backstep.
Lao Mao muttered a soft "Nope." and backed away immediately.
Kwon didn't even look at them when he added coolly, "And your next scrim block will start at 5 a.m. for a week."
That sealed it.
Pang muttered something under his breath about "hostile workplace policies against romantic documentation." and turned around, dragging Lao Mao with him. Lao K shook his head once and followed, silent and unsurprised.
And the office door?
Remained exactly as it was—cracked, undisturbed, and guarded like a state secret. Because if there was one thing the team understood with absolute clarity, it was this. When Rui and Kwon stood united in defense of something. There would be no survivors foolish enough to cross them.
Later that afternoon, the sound of footsteps thudded up the stairs, a mix of boots and sneakers against hardwood as the team filtered back in from the arena. The door cracked open first, and Lao Mao's voice carried through the hall before any of the others were fully inside. "Where's our honorary nurse and our disgraced Substitute Midlaner?" he called, far too cheerful for someone who'd just finished a full match day.
From the lounge, Yao blinked up from her position on the armchair, a blanket still draped over her lap. She had been quietly flipping through her notes, her body still sore but no longer as drained as the night before. Yue was curled at the far end of the couch, arms crossed, pale but not ghost-white anymore, a large water bottle tucked against his chest like it had personally saved his life.
"We're right here," Yue muttered, voice scratchy but recovering.
Pang was the first one into the room, dropping onto the edge of the coffee table like a man with news. "You missed the most satisfying stomp we've ever landed," he said, grinning like he'd just won a medal. "CK didn't know what hit them."
"Oh?" Yue tilted his head, his voice sarcastic but curious. "Was it a stomp or did Lao Mao just finally hit all his ults for once?"
Lao Mao scoffed and walked in next, tossing a throw pillow at Yue's head. "Rude," he said, "but valid." Then he turned, eyes gleaming as he looked at Yao. "But seriously—you should've seen Cheng."
Yao blinked up at him, her posture attentive now.
"He hunted down Jian Yang like he owed him money," Lao Mao declared with gleeful delight. "Every time that man even peeked at the map, Cheng was already on his ass. It was personal."
Lao K stepped in behind him, smirking faintly. "He didn't say a word the entire game. Just tracked him through jungle after jungle, over and over. It was…" he shrugged once, "aggressive."
"Vengeful," Pang added.
"Ruthless." Ming offered from the doorway, voice calm but amused.
Yue whistled low, glancing at his brother. "So he was in a mood."
Yao flushed lightly, gaze lowering toward the blanket in her lap. Her fingers fidgeted once, the faintest trace of something knowing flickering in her expression.
Lao Mao smirked, clearly catching it. "Wonder what got him so worked up, huh, Yao?"
Yao didn't answer. Didn't need to. Because they all knew.
And Yue?
Yue just snorted, grinning at her without sympathy. "He knows how Jian Yang treated you and that asshole was one of the reasons you stopped playing OPL. What did you think would happen?"
Yao muttered something about needing to check on her data reports and promptly buried her face in the nearest pillow.
And the room?
Exploded with laughter.
Yao's head was still half-buried in the pillow, her cheeks warm with the kind of flustered exhaustion that came from both being teased and not feeling her best, when she heard it—the distinct rhythm of footsteps that always seemed quieter than they should be, precise and even, but so unmistakably his that her body instinctively registered it before her mind did.
Sicheng.
She didn't mean to look up. Didn't mean to seek him out. But the moment her eyes lifted from the pillow, catching sight of him stepping through the doorway, everything in her tightened chest eased just slightly. Her hazel gaze met his without her meaning to, soft and glassy with fatigue, a little dazed from the pain, still flushed from the teasing—and it showed.
Every part of it showed.
And the look she gave him—unintentionally heartbreaking, completely unguarded—was the kind of pitiful, quiet expression that could shred through any steel he wore like armor. It wasn't a pout. It wasn't dramatized. It was real. Tired. Overwhelmed. And asking silently for someone— for him —to step in.
And just like that, Lu Sicheng's instincts clicked into place. Because when it came to her, there were no delays. No second-guessing. No weighing what was necessary or what could wait. She was his first priority, always. The teasing stopped mid-joke. Because without a word, without even a glance toward the others, he crossed the room in five strides, leaned down, and slid the pillow away from her face just enough to press a warm kiss to her temple, his large hand cradling the back of her head like it was something delicate and irreplaceable.
And then—his voice.
Low. Even. Unmistakably protective.
