Summary: Tong Yao and Lu Sicheng find their rhythm not in the high stakes of the OPL stage, but in the quiet spaces of home—their home.
One-Shot
The air inside the arena buzzed with tension, a slow build of anticipation that vibrated in her chest like a war drum. ZGDX was already seated, the lights casting shadows across the polished stage, but it wasn't the roar of the crowd or the weight of expectation pressing on her shoulders, it was the presence of the team sitting across from them, and the one man in particular who hadn't yet looked her way. He didn't need to.
Tong Yao's hazel eyes shifted toward the CK bench, where Jian Yang, Sunflower, the name so ironically gentle for someone so ruthlessly pragmatic, leaned forward, elbows on knees, his fingers loosely laced, his attention locked on the loading screen like the game alone had his loyalty. He was older now, colder perhaps, with sharper edges and an expression like he'd carved away whatever softness had once allowed her in. He had always believed control was everything. He had controlled the pacing of their early games, their schedules, even the tone of their conversations. Until the day he decided he couldn't control her, couldn't control her daemon, her future, her refusal to bend and so, he had chosen to walk away. The hurt wasn't fresh anymore, but that didn't mean it didn't echo.
"Hey," came the low, anchoring voice beside her, and Yao didn't have to turn to know who it was. Lu Sicheng. Calm, unreadable, but his warmth brushed against her skin like a lighthouse in the storm. "Eyes forward, Smiling. He's not the one waiting for you after this match." And it was true.
Yao nodded, her hand flexing once on her mouse before her screen lit up with movement. The base gates opened, champions surged forward, and with it, everything else fell away.
The first blood came fast, Lao K catching Butterfly with a precision hook that practically sang. Yao followed through with a rotation so clean it made the casters gasp, Sicheng picking up the kill with a cool efficiency that barely registered in his expression. Across the map, CK was trying to match them blow for blow, but it was obvious even to the viewers—they were rattled.
Or at least Jian Yang was. By the time midgame hit, the camera caught the flicker of his eyes glancing toward her, just once, just enough for the analysts to start murmuring.
Tong Yao didn't look back. She dropped her combo, deleted Floret's Mid, rotated again before the camera could shift, and left no room for sentiment. It wasn't about revenge. It was about the fact that she no longer needed it. The final team fight erupted near Baron, chaotic and blinding, but she was there in the center, dancing like flame, calculating like frost. Her call was clear, sharp, definitive. "Pang, zone. Mao, frontline. K, peel for Chessman. I'll collapse from the flank." And collapse she did. They wiped CK in a stunning 5-0 ace. The arena exploded. Fans screamed. Cameras flashed. ZGDX surged to their feet, cheers breaking loose, but Yao simply took off her headset, her fingers steady as she stood. Jian Yang still hadn't moved. He sat staring at the defeat screen like it could rewrite itself if he only looked long enough. He didn't stand when she passed him. Didn't speak. Didn't even blink. But she did. She paused just briefly at the edge of the stage, where his chair sat still like a monument to every mistake he'd made. And she didn't whisper a word—didn't smirk, didn't cry. She just nodded. Once. Like a goodbye. Because it was. Then she walked into the future where someone had never once asked her to be less in order to be loved.
The crowd's roar felt like it was coming from underwater, muffled by the thick silence ringing inside Jian Yang's ears. His headset was already off, fingers slack in his lap, but the pressure of the loss still pressed against his skin like a second uniform, tighter, more suffocating than anything fabric could sew. He hadn't looked at her once during the game. He hadn't needed to. Because every clean gank she dodged, every flawless rotation, every perfectly timed ult that turned CK's setups into dust and regrets had carved itself into his awareness with an almost surgical clarity.
Tong Yao had not come to prove herself. She had come to win. And she had. The final scoreboard meant nothing compared to the way she had walked past him after the match—not triumphant, not cold, just… done. That nod. That single, quiet gesture that had meant a thousand things all at once. He wasn't blind. He saw it clearly now. Not just her gameplay, not just her composure—but the absence of him in her world. The space she used to leave open for him had been filled with steel and poise and someone else's warmth. Someone who hadn't asked her to change, to wait, to fit neatly into a future he'd drawn without her.
"Captain," Butterfly said softly beside him, hesitant, careful in a way she never was during play. "You okay?"
He blinked once, exhaled once, and stood, slowly removing his jersey and folding it in half with unnecessary precision. "No," Jian Yang said finally, his voice low and distant, more honesty than he usually allowed even himself. "But I will be." Because he had finally seen what she looked like without him—and she was extraordinary.
Backstage, ZGDX Lounge
The applause was still echoing faintly from the arena as the ZGDX team slipped into their private lounge, but the energy had shifted. The boys were grinning, laughing, talking over one another, high on adrenaline and the burn of victory.
Tong Yao, however, had gone quiet. She stood near the table where water bottles were stacked neatly beside protein bars no one ever touched. Her fingers toyed with the cap of a bottle she hadn't opened, her thoughts still on the match but not the plays. Her heart was steady, her breathing calm but there was a weight at the center of her chest that hadn't quite lifted yet. She heard him before she saw him. That quiet, purposeful stride, the click of his boots on the floor like the sound of certainty.
Lu Sicheng didn't speak until he was beside her. "You good?"
Her fingers stilled, eyes still on the cap, voice softer than usual. "I thought it'd feel like closure."
He said nothing, just waited.
"I didn't hate him," she murmured. "Not even after what he said. I just… I wanted him to regret it."
Sicheng's reply was neither cruel nor comforting. It was just the truth, spoken in that low, gravel-smooth tone that always seemed to anchor her. "He does."
She finally looked up, and that was when he stepped closer, his fingers brushing the loose ends of her hair behind her ear in a gesture so gentle it contradicted the ruthlessness he'd shown on stage.
"You didn't need to prove anything to him," he said. "But you did. And now he knows."
She let the silence settle between them, leaning just slightly into the warmth of his presence, because he never asked her to explain the weight she carried—he just stayed close enough to share it. "He looked at me." she whispered.
"I know."
"He didn't say anything."
"He didn't deserve to."
That made her smile, small, tired, but real. And then, without a word, Sicheng reached out and took her hand, fingers wrapping around hers with the kind of firm, quiet certainty she had learned to rely on. He didn't ask if she wanted to go back to the hotel. He didn't offer her a break or a speech about what a great job she'd done. He just held her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, then tugged her gently toward the hallway where the cameras couldn't follow, where the crowd couldn't reach, and where, if she needed to fall apart for a moment, only he would see. Because the match was over. But he was still here. And this? This was her real victory.
Private Hotel Room, After the Championship Win
The echoes of the final match had dulled to a soft hum, lingering only in the faint clatter of distant laughter down the hotel hallway and the occasional buzz of Sicheng's muted phone. The trophy sat on the low table across the room, gleaming in the dim light like it knew it had been hard-won, not just in battle, but in everything it had cost to get here.
Tong Yao was curled up on the far side of the bed, her hair still damp from the shower, her oversized hoodie nearly swallowing her frame. Da Bing was asleep near her ankles, his great white form rising and falling in rhythm with hers, but Yao wasn't asleep. Not even close. Her fingers traced idle patterns over the blanket.
Sicheng sat with his back against the headboard, one leg bent, one stretched out, the remote idle in his hand though the television had long since fallen silent. His gaze had been on the ceiling until her voice, so soft he almost missed it, broke the stillness.
"Why me?"
His head turned slowly, eyes shifting to her face.
She wasn't looking at him. Not at first. Her gaze was on the blanket, and her voice carried no edge, no teasing bite, no sharp wit layered beneath. It was bare. Stripped down. Honest in a way that she only ever let herself be when no one else was listening. "Not as your Midlaner," she added, and only then did she lift her eyes, wide and soft and far too vulnerable for someone who had just helped lead a team to championship victory. "I mean… as me."
Sicheng didn't answer right away. He watched her for a long, quiet moment, letting her words settle, letting the weight of what she was really asking settle with them. And when he finally spoke, his voice came low and steady, each word deliberate. "Because you never flinched from me."
She blinked.
His hand reached, not to touch her, but to rest palm up on the bed between them. A quiet offering. A grounding point. An invitation. "I've had people chase after me for titles. For status. For power. People who saw the name and not the man. People who only wanted to say they were close to me—but they never saw me." He looked at her then, gaze unwavering. "But you… the first time we really fought, you didn't care that I was Chessman. You cared that I treated you like a pawn. You got in my face. You insulted my builds. You treated me like a person, not a pedestal. And when I came at you hard… you never backed down." His mouth curved, not into a smile but into something quieter. Fonder. "You challenged me. Not to impress me. Not to win me. Just because that's who you are. Stubborn. Brilliant. Brave. And infuriating."
Her lip twitched. "You love that I'm infuriating?"
He didn't hesitate. "I love everything about you."
The words didn't fall between them like a confession. They landed like truth. Undeniable. Unshakable.
Her throat worked around a quiet breath, her fingers curling slowly into the blanket, and then—after a long moment—she slid closer. Carefully. Slowly. Until she was resting her cheek against his chest, her hand finding his beneath the covers and weaving their fingers together with a care that spoke louder than any word. And when she whispered, so softly he almost missed it, "Even the parts of me I haven't shown yet?"
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, his voice a murmur against her hair. "Especially those."
And for the first time that night, she let herself sleep. Not because the day was over. But because, for once, she knew—without question—that she didn't have to keep her guard up. Not with him. Not ever again.
The Next Morning
The first light of morning spilled gently through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the hotel room where silence reigned—not the silence of emptiness, but the kind that settles when everything finally feels still, when the storm has passed and all that's left is the aftermath of peace.
Tong Yao shifted slowly beneath the covers, her body warm and relaxed, curled into the kind of sleep that only came when her mind wasn't spiraling, when safety wrapped around her in a way more absolute than locks or doors. And when her eyes fluttered open, the first thing she saw was him.
Lu Sicheng. Awake. Lying on his side beside her, head propped lightly against his hand, his amber gaze fixed on her as if he hadn't moved in hours. He looked like he'd just woken up—his hair a soft mess of black, his expression quiet, relaxed, stripped bare of his usual iron control. But his eyes told her otherwise. He hadn't just woken up. He'd been watching her. Not in some eerie, obsessive way, but with the reverence of a man who had waited a long, long time to simply exist beside the woman he loved without needing to shield her from the world or from himself.
"Morning," she whispered, her voice still low and husky from sleep.
He didn't smile. Not fully. But his lips did twitch, and his voice came even lower, thick with a softness she rarely got to hear unless the world had quieted just enough to make space for it. "Hey."
She watched him for a moment, watched the way his fingers rested near her arm, close enough to touch but not pressing, never pushing. He always waited for her to move first, always let her lead when it came to the spaces between them. And she had let him wait. For months now. But not anymore. Not this morning. Not after everything. Without breaking her gaze from his, she shifted closer, slow and deliberate, the blanket slipping slightly to reveal her bare shoulder where the hoodie had shifted in her sleep. She reached up, her fingers sliding gently along the back of his neck, curling into the hair at his nape with a tenderness that made his breath catch. Then she leaned up and kissed him. Not shyly. Not softly. But deeply, completely, in a way that shattered every inch of the careful restraint he had worn like armor. His hand found her waist instantly, grounding her as his lips met hers with that familiar edge of control but it was thinner now, cracking, splintering beneath the sheer want pressed into every brush of her mouth, every slow stroke of her thumb at the back of his neck. When they finally pulled back for air, her voice came quieter, but no less sure. "I want you."
Sicheng's fingers tensed on her hip. His eyes searched hers, slow and deliberate, and when he spoke, his voice was rough silk against the quiet morning. "Are you sure?"
Her nod came without hesitation, her lips already brushing against his again. "You've waited," she whispered. "You've always waited. But I'm not scared anymore."
His forehead pressed to hers. Not with urgency. But with something deeper. Something reverent. "You don't have to do this to prove anything to me," he murmured. "You've already won me, Wǔ xiān. All of me. You always had."
"I know," she breathed. And then she kissed him again. Because for once, she didn't want space. She didn't want distance or time or slow steps. She wanted him. All of him. And this time? He let go of restraint. Because she wasn't just choosing him. She was ready. And he would meet her there—with all the care, passion, and fire he had been holding back for far too long.
His mouth was on hers again before she could even breathe, a low growl vibrating in his throat as he rolled with her, slow and deliberate, moving until her back hit the mattress and his weight pressed down over her, not crushing, never overwhelming, but surrounding, anchoring, devouring.
Her fingers fisted the back of his shirt, tugging him closer, deeper, desperate now for more than just teasing touches and unspoken promises. She could feel him holding back, still careful even now, still waiting for her to show him this wasn't a dream she would shatter with hesitation.
So she gave him certainty. She slipped her legs around his hips and arched into him, whispering his name like it was the only thing tethering her to breath. "Sicheng…"
That was all it took. Control cracked. It didn't shatter, not entirely, because he always stayed in control of himself when it came to her but it burned, scorched at the edges, unraveling thread by thread until he was kissing her like he meant to leave nothing untouched, nothing unloved. His lips moved to her neck, tongue tasting the thrum of her pulse, and she felt herself tremble as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin just beneath her jaw. His hands were everywhere, cradling her head, caressing her side, memorizing every inch of her like she was the most sacred thing he had ever held. "You're shaking," he murmured against her skin.
"I know," she whispered, breathless, her eyes half-lidded as her fingers slid up beneath his shirt, feeling the hard lines of his stomach. "But not from fear." She reached for the hem, and he pulled back just enough to let her take it off him, their eyes locking as the fabric slipped over his head and fell to the floor. Yao traced her hand over the expanse of his chest, marveling at the warmth, the strength, the way he still looked at her like she was something to be worshipped even when he was the one radiating power and beauty. "I've thought about this," she whispered.
"Me too," he replied, his voice rough with restraint and want. "Every night. Every time you looked at me like I was the one thing you couldn't decide whether to run from or run to."
She smiled faintly. "I'm not running anymore."
"No," he breathed, lowering himself until their foreheads met, his nose brushing hers, his voice nearly breaking from the pressure building in him. "You're mine now."
Then he kissed her again, and it was different this time, darker, deeper, hungry with the kind of love that doesn't ask for permission, because it's already been given in the way two people choose each other over and over again. His hands moved with reverence as he undressed her, unhurried yet certain, as if each new inch of bare skin was a revelation he had waited years to behold. He kissed every place he revealed, from the curve of her shoulder to the hollow of her waist, grounding her in sensation until her breath came in stuttered little gasps and her hands clung to him like she'd drown without the weight of him above her. When he finally entered her, it was with a care that bordered on agony, slow, deep, and patient, every inch a promise, every thrust a prayer. She felt stretched, full, undone, and held together all at once, her body trembling beneath his as his name broke from her lips again and again, quiet, sacred, like it was the only word that made sense anymore.
"Sicheng…"
"I've got you," he whispered, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath falling warm against her mouth as he moved within her, deep and sure, each stroke coaxing more of her into the light. "I've always had you."
Her hands roamed his back, his arms, his shoulders, pulling him closer as she rose to meet him, her hips moving instinctively with his, their bodies locked in a rhythm as old as longing itself. And when her climax came, it crashed through her like a wave, sharp and soft all at once, her mouth falling open in a silent cry as her body arched into his and clung to him like gravity had shifted and made him the center of her world.
He followed with a low groan, buried deep inside her, his hand cradling the back of her head as his body shuddered with the force of it, his control finally giving way to the flood of everything he had held in—want, need, devotion, love. He stayed like that, holding her, kissing her slow and deep until the tremors faded and their breathing calmed, their hearts thudding in tandem.
She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
Not for a long moment.
Then she reached up, brushing his damp hair back from his face, her voice soft, still thick with afterglow and emotion. "That didn't feel like our first time."
He let out a low, contented sound and kissed her forehead. "That's because it wasn't just sex."
She nodded against his chest, eyes already fluttering closed as his arms wrapped tightly around her, keeping her there, holding her as if nothing outside of this bed, this room, this moment could ever matter again. And for a while… it didn't.
The room had quieted again, save for the soft whisper of breath between them and the occasional rustle of the sheets as they slowly, naturally adjusted to the warmth of being tangled together. The light had shifted slightly through the curtains, turning golden now, and somewhere beyond the windows, the city was waking—but in here, they were still wrapped in the weightless aftermath of something sacred.