"That's enough."
No anger. No growl.
Just finality.
And the silence that followed?
Immediate.
Total.
Because when Lu Sicheng meant something, everyone knew it. And in that moment—when her eyes fluttered closed and she let herself lean just slightly into his touch—there wasn't a single man in that room who didn't understand: The teasing was over. Because their girl had looked at their Captain.
And their Captain had seen.
The silence that had settled in the room after Sicheng's quiet command remained heavy, but not for long. Off to the side, Yue—ever incapable of truly letting a moment pass without inserting something —muttered under his breath, just loud enough to carry.
"Henpecked."
It wasn't malicious. Not really. Just one of his usual smart remarks, more reflex than anything. But the word landed differently.
Because Yao flinched. Not visibly, not dramatically—but it was enough. A slight recoil, the twitch of her fingers against the blanket, the way her shoulders tensed beneath Sicheng's hand. And when she spoke, her voice was barely audible, threaded with something unexpectedly raw. "I… I hate that word."
Everyone paused.
Yue blinked, the smirk slipping off his face as she continued—still quiet, still not looking at anyone.
"I… I hate what it means. What it stands for."
Sicheng's gaze didn't waver from her, his palm still cradling the back of her head, but his jaw tightened, just slightly.
Yao swallowed hard, curling in a little more on herself, her voice low but unwavering now. "It always sounds like a woman caring about someone, standing up for something, asking for help or comfort, makes her a burden. Like affection is a chain. Like… love's a joke." She glanced at Yue than, just once, and not with anger, but with something sadder, something that made every man in the room go still. "I'm not trying to control him," she said softly. "I'm just… trying to matter."
Yue's eyes widened slightly, his posture straightening, guilt flickering across his face.
And Sicheng?
He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. Because the way his arm slid fully around her, the way he pulled her in—slow and firm and unapologetically his —said everything. She did matter. And anyone who dared to suggest otherwise wouldn't just answer to her. They'd answer to him.
Sicheng's arm tightened around Yao just slightly, the motion so subtle, so smooth, it barely registered—except to her. Except to them all. Then his voice cut through the silence.
Low.
Cold.
Final.
"That word is banned."
No one moved.
No one spoke.
His gaze lifted from Yao and swept across the room, landing squarely on Yue first, then dragging pointedly over to the rest of the team. His amber eyes burned not with fury—but with something sharper, quieter, more dangerous. "The next person who says it," he continued, his tone calm but iron-edged, "will answer to me."
The meaning wasn't unclear. There would be no teasing. No jokes. No warnings. Only consequences.
Yue, now stiff as a board, immediately leaned back into the couch and busied himself by sipping his drink, muttering a muffled, "Noted," as he tried to look anywhere but at his brother.
Pang, halfway to a comment, shut his mouth and nodded slowly.
Ming blinked, glanced toward Yao, and then gave a small nod of approval—quiet, respectful.
And Lao Mao, never one to miss the weight of a moment, let out a low whistle under his breath and muttered, "Damn. Noted. Word's dead."
"I agree with Cheng and Yao-er, the word is overused and really should be only used for certain females. Yao-er is not one of those females." commented Lao K sternly of them all as he nodded his head as he walked over handing the female another hot water bottle.
Sicheng didn't say another word. He didn't need to. Because it wasn't about the word. It was about the girl tucked into his side, curled up and still aching, but no longer flinching. It was about drawing a line. And making sure every single one of them knew.
Yao didn't even try to mask the groan as her phone vibrated across her lap, the name Ai Jia glowing on the screen. Curled into one end of the couch with a blanket pulled up to her ribs and the familiar weight of cramps pulsing low in her abdomen, she seriously debated ignoring it. But she answered.
Flat. Tired. Not in the mood.
"What?"
There was a pause—one of those awkward, throat-clearing kinds that made her fingers twitch where they gripped the fabric.
"Yao… hey," Ai Jia started, and she could already tell this wasn't going to be worth the energy. "I just—look, I need to ask. Does Cheng have a grudge against Jian Yang or something?"
Her eyes narrowed. She closed them. Then said, very calmly, "Ai Jia. I told Cheng-ge everything."
A long beat.
"…Everything?"
She shifted just enough to brace her elbow against the armrest, voice sharpening with each word. "Yes. About how Jian Yang tried to date me to get access to my dissertation data. About how he played at interest so he could get closer to my work. And about what happened the first time we played OPL together, how I beat you both, and instead of being decent about it, you two got nasty. Because I wasn't a pro. Because I'm a girl."