Lu Sicheng lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other draped around her waist. She rested against his chest, skin warm against his, her cheek pressed just over the steady beat of his heart. For a long stretch of time, neither of them moved. Until he did. Just barely. His hand slid slowly up her back, the motion absent at first, affectionate, thoughtful—until it hesitated. Paused. And his voice came low, still hoarse from the night, but suddenly more alert, more serious beneath the soft rumble of it. "Yao."
She hummed, eyes still closed, lips brushing the center of his chest.
"You're on the pill, right? Or the shot?"
She felt his chest tighten slightly beneath her cheek.
"Or an IUD?" he added, and this time his voice carried a new kind of tension, not fear exactly but something sharper. A flare of immediate, unmistakable concern laced with protective instinct that always cut through his usual calm whenever it involved her.
She blinked, slow and serene, but a small curl of mischief began to stir in her belly, slow and dangerous.
Tong Yao moved.
Before he could rise, before he could fully turn to look at her or chase the question further, she slipped out of his arms and moved, sliding over him with all the grace and intention of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing. She settled over his hips, straddling him with bare thighs pressing against his as her palms braced themselves flat on his chest. His breath caught. Just once. The look in his eyes shifted from concern to something else, something darker, something deeper, something hungry that pulled taut across his features in an instant. But he didn't move. Didn't dare.
Because she was looking down at him with that wide-eyed innocence she wielded like a weapon, her voice dipping low, husky, and thick with something that sounded suspiciously like temptation. "What would you say," she whispered, leaning down slowly, letting her lips hover just above his, "if I told you I wasn't?" His eyes snapped to hers. She saw the full force of it, the way his body stilled beneath her, every muscle held in check by sheer willpower, his mind racing, calculating, resisting the urge to react before he knew exactly what she meant. But she could see it in his eyes. The ripple of possessiveness. The burn of restraint faltering. The primal, instinctive edge of something older than logic, something that lived in his bones and blood and had everything to do with the woman in his arms. He didn't answer. Not with words. Because the answer was already in his eyes, blazing, fierce, and wholly, absolutely hers. She leaned in, lips brushing his jaw now, teasing. "What would you do, Sicheng," she breathed, her voice wrapping around him like silk, "if I said I wasn't on anything?"
His hands moved then, lightning-quick, gripping her hips with a force that wasn't rough but was absolutely unshakable. His voice dropped into that dangerous, quiet place it always went when the depth of his emotions became too large for volume. "I'd pull out every time," he said, his breath ragged, "and then take you to get something immediately, because I will never risk your body or your health, not even for a second." The heat in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. "But—" he added, and here his grip tightened, just a little, "if you ever wanted to risk it—"
She felt his hands sliding slowly up her back, pulling her flush against him, her lips now just a breath away from his again.
"—if you ever told me you wanted that with me, you'd never have to say it twice."
Her breath hitched.
Then she laughed—soft, breathless, and full of warmth—as she finally leaned in and kissed him deeply, thoroughly, and with the unmistakable satisfaction of a woman who had just successfully turned the tables on a man known for being unshakable. When they finally broke for air, she rested her forehead against his. "I have an IUD," she murmured.
His exhale came like a storm breaking. "Tong Yao," he growled, "you're going to kill me one day."
"You'll die happy."
"Not the point."
"It is absolutely the point, you damn menace."
And when she shifted her hips just slightly, smirking down at him now, it was no longer about teasing or mischief. It was about fire. And love. And the man beneath her who had waited so long to be wanted like this—without fear, without hesitation, without the past in the way. The air between them was already thick, charged with the kind of tension that didn't beg to be broken—it demanded it.
Tong Yao still straddled him, bare and golden in the soft morning light, her skin warm from the heat they had already created once, and her eyes fixed on his with a kind of reverence that made Lu Sicheng forget how to breathe. Her hips moved again, slow, deliberate, a shallow rock that sent fire licking up his spine and a low, warning sound spilling from deep in his throat. But she didn't rush. No, this time she wanted to savor. She leaned forward, her fingers trailing slowly up his chest, her lips brushing along his collarbone, soft and unhurried, her voice barely above a breath as she spoke against his skin. "I wonder," she whispered, "what a child of ours would look like…"
Sicheng's hands flexed where they held her hips, a sharp inhale cutting through the air as if her words had struck deeper than even her body ever could.
"Would they have your eyes?" she continued, her voice all silk and sunlight and aching devotion. "That dark gold, wolf's amber? Or mine?" Her hips rocked again, slower this time, crueler in its softness, as if she were writing her thoughts directly onto his skin with nothing but her body and the whisper of possibility. "Would they have your scowl?" she teased, lips curving into the barest smile against his throat. "That one you wear when someone touches my shoulder or brings me the wrong order at the café?"
"Yao…" His voice broke on her name. Not from warning. From restraint. From the way the thought of that—of them—was making it nearly impossible to stay still beneath her.
"Would they be quiet like you?" she mused softly, her tongue flicking over the shell of his ear now, "Or a little smart-mouthed like me?" She pulled back then, just enough to look at him. And the look in her eyes… God, it wasn't just desire anymore. It was something else. Something eternal. Something his.
"You can't say things like that," he said hoarsely, his voice ragged, his hands sliding up her thighs like they could ground him.
"Why not?" she murmured, her lips brushing his again. "You said you'd never risk me. You said I'd never have to say it twice."
His body went still. Tense. Eyes locked on hers. "Are you saying it now?" he asked, his voice no longer calm—just raw.
She didn't nod. Didn't whisper it. She leaned in and kissed him like she had already made the choice. And that was enough.
He moved then, his grip tightening as he sat up with her still in his arms, his mouth devouring hers with the kind of hunger that made her tremble, because this wasn't the controlled captain now, not the man known for his quiet, lethal precision. This was Sicheng. Hers. He laid her back down, hands memorizing every line of her again, but this time it was different. This time it wasn't just about touching. It was about claiming. Worshipping. Giving. "I'll be gentle," he whispered, his voice a rough promise pressed into her shoulder. "But I'm not going to hold back."
"I don't want you to."
And when he entered her again, it was slow but it didn't stay that way. Her body met him every step, every thrust, her fingers clutching his back as they moved together with a rhythm that felt like it had always existed—ancient, familiar, necessary. Her legs wrapped around him tighter. Her voice broke against his neck as he murmured her name again and again. And when she came this time, it was not in silence, it was with a cry that sounded like surrender and love and forever, her body arching beneath his like it was meant to fit only him. He followed right after, burying his face into her neck as his control finally snapped again, spilling into her with a groan that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for years.
They didn't speak for a long time after.
Just lay there, breathing each other in, limbs tangled, his hand stroking slowly over the curve of her stomach, as if already imagining what she had planted in his mind. "You want that?" he asked softly, later, lips brushing her temple. "Someday?"
She nodded against his chest. "Only with you." And with her curled against him, heart steady, body claimed, and future whispered between the warmth of their skin.
Sicheng finally let himself believe that forever wasn't a distant thing. It was right here. Already in his arms. The room had settled into a hush once more, not from exhaustion, but from the kind of peace that came only when nothing else needed to be said aloud. Tong Yao lay against him, her cheek resting over the steady rise and fall of his chest, her body still humming from the echoes of what had just passed between them. His arms were wrapped tightly around her, not in possession, but in protection, as if holding her close was the only way to be sure she was real, that she was his, that she had chosen him.
Outside the window, the city was beginning to wake, distant car horns and soft morning chatter drifting up from the streets below. But here, inside these four walls, time had slowed. Everything else—the game, the cameras, the cheers, the weight of being ZGDX's stars—had been stripped away, leaving only them.
He kissed her forehead. Soft. Lingering. Then her temple. Then the tip of her nose. And when she tilted her head up to look at him, eyes hazy and lips parted, he exhaled—long, low, and full of something that had been building inside him for far too long. As he brushed a thumb along her cheek, still warm from the afterglow, his voice came quiet. Hoarse. Unshakable. "As soon as we get back to Shenzhen…" She blinked at the shift in his tone. "…we're going down to the affairs building." Her brows furrowed slightly, but he didn't stop. "We're signing the marriage certificate."
The words landed with quiet finality. Not a question. Not a proposal. A vow.
Yao blinked again, once, slowly. "…Just like that?"
"Just like that," he muttered, pressing his lips to her hair. "I'm not waiting anymore. Not a week. Not a month. Not until someone else gets a bright idea and tries to stand between us again."
She didn't answer at first. She just stared up at him, stunned not by the statement, but by how calm, how certain he was. There was no hesitation in him. No hint of doubt. No room left for fear. "You're serious," she whispered.
He looked down at her, that quiet fire always behind his eyes still burning hot and steady. "You just told me you wanted forever, Yao."
"I did."
"Then I'm locking it in. Paper and ink. Your name next to mine. No more waiting."
Her throat tightened. And when she laughed, it wasn't light or teasing—it was soft, choked, and thick with the kind of love that made her eyes sting. "You're really going to drag me to the affairs bureau the moment we get off the plane?"
His hand slid down to her lower back, pulling her impossibly closer. "I will carry you in if I have to."
She buried her face into his neck, her voice muffled but full of affection. "You're a lunatic."
"Mm," he murmured, eyes closed, his voice soft against her hair. "I'm yours."
There was no ring. No grand gesture. No candlelight. Just the certainty of his heartbeat beneath her palm, the warmth of his breath on her skin, and a promise sealed between sweat-slicked skin and tangled limbs that would never need to be spoken again. Because she would go. With him. Anywhere. And when they landed in Shenzhen? She'd walk into that building beside him. Head high. Heart open. And walk out with his name beside hers. Forever. The silence between them stretched, soft and warm, blanketing the room like a second set of sheets wrapped around their bare bodies. Tong Yao had long since settled back into his arms, her breathing slow and steady, her back tucked against his chest as his arm draped heavily over her waist in the possessive, protective way that had become second nature to him—like if he wasn't touching her, she might somehow disappear.
She could feel the heat of his skin pressed against every inch of her, feel the rhythm of his thumb tracing slow circles just beneath her navel, and in the quiet that followed his declaration, marriage, immediately, no delays, her lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. She tilted her head slightly, her voice a breath of velvet, sweet and entirely provocative. "Hmm… Lu Yao," she mused, as if she were only now testing the sound, tasting the weight of what it meant. "Has a nice ring to it."
Sicheng stilled. Just for a second. Then, like something primal had detonated inside him, he moved. A low, guttural growl rumbled from his throat as his arm tightened around her, and in one smooth, instinctive shift, his body rolled into hers from behind. His mouth found the soft curve of her neck, and without hesitation, his teeth sank in—not hard enough to hurt, but with just enough pressure to make her gasp, her back arching reflexively into the solid heat of him pressed against her spine. "Yao…" he growled against her skin, his voice dark and laced with the kind of warning that always made her heart stutter. "Don't say things like that unless you want to feel exactly what that does to me."
She barely had time to respond.
His hips rocked against her from behind, slow and heavy, and she felt it, the proof of his reaction, thick and hard against the curve of her backside, no restraint left, no gentle teasing now. Just heat, hunger, and the wild, untamed possessiveness that always surfaced when she reminded him that she was his.
Tong Yao sucked in a breath, already reeling, her body heating all over again, her thighs instinctively parting under the growing pressure of him. "Sicheng—"
He moved before she could finish. With a smooth, almost brutal grace, he pressed her down gently, flattening her stomach to the bed with his hand at her back as he rose over her, fitting himself between her thighs with devastating precision. He wasn't rushing. No, the way he shifted his hips, the way his hands slid down to grip her waist, it was practiced, controlled, but barely.
Because he was holding back the edge of something that had snapped inside him the second she claimed his name for herself. He leaned over her, lips ghosting the shell of her ear, voice so low it sent shivers racing down her spine. "You want to be Lu Yao?" he whispered, his voice rough silk. "Say it again."
Her cheek was pressed against the sheets, breath shallow, heart racing, every nerve in her body drawn tight. She swallowed, voice barely a whisper. "Lu Yao…"
His breath caught. And then he was inside her, slow, deep, claiming every inch of her again in one smooth thrust that made her cry out, her fingers fisting the sheets beneath her as her back arched, her hips instinctively meeting him. He cursed low in her ear, one hand sliding up to brace beside her head, the other anchoring her hips as he started to move, deep, steady, every stroke dragging pleasure through her like waves crashing over stone. "You say it like that again," he growled, grinding into her with the kind of pressure that made her tremble, "and I'll put a ring on your finger before we even land."
She moaned—high and breathless—and that sound alone was enough to break what little control he had left.
He moved faster, his rhythm deliberate but rough now, pressing her deeper into the bed with each thrust as she met him without hesitation, her voice a breathless mix of his name and fragmented pleas. And when she broke beneath him, her climax sharp and shuddering, her body clenching around him so tightly it stole the air from his lungs, he followed with a low, broken sound, his body tensing, his mouth pressed to her shoulder as he poured everything he had into her again.
When it ended, neither of them moved for a long moment. The only sound was the rush of breath, the soft sigh of skin against skin, and the lingering weight of what they had just shared.
Then, with his body still draped over hers, Sicheng pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, murmuring low against her skin. "You're mine, Lu Yao."
And this time, when she whispered it back, voice warm, sleepy, and content, "I know, Baobei…"
The bathroom was already filled with steam, the sound of water cascading down over smooth skin and fogged glass as morning sunlight filtered faintly through the frosted window. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and warmth, and through the haze, two bodies moved in slow tandem beneath the stream.
Yao's back was pressed to the warm tiles, her head tilted under the spray as water poured through her hair, her eyes closed, arms loosely draped over Sicheng's shoulders. The shower was meant to be quick, practical—just a rinse to ease the ache from everything the night before had unraveled.
But Sicheng had no intention of keeping it simple. Not with the way she looked standing there, flushed from heat and sleep, her body slick and glistening beneath the droplets. Not with the words she had whispered hours ago still echoing in his mind. Lu Yao. The way she had said it. The way it felt. His. Soon to be his wife. His hands were already on her hips, large palms sliding across damp skin with no pretense of restraint. His thumbs traced the gentle dip of her waist, then moved higher, fingers pressing in just beneath her ribs like he was relearning every inch of her by touch alone.
"Baobei…" she warned softly, even as she arched into him, her tone more breathless than reprimanding.
"You said it," he growled, low and rough in her ear as he kissed the side of her neck, his breath hot against her skin. "You said you'd be mine."
"I am yours."
He hummed against her shoulder, his voice thick with something darker, heavier, threaded with need. "No… not yet. Not until we land. Not until that paper's signed and they put your name next to mine in ink."
Her fingers curled into the back of his neck, nails lightly grazing skin, and she gasped softly when he pressed her closer, hips flush against hers, the hard length of him sliding against her belly, evidence of what her words, her body, her presence still did to him. "Sicheng…"
"I'm going to marry you," he muttered into her throat, the words sounding like a vow sealed with water and heat. "And then I'm going to take you home, shut the doors, and remind you every night what Lu Yao means." Her breath hitched, her knees nearly giving out when he ducked lower, mouth finding the swell of her chest, hands lifting her effortlessly, bracing her against the wall like she weighed nothing. "And until then," he added, lips brushing between her breasts, "I'm not going to be able to keep my hands off you."
"You already can't," she whispered, wrapping her legs around his waist, one hand gripping the curve of his jaw to pull his mouth back to hers.
The kiss wasn't soft. It was molten. Desperate. Consuming. Their bodies slid against one another, skin on skin beneath the water, her moan swallowed by the way he devoured her mouth. His hand slid down her thigh, lifting her higher, adjusting her against the tile as the hard line of him pressed right where she needed it, and her head fell back with a gasp that echoed off the walls.
"Sicheng—"
"Tell me," he whispered against her ear, fingers teasing, mouth dragging down the column of her throat, "what your name is going to be when we land."
"Lu Yao," she breathed, voice trembling from pleasure and emotion and the sheer overwhelming certainty of him.