He sucked in a breath. "Yao—Yao, I apologized—"
"You did," she said without missing a beat. "You apologized. Jian Yang never did. And that's the difference." She paused, just long enough for the weight to settle before she continued—quieter, but sharper, more cutting. "And let me ask you something, Ai Jia. Have you ever apologized to Lu Yue ?"
Silence.
She didn't wait. "You hid in a bathroom while players from another team jumped him in a side hallway. You had your phone. You could've taken it straight to ZGDX to clear his name, to show them the truth. You didn't."
Silence again.
This one lasted longer. He didn't defend himself. Didn't try.
Yao's fingers flexed against her phone, her voice dropping to something bitter and low. "You get to say sorry once and feel better. He's the one who had to live with what they did to him." And she hung up. No hesitation. No guilt. Not this time.
The moment the call ended and Yao dropped her phone onto the couch with a soft thud , the silence that had stretched during her conversation didn't quite disappear—it shifted . It lingered just long enough for her to blink, realize what she'd said out loud, and slowly turn her head to see the rest of the room staring at her like she had just sprouted a second head.
Lao Mao was the first to react, his eyes wide as he leaned forward from the gaming chair he'd half-slid into during his break, a slow grin forming like he wasn't sure if he should be impressed or worried. "Okay, who are you," he asked, voice half-laughing, half-serious, "and what did you do with our sweet, quiet Tiny Boss Bunny?"
Pang let out a low whistle from the kitchen, where he'd been halfway through preparing a snack. "Damn," he muttered, pointing at her with a chopstick. "That was brutal. And kind of beautiful."
Yue—still wrapped in a blanket on the recliner like a half-recovered gremlin—blinked, then snorted with a raspy cough. "I told y'all she was scary when she's pissed," he croaked, grinning weakly. "No one believed me, she bullied me into my Ge's car and drove me to the hospital.."
Lao K, who had been quietly nursing a protein drink in the corner, looked over with a rare spark of approval in his gaze. "You didn't even raise your voice," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "That's the worst kind of execution. Cold. Efficient. No recovery."
Ming, from where he was hunched at the edge of the couch, raised an eyebrow slowly. "I've seen you dismantle data in presentations, Yao. But that?" He gave a small shake of his head. "That was next level."
Yao blinked, her face still slightly pale from the cramps, and she slowly pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her voice dropping back to its usual softness. "He called while I was in pain," she muttered. "I didn't have the energy to be nice."
That somehow made them all laugh harder.
Even Rui, who had just walked in with a tablet and paused mid-step after catching the end of her call, gave her a long, unreadable look before nodding once and muttering under his breath, "Remind me never to piss her off."
And somewhere beneath all the teasing and wide-eyed awe, there was something else, something proud. Because none of them had expected her , of all people, to be the one to say what needed to be said. But she had. And not a single one of them doubted she'd do it again.
Ai Jia stood alone in the YQCB hallway, the light from the skylights above casting soft lines across the pale tile, his phone still in his hand, screen dark, Yao's voice echoing far louder in his memory than it had over the call. Her words hadn't been loud. They hadn't even been sharp. But they'd struck, clean and true, sharper than any insult or raised voice ever could have been.
"I told Cheng-ge everything. How Jian Yang only wanted to date me to get to my data. And how he and you got nasty with me when I beat you both at OPL—just because I wasn't a professional player and because I was a girl. You apologized. He didn't. And further more—have you ever apologized to Lu Yue? For not stepping up? For hiding in the damn bathroom while five guys from another team tried to jump him? For not bringing your phone to clear his name?"
He hadn't even tried to defend himself. Because she was right. He had apologized to her but had he truly made amends? Or had he just said what he thought she needed to hear so they could go back to pretending the wound wasn't still there, barely scabbed over? And worse, he hadn't defended her when she needed him. Not when Jian Yang first started sniffing around her work like it was a ladder to his next title. Not when others tried to minimize what she was capable of. Not even when the truth about Yue's false suspension had been spinning wildly out of control and all it would've taken was him showing up with a damn phone in his hand.
Instead, he'd let fear and inaction guide him. And now… now he was watching someone else take the space he'd once held without effort.
Lu Sicheng had done what he hadn't.
Believed her. Protected her. Stood by her.