He groaned—deep, visceral, his control snapping all over again—and then he was inside her, thrusting slow but deep, the motion guided by the slick heat of water and need, her body meeting him with the kind of surrender that had nothing to do with submission and everything to do with trust. The water poured over them like blessing, their bodies moving in a rhythm that had become familiar now—slow at first, then faster, the tension building like a fire under their skin. She held onto him like he was the only thing grounding her, her cries lost in the rush of steam and breath and whispered names. And when they fell over the edge together—shaking, gasping, mouths pressed against shoulders and skin and every inch they could reach—it wasn't just another round of lovemaking. It was a promise. One sealed with water, heat, and the vow that as soon as they touched down in Shenzhen… He would make her his wife. And nothing, nothing, was going to stop that.
Shenzhen Bao'an International Airport — Late Afternoon
The terminal buzzed with its usual noise—wheels clicking against tile, rolling announcements overhead, and the slow, steady hum of travelers pushing past one another in varying degrees of hurry.
But right at the edge of baggage claim, just in front of carousel six, Lu Sicheng stood like an immovable wall, the weight of his focus so sharp it made people instinctively give him a wider berth. His tall frame was dressed in black—sweats, jacket, hat low over his eyes—but there was no hiding the pressure coming off him in waves. His right hand clenched and unclenched around the manila folder tucked under his arm, the edge of it nearly crumpled by the time the bags began to roll onto the belt. He didn't blink. Didn't move. Not until the familiar sound of soft steps and a low, tired voice behind him cut through the chaos.
"Sicheng, I swear if this is another new monitor—"
"I'm taking you to the civil affairs bureau," he interrupted flatly, turning with the folder already lifted in one hand.
Yao froze mid-step, eyes blinking slowly, backpack still slung off one shoulder, Da Bing's carrier bag in her opposite hand as the cat inside let out a low, displeased growl—because even he could feel the energy radiating from the man she'd spent the last two days thoroughly unraveling. She blinked again. "Wait. Now?"
"Yes," he said, as if it were the most logical answer in the world. "Car's outside."
"Sicheng—"
He stepped forward, gaze dark and unyielding, but his voice dipped into something lower, softer, something that didn't ask, it promised. "You told me in Shanghai that you wanted forever."
"I did—"
"And I told you I was locking it in."
"You did, but I thought—"
"No delays. No time for someone to talk you out of it. No room for nerves or second-guessing." His hand reached for hers, large and warm, fingers curling around hers with the same possessiveness that made her heart stutter every single time. "We've waited long enough."
Before she could answer, there was a familiar voice from behind them, dry and full of suspicion.
"Why does he have a folder?"
The entire team had just cleared customs, Lao Mao wheeling his suitcase one-handed, Pang already rummaging through his backpack for snacks, Yue trailing behind in sunglasses and a hoodie like he thought he was a celebrity.
Lao K, eyes narrowed, glanced from the folder to Yao, then to the unrelenting grip Sicheng had on her wrist.
"Smiling," Lao Mao said slowly, "you good?"
"Define good," she muttered faintly.
"You being kidnapped?" Yue called, drawing closer with one brow raised. "Blink twice if he's dragging you into marriage—"
"I am." Sicheng said over his shoulder without pause, yanking her rolling suitcase toward him like that settled it. "And she's coming willingly."
Pang made a noise like a dying cat. "Oh my God."
Rui, looking ten seconds from throwing himself into a suitcase, muttered something about early retirement and just one normal trip, but none of it mattered.
Because Yao was still looking up at him, wide-eyed, flushed, and very clearly caught between mild panic and being completely, utterly undone. "You're serious."
His thumb stroked over her knuckles. "I've never been more."
She stared for one more heartbeat. Then two. Then she let out a long, slow breath… and nodded. "Fine."
The team exploded.
"What the—"
"What do you mean fine—"
"You're really letting him drag you to—"
But Yao didn't hear the rest. Because she was already walking. Already beside him. Already holding his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. And as the doors slid open, and the warm Shenzhen air hit her skin, she glanced up at the man beside her—calm, composed, and vibrating with single-minded purpose—and whispered softly, just loud enough for only him to hear, "Then let's go make me your wife."
He didn't smile. He just tightened his grip on her hand, lifted the folder higher, and led her forward. Straight into forever.
Somewhere in Shenzhen — En Route to the Civil Affairs Bureau
The soft sound of tires moving along the city road filled the cabin of the black SUV, the hum of the engine weaving beneath it like a heartbeat. The windows were tinted, the world outside blurred into a smear of light and passing color, but inside, the air was charged with something far more electric than anticipation.
Tong Yao sat in the passenger seat, strapped in but half-turned toward him, her eyes narrowed with the kind of look that should have made any sane man break into a nervous sweat. Lu Sicheng, of course, was not a sane man. He was a man in love—and worse, he was completely unbothered by the fire currently burning in her stare. "You planned this." she accused, voice tight with disbelief.
He didn't look away from the road. "Yes."
"You had a folder."
"Yes."
"You booked the car."
"Yes."
She turned fully in her seat now, hand braced against the edge of the center console. "Do you have wedding rings in that folder too?"
A pause.
That smirk began to pull at the corner of his mouth.
"No," he said.
She blinked. Then narrowed her eyes. "Lu Sicheng—"
And before she could finish his full name like a threat, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket with the kind of slow, deliberate movement that made her stomach drop and her pulse spike. He pulled out a small velvet box. Black. Simple. Unmistakable.
Tong Yao's mouth dropped open, one hand instinctively coming to hover near her chest as her heart kicked up, wild and stunned. "You—You actually—" She sputtered. "When? How long have you been carrying that around?!"
He glanced at her briefly, then turned his gaze back to the road, but the answer came with the kind of calm finality that only he could make sound both entirely casual and absolutely intimate. "Two months after you agreed to give me a chance."
She stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "That was over a year ago."
"Mm."
"Are you telling me," she demanded, voice rising now, "you've had that ring in your jacket everywhere we've gone for the past year—every match, every press conference, every event, every city—just in case?"
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug that held entirely too much smugness. "I'm a strategist."
"You're insane."
"No," he said, finally turning to look at her as the car stopped at a red light. His voice dropped lower, his eyes holding hers with a weight that made her mouth go dry. "I just knew what I wanted." Her heart stuttered. His hand reached over, resting lightly on her thigh, thumb brushing a soft circle there as the traffic crawled past the window beside them. "I knew from the second you let me in," he said softly, "that I wasn't letting you go. So I planned for when you'd be ready."
"And if I never was?" she whispered, eyes wide.
He turned fully now, box still in his hand, voice warm but edged with quiet, dangerous certainty. "Then I'd have waited forever."
She stared at him, mouth parted, breath shallow, completely undone by the quiet force of his devotion. Then her eyes dropped to the box again. "Show me."
The corners of his lips lifted again, slower this time, and with reverence, he opened the velvet lid. Inside sat a matching set—hers a delicate band of white gold inlaid with tiny stones that curved like vines around a single solitaire diamond, elegant and quietly powerful. His was darker—simple, masculine, no stones, just brushed platinum engraved with the faintest mark of their initials curled together inside.
She reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the ring. Then she closed the lid slowly, deliberately. "You're lucky I love you."
His grin turned cocky. "I counted on it."
Shenzhen Civil Affairs Bureau — Marriage Registration Office
The room was still, lit with warm morning light filtered through sheer curtains, its walls quiet and neutral—simple rows of polished wood furniture and neatly framed calligraphy above the registrar's desk. It smelled faintly of paper, ink, and something clean and faintly antiseptic, like bureaucracy wrapped in civility. But to her, it felt like the center of the universe.
Tong Yao sat beside him at the desk, the cool weight of the pen resting between her fingers, the marriage application spread out in front of her, neatly filled—every line accounted for, every detail checked twice by the attendant before being slid across the polished surface toward her. There it was. Her name. And beside it—Lu Sicheng's. In black ink. Sharp, final, absolute. Her hand trembled. Just slightly. Not from doubt, but from the strange, overwhelming awareness that this was not a hypothetical future anymore. This wasn't pillow talk or whispered promises in the dark. This was real. This was ink and signature and state-sanctioned permanence. This was hers. He was hers.
Sicheng was sitting beside her like he didn't have a care in the world, his long legs stretched out, arms relaxed across the table, posture cool and loose—smug, actually. The picture of control.
She glared sideways at him without moving her head. "You're already preening, aren't you?"
He didn't smile with his mouth. He didn't have to. His eyes told her everything. "I'm containing it," he said low, voice deep and warm and laced with the kind of satisfaction that made her chest ache. "Barely."
She huffed, but the breath shook. Her fingers adjusted on the pen again, trying to steel herself. "You're going to be smug about this for the next year."
"At least."
She bit the inside of her cheek. Still… her eyes dropped again to the paper. Her name. His name. Just waiting for the mark that would bind them not just in love, but in law.
His hand moved. Not to push her, not to hurry her. He simply placed his palm on her thigh beneath the table, steady and warm, thumb brushing back and forth in that familiar rhythm that had soothed her through scrims, matches, nightmares. "I've got you," he said softly, no teasing now. No arrogance. Just him.
Her lips parted on a breath. And then she signed. Slow, careful strokes. Every loop and letter carved into the page with a reverence that made her heart tremble. The final dot over the 'o' in her name might as well have been a vow.
The silence that followed was heavy—but not oppressive.
Sacred.
Then the attendant took the paper, checked the names, nodded with professional detachment, and said simply, "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Lu."
And everything stilled.
Her breath caught.
Mrs. Lu.
She turned toward him slowly. He wasn't just smug now. He was radiant. Not a man grinning from conquest but glowing, deeply, quietly, with the unshakeable certainty of someone who had waited with absolute patience and now held the rest of his life in the seat beside him.
"Wǒ de tàitài," he said softly, reverently, like the title had weight on his tongue. My wife.
Yao stared at him, heart thudding, vision blurring just a little at the edges, before muttering, "God help me, you're going to be unbearable."
His hand found hers again. His thumb brushed over her new ring. And the look in his eyes was nothing short of worship. "Every day."
Quiet Restaurant, Late Evening — Shenzhen
Dinner had been Sicheng's idea.
Not a celebration, not some grand, multi-course display of luxury—just dinner. Quiet. Familiar. Tucked away in a corner booth of a softly lit restaurant far from the main roads, the kind of place where they could breathe without being recognized, where the staff moved gently and the music stayed low and unobtrusive.
She wore a soft gray sweater dress, her hair tied up, barely any makeup. He hadn't let go of her hand since the ink had dried hours ago—not when they left the civil affairs bureau, not when they stopped to get Da Bing from the hotel, not even when they'd settled into the booth and menus were placed in front of them. He had held her hand like it grounded him. Like she was home. The food was simple—hot dumplings, a slow-cooked clay pot of tender beef, vegetables, soup. Comfort food.
And for a long while, they didn't speak. Not because there was nothing to say, but because neither of them needed to fill the silence. She stole bites of his plate without asking. He refilled her tea without a word. Her foot found his beneath the table and rested there. Peace had never tasted this good.
But halfway through her second cup of chrysanthemum tea, her phone buzzed gently against the table. She reached for it, half-distracted, expecting a message from Rui or perhaps an update from Jinyang. Except the notification banner said: 1 New Message from: Lu Sicheng 🐺 — Mrs. Lu, eat more vegetables.
Her hand froze mid-air. She stared at the screen. Then looked up at him.
He was, of course, chewing like nothing had happened, completely unfazed, as if he hadn't just changed her entire contact name in his phone without a single word of warning.
She narrowed her eyes. "Did you seriously—?"
"Yes," he said, not even blinking. "Changed it on the way to the restaurant."
"You put the wolf emoji next to it?"
He finally looked up, chewing slowly, clearly pleased with himself. "Felt appropriate."
"I can't believe you—"
"Yes, you can."
Yao opened her mouth to argue. Then closed it. Because of course she could. Of course Lu Sicheng would, the moment the paper was signed and the rings exchanged, open his phone, scroll to her contact, and rewrite the name to what he believed it always should have been.
Mrs. Lu.
She stared down at it for a long moment, her thumb brushing the glowing screen, the ridiculous wolf emoji staring up at her like it belonged there. And then—despite herself—she smiled. Slow. Quiet. The kind of smile that didn't belong to anyone else but him. "You're insufferable."
He reached across the table with his chopsticks and dropped a snow pea into her bowl. "You married me anyway."
"And you married me," she shot back, lifting her teacup to hide her grin, "so you deserve whatever chaos you get."
"I'm counting on it."
And when she looked up again, the weight of everything they had done that day—the paper, the rings, the names, the future—settled not as something overwhelming. But as something inevitable. Because she was his. Legally. Entirely. Completely. And he? He was hers.
Lu Sicheng's Condo — Now Their Condo — That Night
The city lights shimmered across the windows as the car pulled into the underground parking of his high-rise. Shenzhen buzzed outside, still alive even at this hour, but inside the SUV, it was quiet—soothingly so. Tong Yao sat curled into the passenger seat, her head against the seat back, her fingers laced loosely with his where they rested between them on the center console.
She thought he would turn toward the ZGDX base. He didn't. Instead, they had gone in the opposite direction, the lights and noise falling away until they turned into the residential district where only one building held his name on the tenant registry. Their teammates were probably still talking about the sudden marriage. Maybe arguing over whether they had imagined it. She didn't care.
Because she wasn't going back to the base tonight. He made that decision the moment he signed his name beside hers. And now here they were, elevator rising steadily with the soft mechanical hum that filled the quiet between them. She looked at him once. He didn't meet her gaze. He just held her hand tighter. When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, he led her out into the familiar hallway, the weight of the key already in his hand, and the sound of the door unlocking echoed like a heartbeat.
But before she could step inside, he stopped her. Turned. Looked down at her. And then—without a word—he swept her off her feet.
Yao let out a breath of surprise, one arm instinctively hooking around his neck as the other pressed to his chest. "Sicheng—"
"I told you," he murmured, voice a low rumble in her ear as he stepped through the door with her in his arms, "I wasn't taking you back to the base tonight." The door shut behind them with a soft click. He didn't stop walking. The condo was dimly lit—just the faint golden glow from the kitchen under-lighting and the spill of the city through the windows. Everything smelled like him—cedar, warmth, coffee, linen. And now, it smelled like her too. Like them.
She took it all in from where she lay in his arms, watching the details of his space pass them by: the couch where he'd kissed her for the first time, the kitchen counter where she once sat teasing him while he cooked, the narrow hallway that always led to the room that had only ever had one occupant. Until tonight. He paused just outside the bedroom door. She lifted her gaze to him slowly. The shadows curved along his cheekbones, his jaw tight, eyes darker than the city beyond the glass. And she whispered—soft and certain, her voice made of silk and promise, "Take me to bed, husband."
His breath left him in a low exhale, his head dropping for just a second as if the word husband had punched all the air from his lungs. Then he moved. The bedroom door pushed open, and he stepped through, the lights still off, only the moon painting silver along the edges of the bed. He set her down slowly, with a kind of reverence that made her heart squeeze—like she was porcelain, like she was sacred, like she was his wife. And then he was standing there, just inches from her, still fully clothed, but eyes burning like she was the only thing anchoring him to the ground. "Say it again," he rasped, fingers brushing her cheek.
She leaned up, lips brushing his, her voice nothing but breath. "Take me to bed… husband."
Wedding Night – Inside Their Room, Lights Off, World Quiet
The door clicked softly shut behind him, the final barrier to the outside world falling away as Lu Sicheng turned toward the woman who was now his in every sense—body, soul, name. Tong Yao sat on the edge of his bed, bare legs folded beneath her, her sweater dress soft and clinging to her frame, her hair now falling loose from where it had been half-pinned. She looked up at him through lashes lowered, eyes wide and calm, but filled with something far more dangerous than nerves. She was certain. And it wrecked him. He moved slowly. Not because he was hesitant—but because there was no need to rush. Not tonight. Not when she had signed her name beside his, not when she had whispered that word—husband—and not when he had spent the last year holding back everything that burned inside him, waiting for this.
Yao watched as he peeled his jacket off, every movement smooth, deliberate, the dark fabric hitting the chair with a soft thud. He pulled the black tee over his head next, revealing the lean cut of his chest, the hard lines of his body, and the ridges of muscle that shifted beneath his skin. Her mouth parted without meaning to.
He saw. He heard the subtle shift in her breath. And his eyes darkened as he crossed the space between them, each step slow and predatory, until he stood before her, tall, bare, his gaze never once leaving hers. "Stand up," he said softly. She did. Wordless. Trusting. And he reached out—his fingers brushing the hem of her dress, lifting it with reverence, revealing inch after inch of her skin until it pooled at her feet like a final offering. She stood in nothing now but lace, and when he drew her into him, his hands curled around her hips like they belonged there, like they always had.