Ai Jia exhaled roughly, scrubbing a hand over his face as a bitter weight settled in his chest. He didn't begrudge Cheng, not even a little. If anyone deserved Yao's trust, it was a man who didn't treat it like a convenience. But he couldn't help the ache that curled behind his ribs. Not because he wanted Yao back in that orbit where it had been just her and Jinyang and him. But because he hadn't realized until now that he'd been quietly resenting the fact that she had grown beyond needing them in the same way.
Especially Jinyang .
And that—that was going to be the hardest part. Because he knew Jinyang still loved Yao like she'd hung the moon. But she didn't know how to handle this version of her. The one who didn't always answer right away, who didn't default to her for guidance, who now stood firmly beneath Sicheng's gaze and didn't need shielding anymore.
Still, Ai Jia knew the truth.
Jinyang would fight anyone for Yao. She would burn the world for her girl. But Yao didn't need a sword right now. She needed grace. A chance to be who she was becoming— without feeling guilty for it. Sighing again, he pocketed his phone and turned on his heel, heading toward the end of the hall where Jinyang's office was tucked behind a frosted glass partition.
They needed to talk. Not about stats or training schedules or prep for next week's match. About Yao. About the girl they loved and the woman she was learning to become. And if they wanted any place in her world going forward, they were going to have to meet her there … not drag her back to who she'd been.
The door to Jinyang's office stood half-cracked, the soft clatter of keys and the familiar hum of a playlist in the background barely audible through the gap. Ai Jia hesitated on the threshold, his fingers brushing once over the edge of the doorframe before he gave a soft knock—not sharp, not tentative, just enough to let her know it was him. Inside, Jinyang didn't turn around immediately. She sat at her desk, her long legs curled under her in that familiar way, half-folded in a spin chair that had never been meant for comfort, her eyes locked on a screen filled with spreadsheets, match reports, and projections.
"Come in," she said simply, her voice as cool and even as ever. But Ai Jia had known her for years, and he heard it. That slight tension beneath the surface.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him, letting it click softly into place before he moved to the side of the desk—not across from her, not into a seat—but beside it, where he could see her face fully. "I talked to Yao."
That got her attention.
Jinyang's fingers stilled on the keyboard. Her shoulders didn't move, but Ai Jia saw the flicker in her expression before she slowly turned toward him, her dark eyes narrowing with something sharp, unreadable. "What did she say?"
He exhaled. "Enough."
She studied him. "You're still standing. So she didn't eviscerate you completely."
"No," he admitted, folding his arms loosely over his chest, leaning slightly back against the edge of her desk. "But she could have. And she would've been right."
Jinyang didn't speak.
"She told me about Jian Yang. About how he used her to get to her work. About how he changed after she beat him in a solo game—how he got mean ."
Jinyang's jaw twitched. "She never told me that," she muttered, almost to herself.
"She told Sicheng ," Ai Jia said quietly.
There was a pause.
And then Jinyang looked away, her eyes dropping to the floor, the weight of that sentence heavier than anything else he could have said.
"She's starting to tell him the things she used to tell us," Ai Jia continued, softer now. "That's not a bad thing. But it's happening . And I think you know why." Jinyang's fingers curled around the armrest of her chair, white-knuckled and still. "She's not just our girl anymore." Jinyang didn't answer, but Ai Jia could see it—see the battle on her face, not just between pride and pain, but between the parts of her that wanted to protect Yao and the parts that didn't know how to let go. "She's not drifting, Jinyang. She's growing . And we've done a pretty crap job of growing with her. Especially me."
Jinyang's gaze snapped back to him, sharp. "You're not the one who controlled everything. I've—" she stopped herself, voice fracturing before she could smooth it again. "I've just been trying to protect her."
"You have," Ai Jia agreed. "You always have. And she loves you for it. But protecting someone only works when they need protecting. And now?" He paused, voice quiet. "She just needs support."
Jinyang stared at him, eyes glossy but dry. "It's hard."
Ai Jia's mouth twisted into something like a smile. "I know."
"She was… she's the one constant I've ever had, Ai Jia. Even when I didn't know where I was going, she was there. I just didn't think I'd wake up one day and find out she didn't need me in the same way anymore."
"She still needs you," he said gently. "Just… not to be her whole world. She's making her own now."
Jinyang went still again. Her voice was barely a whisper. "And what if there's no place for me in it?"
Ai Jia's response was immediate. "There is." He crouched slightly so he could meet her eyes head on, firm, certain. "But only if you're willing to meet her where she is now. Not where she used to be."
The silence between them stretched long, but not heavy.