Their mouths met—deep, unhurried, not frantic or wild, but intimate, as if every kiss they had ever shared had led to this one, the moment where they were no longer almost, no longer waiting. Only them.
He walked her backward slowly, lips never leaving hers, until the backs of her knees met the edge of the bed. His hands traced the curve of her thighs, her waist, her back, as he laid her down like she was something to be kept safe—worshipped. He followed, settling between her legs, his body pressed to hers, bare skin to bare skin, heat to heat. And when he finally entered her again, it wasn't with the edge of restraint or the rush of release. It was deep. Slow. Full.
Yao gasped, her legs curling around his waist, her hands clutching at his back as he filled her with the kind of possession that went far beyond the physical.
He didn't move at first. He just stayed there, buried inside her, forehead resting against hers, his voice a whisper she barely heard over the pounding of her heart. "You're mine now."
"I've always been."
"No, not like this," he murmured, pulling back just enough to thrust again—slow, deep, deliberate. "Now it's real. Now the whole damn world knows it."
And then he kissed her again—long, slow, his mouth moving over hers like a vow. He moved within her with that same measured pace, drawing out every moan, every shiver, every sound she made like it was something to be memorized. Her body moved with his instinctively, every rise of her hips met with a deeper thrust, every breath shared between them like they couldn't survive unless they stayed this close. It wasn't fast. It wasn't rough. But it was intense. Raw. His hands cupped her face when he drove into her deeper, lips brushing her cheek, her jaw, her neck, as he whispered against her skin: "This—" another thrust, thick, slow, "—is what it means to be mine."
She whimpered. He groaned, because she tightened around him like she felt every word. And when she came this time, her cry tore out of her throat like something holy, something claimed, her entire body trembling beneath him as she whispered his name like a prayer, her nails clawing down his back as she shattered.
Sicheng followed with a sound that broke in his chest, deep and guttural, his body locking against hers as he spilled into her, his face buried in the crook of her neck as if he could crawl inside her and stay there. Neither moved for a long time. Their bodies were slick and tangled, his arms wrapped tightly around her, their breaths mingled and uneven, their skin damp with sweat and satisfaction.
And when she finally turned her head just slightly, lips brushing his ear, her voice was hoarse but soft. "So," she whispered. "Now that I've taken your name… what else of yours do I get?"
He laughed—low, ragged, beautiful. "Everything," he murmured against her skin. "Everything I am is yours." And as he kissed her again—long and unhurried—Tong Yao knew she had never been so thoroughly, completely, irrevocably his.
The light filtered softly through the gauzy curtains, painting golden ribbons across the bed, casting warm shadows on tangled sheets and bare skin. The air was quiet, still thick with the scent of last night—sweat, skin, breathless devotion. The room was warm, but not from the sun. It was the heat still lingering between them, the kind of heat that didn't fade when the fire was over, because it had never really stopped burning.
Yao stirred slowly, her body aching in the most exquisite way, every inch of her aware of him. Lu Sicheng lay wrapped around her from behind, his arm draped heavily across her waist, legs tangled with hers beneath the sheets, chest rising and falling against her back in a steady, possessive rhythm. She didn't open her eyes at first. She didn't need to. Not when his breath was already moving over the curve of her neck, warm and slow. Not when she could feel the heat of him pressed against the cleft of her backside— hard, undeniable, and very much awake. And then she heard it. The softest whisper, rough with sleep and something deeper. "Good morning, Mrs. Lu…" Her eyes fluttered open slowly. And she smiled. Not from surprise. But from the quiet thrill that no matter how many times she heard it, Mrs. Lu would always make her feel claimed—treasured. She felt his mouth press a kiss just beneath her ear, his hand sliding higher across her stomach, and she knew exactly where that was going. But this time? She wanted to give. She wanted to worship. Before he could move, before he could even reach her breast, she shifted, twisting in his arms and rolling him onto his back with a fluid grace that startled him just enough to let her take control. Her hair spilled forward as she straddled his waist, bare thighs framing his hips, hands splayed across the broad planes of his chest.
Sicheng blinked up at her, lips parting with a slow smirk. "Planning a takeover this early in the morning, Wǔ xiān?"
Her eyes gleamed. But her voice came soft, sultry, reverent. "No," she whispered as she leaned down, brushing her lips over his in a kiss that was slow and deep, the kind that made him groan softly into her mouth. "I'm taking care of my husband." And before he could even respond, before he could tease or turn the moment into something playful and smug, she began her descent—kissing down his jaw, his throat, her hands sliding across every inch of him like she was rediscovering him with purpose. By the time her mouth reached his chest, Sicheng's hands were already in her hair. By the time she kissed lower—his abdomen tightening beneath her tongue—he had stopped pretending to be unaffected. And when her lips brushed the thick, heavy length of him, hard and pulsing and already begging for her, she heard it—the sharp catch in his breath. The low, almost desperate sound that escaped him when she took him in her hand, her grip slow and deliberate. But it was when her lips parted—when she lowered her mouth and took him in, deep and unhurried—that Lu Sicheng lost all pretense of composure. His head dropped back against the pillow, a curse breaking loose from his throat, one hand fisting the sheets, the other buried in her hair as she moved—slow at first, her mouth tight around him, tongue sliding along every inch like she was memorizing him from the inside out. And when she swallowed him deeper, hollowed her cheeks and took him until her nose brushed his skin—that was when he broke.
"Fucking hell, Yao—" he gasped, hips jerking upward before he could stop himself, his voice rough and guttural now, every syllable cracked open by the heat she dragged out of him.
Her name fell from his lips like a litany.
And then—
"Beautiful… that's it, good girl, you take me so damn well…" His praise hit her like fire, and she responded with a low moan that vibrated around him, sending him spiraling. "Fuck, you're gonna ruin me…"
She didn't stop. Didn't let up. She found a rhythm—deep, relentless, her hands working in tandem, her mouth moving with the kind of control that he usually wielded, and the way he came undone beneath her made her burn with satisfaction.
His thighs were trembling now. His voice was wrecked. "Yao—Yao, baby, you need to stop or I'm—"
But she didn't. Not this time. Because she wanted him to lose control. And when he did—when he let go with a groan that echoed off the walls, his hips lifting, his hands fisting her hair like he was trying to ground himself—she swallowed every ounce of him like it was devotion, like it was hers.
He collapsed back against the mattress, chest heaving, hand still tangled in her hair as he tried to remember how to breathe. "Jesus…" he rasped. "You're gonna kill me."
She crawled up slowly, settling against his chest, licking her lips with a wicked glint in her eyes. "No," she whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Just taking care of what's mine."
His arm locked around her waist, yanking her tight against him as he rolled them over and stared down at her with fire still burning in his eyes. "My turn," he growled. And that morning? Didn't end for hours. Because love like theirs didn't cool—it only burned hotter when it was real.
Late Afternoon — Lu Sicheng's Condo
The light had shifted, golden hour bleeding softly into the edges of the room as it poured through the glass walls, setting everything in that warm, amber glow that made skin look kissed and shadows stretch long. The sheets were a tangled mess at the foot of the bed, pillows thrown askew, and the scent of them—heat, sex, sleep, and Sicheng's cedarwood cologne—still clung to the air like proof.
Tong Yao was curled against his chest, her leg draped over his hips, her hand lazily tracing circles across his ribs as she hummed softly into his skin, completely spent in the best way. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her hair a glorious disaster of softness trailing down his arm, and her body, still bare, still marked by him, fit against his like she had always belonged there.
And she was starving. Her stomach let out a low, pitiful growl that made her groan in protest. "I hate you," she mumbled into his chest, not moving.
He looked down, brows raised, his fingers stroking idly along the dip of her spine. "Because you're hungry?"
"Because you wrecked me so hard I can't even move to fix it."
A pause.
Then a low, smug rumble of laughter from his chest. "You could have said no," he teased.
"You bit me, you maniac—"
"You moaned."
"Shut up."
His hand slid to her hip, squeezing lightly. "I'll order something."
"Mmn."
"You want soup? Or rice? Or—"
"Everything," she muttered.