Finally, Jinyang nodded once, the smallest motion—but it was real. "I miss her," she admitted.
"She misses you too," Ai Jia replied. "But she can't say that while trying to prove she's not a child anymore."
"I don't want her to have to prove anything."
"Then tell her that."
Jinyang leaned back in her chair, exhaling hard. "She's going to give me hell for trying to micromanage Cheng."
Ai Jia snorted. "She should."
Jinyang rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into a faint, reluctant smile. "Fine. I'll apologize."
He gave her a look.
" Properly ," she amended, throwing a pen at him. "God, you're smug when you're right."
"I've had very little practice."
Jinyang laughed quietly, the first real sound of ease between them in weeks. And outside, somewhere not far off, the world kept moving. But inside this office—for the first time in a long time—they were finally moving with it.
The front door to the ZGDX base creaked open in the late afternoon light, quiet but not unnoticed, as Ai Jia stepped inside first with both arms full—plastic bags filled with takeout containers and carefully packed snacks nestled against his chest, the distinct scent of sweet red bean buns and warm chicken congee drifting into the main room before the door had even fully closed behind him. Jinyang was right behind him, dressed casually for once, her oversized sunglasses pushed to the top of her head and her purse swinging at her side as she scanned the room with practiced ease.
The moment her gaze landed on the couch, everything else dropped away. There—curled up against Sicheng's side beneath his team jacket, her platinum hair soft and tangled where it rested against his chest, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and pain, Da Bing stretched across her lap like a spoiled guardian beast—was Yao.
And Lu Sicheng?
Wrapped around her like gravity. His arm slung protectively around her back, his palm absently pressing against the small of her spine where her cramps usually hit worst. His chin hovered just above her head, his gaze shifting with lazy threat toward anyone who moved too fast.
Jinyang's purse hit the floor with a thud. "Oh my god, Bei-Bei!" She was already moving before Sicheng could blink. Yao barely had time to sit up before Jinyang threw herself down beside them, arms wrapping around her in a fierce, unapologetic hug that pressed her cheek to the side of Yao's head and rocked them both slightly in place. Yao made a small, startled sound, then melted almost instantly into the familiar touch, her hands curling into Jinyang's hoodie.
"Tch." Sicheng grunted as he was unceremoniously shoved sideways by the force of Jinyang's affection.
"Oh, hush! If you're gonna be wrapped around my Bei-Bei like a possessive limpet, you can survive being part of a group hug." Jinyang muttered without looking at him.
Sicheng narrowed his eyes but didn't move. He didn't even bother fighting it—because Yao hadn't flinched. She hadn't tensed. She'd leaned in. And that was all that mattered.
Pulling back slightly, Jinyang cupped Yao's cheeks gently in her palms, her fingers brushing over flushed skin as she searched her best friend's face with an expression tangled in guilt and affection. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "For all of it. For not listening. For not asking. For trying to keep you small when you've never been anything but brilliant."
Yao blinked up at her, wide-eyed and already misty, lips trembling like she wanted to say something—but for once, Jinyang didn't need her to.
"You don't have to say anything," Jinyang added, brushing her thumbs softly over the girl's cheeks. "I just wanted you to hear it from me."
Behind them, Ai Jia had paused just inside the doorway, his eyes lingering on the scene for a long moment before he slowly turned his head—to where Lu Yue was sitting curled in the corner chair with a blanket pulled over his lap, pale and recovering but very much awake.
Their eyes met.
Ai Jia stepped forward.
"I'm sorry."
The words weren't loud. But they didn't need to be.
"I should've stepped in. Back then. With Jian Yang. With everything. I shouldn't have just watched it happen."
Lu Yue stared at him for a beat too long. Then—finally—he exhaled, slow and thin, like the weight of that memory was a rope he was finally letting go. "…Took you long enough."
But there was no malice in the words. Just exhaustion.
And Ai Jia, nodded. "Yeah. I know."
From the couch, Yao glanced over her shoulder, her hand still holding lightly onto Jinyang's, and the faintest, most fragile smile ghosted across her lips. Forgiveness didn't always come with grand declarations. Sometimes it came with presence. With warmth. With red bean buns and whispered apologies and a quiet look that said— I still love you. Even now. And that was more than enough.
Yao's fingers twitched slightly at her side as she stood just at the foot of the stairwell, her expression uncertain but hopeful as she turned toward Ai Jia and Jinyang, her voice soft, barely above the low hum of the base. "I… want to show you something. If that's okay."