Sicheng reached for his phone on the nightstand without shifting her off him—because if there was one thing certain about today, it was that Mrs. Lu was not going anywhere. Not yet. Not with that flushed glow still lingering on her skin, not with her voice still a little hoarse, not with those legs tangled in his like she was glued to him. As he tapped through his usual takeout app, his other hand never left her waist, thumb stroking slow circles into her side. "Ordering enough to feed a team," he said casually.
"Don't you dare let them come over."
"Food. Not the team."
"Good."
She nuzzled against him again with a pleased sigh, and he could feel her smile even before she spoke. "Why are you so good at this?"
"At what?"
"Being mine."
He paused, then glanced down at her, and though she wasn't looking up at him, his reply was soft, edged in warmth that only she ever got to hear. "Because I waited long enough." The silence after that wasn't awkward. It was full. Heavy with peace.
She nestled in closer as he finished the order, set the phone down, and then wrapped both arms around her again, dragging the sheets back up over them and pulling her flush against him like he still hadn't had enough.
"You're not getting dressed," he declared.
"I didn't say I was."
"Just making it clear. You're not allowed."
She snorted, half-asleep again already. "What if the food delivery guy rings the bell?"
"I'll tip him enough to pretend he never saw anything."
"God help me, I married you."
"And I'm never letting you forget it."
She was asleep before the food even arrived.
But Sicheng?
He lay awake, fingers still trailing lightly along her back, staring up at the ceiling like he was watching his whole life finally unfold exactly as it was always meant to. Because his wife was in his arms. And the world outside could wait.
Next Morning — Lu Sicheng's Condo
Sunlight poured into the bedroom, bright and clean, slicing across the hardwood floor and illuminating the tangled sheets that had barely been pulled back over the bed. The faint sound of Da Bing's judgmental meow echoed from somewhere in the living room, likely pacing in protest over being fed late, but neither of them paid him any attention.
Lu Sicheng sat on the edge of the bed, loose black lounge pants riding low on his hips, his hair still slightly tousled from sleep. His phone lay forgotten on the nightstand, buzzing repeatedly with incoming notifications—group chat messages, headlines, reposts. The news had broken. Photos of their marriage registration. Their names. Her signature. His. The esports world was in chaos. He was not. Because right now, all of his focus—every shred of it—was locked on the woman stepping out of the en suite bathroom in nothing but a towel.
Lu Yao.
His wife.
Hair damp and clinging to her collarbones, skin dewy from the steam, cheeks flushed. The towel hugged her body tightly, barely mid-thigh, and she moved with the kind of easy confidence that came from not even realizing what she looked like—what she did to him—when she walked barefoot across the room. She wasn't even trying to tease him. And it was killing him. His gaze burned up her legs, past the curve of her hips, pausing at the faint, dusky marks he'd left along her ribcage the night before, now just barely visible beneath the towel's edge.
She caught the look. Stopped dead halfway across the room. And narrowed her eyes. "Lu Sicheng," she warned darkly. "Don't you dare."
He didn't respond. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe. He just stood. One fluid step forward. Then another. And before she could take a single step back, before she could even try to make it to the dresser, his hand shot out, gripping her by the waist and yanking her forward.
She yelped as she collided with his chest, towel twisting slightly between them. "You're impossible." she growled, voice already breathless.
"I told you," he murmured against her jaw, mouth already moving down, "you're not allowed to walk around like this and expect me to behave." He dropped onto the bed, pulling her with him. Her towel slipped. And in the next breath, he'd dragged her across his lap, his hands already sliding beneath the edges of damp terry cloth, his mouth trailing hot, open kisses down the side of her throat.
"Sicheng—"
"You moaned my last name," he growled, voice rough, low, possessive, as he tossed the towel aside like it had personally offended him. "You signed it."
Her head dropped back, a gasp tearing from her throat as his lips latched onto the curve of her neck, sucking a mark deep into her skin while his hand gripped her hip, guiding her down against the very obvious bulge beneath his lounge pants. Her breath stuttered. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. "Sicheng…"
"You're grinding on your husband," he murmured into her skin, voice like silk laced with smoke. "You really think I'm going to stop you now?" Her hips rolled instinctively, and the deep groan that vibrated from his chest into hers made her clench around nothing, her whole body aching to feel him inside her again. His mouth moved lower, tongue tracing the path between the swell of her breasts, and her fingers buried themselves in his hair, already breathless and flushed and unraveling in his lap. Her body rocked against him, desperate and needy, and when he looked up at her—eyes dark, hair wild, mouth red and wet from where he had been kissing her like she was his whole damn world—she knew exactly what was coming next. "Ride me," he growled. "Now." And with one hand bracing on his chest and the other reaching down to free him from the waistband of those pants, she gave him what he wanted. Because she wanted it too. Because he was hers. And she? Was his. Forever. And the rest of the world could lose its mind while they stayed right here—burning in a fire neither of them ever planned to put out.
The room smelled like them. The sheets were kicked halfway off the bed again, the air thick with heat and the soft hum of satisfaction that still lingered in their skin. Her towel lay forgotten somewhere near the foot of the bed. His lounge pants were hanging dangerously low on his hips—barely there at all, if we're being honest.
Yao lay sprawled across his chest, one bare leg tucked between his, her cheek resting just above his heart, her hand lazily playing with the small silver chain he still wore around his neck. Her hair was a wild mess, damp at the ends and curling from sweat and steam and sleep. Her lips were kiss-bruised. Her thighs ached in that delicious way that left no doubt about how many times he'd made her scream his name again after that towel had hit the floor. She should have been exhausted. She was. But she was also content. Deeply. Stupidly. Entirely. Content.
Sicheng was propped against the headboard, one arm cradled behind his head, the other holding his phone up as he scrolled slowly, his thumb moving with the kind of idle attention that meant he was savoring what he was seeing.
She sighed, not bothering to open her eyes. "If you smirk any harder, your face is going to get stuck like that."
He made a noise low in his chest, unmistakably pleased.
She groaned. "I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Her lashes fluttered, but she didn't lift her head. "What are they saying?"
"Let's see…" he drawled, eyes still locked on the screen. "TAT's manager had a meltdown and publicly demanded to know if this invalidates our off-season trades."
"Oh my god."
"DQ-5's fan page is theorizing that I seduced you to destabilize CK."
"We already beat CK!"
"And—ah," he said, lifting the phone a little higher as he read the next post aloud, "YQCB's official Weibo just posted a statement that Kun Hyeok is refusing interviews until he's had time to 'process the emotional betrayal.'"
Yao's laugh exploded out of her—sharp and gasping—as she buried her face into his chest. "That pest!!"
"He said he was rooting for us as a couple."
"He did not say that."
"No," Sicheng murmured, lowering the phone again as he looked down at her, his voice dipped in that deep, lazy possessiveness that only came after he'd thoroughly claimed her. "He said he was rooting for you. I was just in the way."
She looked up then, resting her chin on his chest, raising a brow. "Jealous?"
He arched one himself. "You're naked on top of me, wearing my last name. What the hell would I be jealous of?"
Her grin spread slow. "Mmm… so smug."
He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, let his hand trail lazily down her spine, then back up again with a deliberate drag of his fingers. "I'm married," he said, eyes gleaming. "To you. You haven't even left the bed yet. I think I've earned it."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile didn't fade. Then her gaze flicked to the phone still lit in his hand. "Okay," she muttered, "give me the worst comment. Hit me with the most unhinged fan meltdown."
He grinned and tapped twice. Then paused. Then cleared his throat dramatically.
She stared at him, amused and suspicious.
Sicheng read aloud, tone theatrical, "'This cannot be real. Tong Yao would never marry that man. Have you seen the way he looks at her in match reviews? It's like he's either going to devour her or lecture her on her warding stats. This is a media trick and I refuse to accept it.'"
Yao burst out laughing again, full-bodied and bright, her whole frame shaking against his. He smiled down at her—this slow, private thing that didn't belong to the rest of the world. And as she finally caught her breath, still grinning, she whispered into his skin: "Can we stay in here forever?"
He ran his fingers through her hair, voice dropping to a hum against her temple. "We will." And if the world had anything to say about it? They could scream all they wanted. Because Lu Sicheng had exactly what he wanted. His wife. His forever. And no one—not a single person—was taking her from his arms.