Jinyang's brows lifted, curiosity flickering in her eyes as she exchanged a glance with Ai Jia. "What is it?"
Yao hesitated for a beat, then smiled—a quiet, genuine smile that reached the corners of her eyes for the first time in days. "The apartment Cheng-ge renovated for me. It's just upstairs."
Jinyang's expression immediately melted, affection blooming like sunlight across her features as she looped her arm gently through Yao's. "Lead the way, Bei-Bei."
Ai Jia, still carrying the last bag of snacks, trailed behind the two women with a slower step, his gaze lingering briefly behind them—toward the couch where Lu Sicheng sat, still stretched out, still watching them with a lazy tilt to his frame and that unreadable expression set across his face. His amber eyes flicked to Ai Jia just once.
And narrowed.
Ai Jia cleared his throat awkwardly but said nothing. He knew what that look meant.
Sicheng had tolerated the apology. Had allowed the reconciliation. But watching another man—especially one who had once made Yao cry—wrap his arms around her, even in forgiveness, had clearly poked at a territorial nerve buried deep beneath the surface of his otherwise calm expression.
Still, he didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just sat there, gaze sharp and silent as his girl led two people—two people who had once known her best—up the stairs to show them the space he had carved out for her. Not just as a gesture. But as a declaration.
Because it wasn't just a space.
It was hers.
A place he had designed to suit her needs, her comfort, her rhythm. It was where she went when she needed air, where she curled up on hard days, where she retreated to when the world got too loud. It was his protection made permanent.
And as Yao opened the door to her apartment, as Jinyang gasped softly and stepped inside with wide eyes, as Ai Jia followed and set the snacks on the countertop, Yao's voice drifted quietly behind them, full of warmth, full of apology. "I'm sorry, too," she said gently. "For pulling away. I didn't mean to. I just… I was trying to figure things out for myself. For the first time. And I didn't know how to include you in that."
Jinyang turned, her eyes already shimmering, her fingers reaching out to brush gently at the ends of Yao's braid. "You didn't need to explain," she said softly. "You're growing, Bei-Bei. I'm proud of you."
And Ai Jia?
He nodded once, a little slower, a little heavier. "We're still here," he said simply. "If you ever need us."
Yao smiled again, small, grateful, full of the kind of quiet strength that had bloomed over the past months into something steady and whole.
From the base below, Sicheng leaned his head back against the couch, exhaling through his nose as he rubbed a thumb against the bridge of his nose. He wasn't worried. Not really. But he was going to make damn sure that Ai Jia never forgot just whose arms she belonged in now.
Jinyang let out a long, low whistle as she slowly stepped into the apartment, her eyes sweeping over every detail—from the soft lighting along the ceiling panels to the built-in bookshelf lined with neatly stacked manga and academic journals, to the perfectly arranged plants basking near the large window that overlooked the city skyline. The air inside carried that faint, calming scent Yao always seemed to have around her—something soft and clean, like lavender and paper and comfort.
"Damn, I'm officially jealous as hell." Jinyang breathed, her hands resting on her hips as she turned in a slow circle.
Yao blinked, blinking down at her own feet as if embarrassed, cheeks already beginning to color.
"He did all of this before you were even dating him?" Jinyang turned to face her again, arching a brow with a grin tugging at her lips.
Yao gave a soft, hesitant nod, her fingers tightening slightly around the sleeves of her sweater. "It was supposed to be just so I had space… a place to breathe while still being close to the team," she murmured.
Jinyang stared at her, eyes narrowing with something half disbelief, half deeply impressed. "Girl… that man was gone for you and didn't even realize it yet."
Ai Jia, who had been placing the snack bags carefully on the countertop, snorted quietly under his breath. "Pretty sure he realized it," he muttered. "He just didn't say anything because he's Lu Sicheng and allergic to expressing feelings with his mouth."
Yao flushed harder, burying her face slightly into the collar of her sweater, her voice muffled. "He's gotten… better."
Jinyang laughed, reaching out and tugging gently on the end of Yao's braid. "You've always been good at making difficult people soften up. First me, now Cheng. I'm never letting you move too far."
Yao smiled, quiet and warm, her eyes glancing toward the hallway like she could still feel his presence downstairs.
Because this apartment wasn't just a space. It was a promise that he'd seen her from the start—before confessions, before kisses, before anything had been spoken out loud. He had made her a home. And no one—especially not Jinyang—was ever going to forget that.