Summary: Tong Yao's arrival as the first female professional player in the league sends quiet shock-waves through the team and the wider league. ZGDX doesn't quite know what to do with her at first—until Lao Mao, known more for his brute in-game strength and confusion out of it, becomes her closest ally. Their bond grows in the quiet spaces between the chaos, where she meets him where he is without judgment, and he returns that with an unwavering shield of loyalty…..all the while she catches the eye of the man that had sworn off females because they were annoying and too High Maintenance.
One-Shot
The tension in the ZGDX training room had never felt quite like this before, not even during patch days or mid-season reshuffles. This was different. It wasn't loud or chaotic; it was subtle, quiet, almost deceptively still. No one said much when the door opened and their manager Rui stepped in with a girl beside him, her steps confident, measured, yet unassuming. Her hair was the color of soft gold, catching the light like spun silk, and her eyes, wide and watchful, were a gentle milk chocolate brown, not piercing or calculating like some of the male players had half-expected, but calm, observant, quietly self-possessed.
She didn't smile when she introduced herself. Didn't laugh or joke to try and win them over. She gave her name—Tong Yao—and her handle, ZGDX_Smiling, with the same poised clarity she would later use to call plays. It was disarming in its simplicity, unsettling in its certainty. She didn't try to prove herself; she acted like she belonged.
Most of the team didn't quite know what to do with that.
Pang, ever the food-loving Support, tried to crack a few jokes, only to get mildly defensive when she blinked slowly at him and returned to organizing her peripherals without responding. Lao K kept his observations to himself, flicking glances her way now and then but saying nothing. Yue, the substitute Mid, leaned back in his chair and just grinned at her, eyes glittering with that half-challenging, half-intrigued expression that never boded well for whoever became his next favorite target.
But it was Lao Mao, the towering Toplaner with the joking tone and the often-confused furrow in his brow, who watched her with something else. Not suspicion, not curiosity. Just quiet attention. Like he was trying to make sense of a language no one had taught him yet.
It took three days for her to notice.
It took five for her to earn his trust.
The moment came on a slow Wednesday afternoon when Rui had stepped out and everyone was running drills. Lao Mao hesitated during a team fight breakdown, struggling to follow what Yue was saying as the younger player ran his mouth at full speed, fingers tapping against the edge of his keyboard with impatient energy. "—and then you TP'd too late because you didn't see the wave building, and if you'd caught that two seconds earlier—"
"Yue," Yao cut in softly, her tone not sharp, not annoyed, just calm, clear, grounded. "He didn't miss the wave. He missed your phrasing. You're talking too fast. Lao Mao, look at the mini-map replay. The second wave didn't render clearly due to the fog. If you toggle vision here," she moved, leaning slightly closer to show him, her finger tapping the frame with clinical precision, "you'll see it build under the second turret. No sound cue means your TP was reactionary, not instinctual. That's not your fault."
Lao Mao stared at the screen. Then at her. Then slowly nodded, the furrow between his brows smoothing out ever so slightly. No one had ever broken it down like that for him before—not without judgment, not without irritation. Just facts. Just understanding. Like it made perfect sense that he processed things differently. After that, he followed her through the base like a silent tanky shadow. Not because she asked, not because he felt obligated, but because something in him recognized her for what she was: not the first female player in the league, not the anomaly the others kept staring at when they thought she wasn't looking, but someone who simply saw him, and never once made him feel slow or lacking.
She explained patches in simpler metaphors. She translated the sarcasm Yue threw around without ever softening the truth. She played like hell on the Rift and didn't flinch when Pang started getting mouthy after a loss. She didn't need defending, but that didn't stop Lao Mao from stepping in front of her one evening when a visiting player from CK made a tasteless remark during a live stream tour of the base.
"You don't look like a Mid. You look like you should be in front of the camera, not a PC. Sure they didn't hire you as a mascot?"
Lao Mao's voice didn't rise. It never did. But it cut through the room with quiet finality. "She's the reason we didn't drop to Diamond rank last week."
The silence that followed was deafening. The CK player tried to laugh it off, but his gaze lingered just a little longer on the overprotective Toplaner, who now stood so close to Tong Yao it was clear what his stance meant. Not fragile girl behind a shield. Teammate. Protected. Chosen.
And she, for her part, didn't thank him out loud. She didn't have to. She simply reached for her mouse, adjusted her headset, and started the match queue with a single sentence, her tone smooth as silk and cool as glass. "I'll show you what a mascot can do with KDA." She played like fire that day. Clean, controlled, ruthless. Her Azir landed soldiers like razors. Her Syndra erased ADCs like they were overgrown minions. Every play she called was backed by timing that cut through CK's front line with surgical detachment. By the end, their Jungler had rage-quit, and the chat was flooded with nothing but variations of:
Mid diff. Mid diff. Mid diff.
When the screen faded and the base fell, Tong Yao removed her headset with the same quiet grace she'd shown upon arriving. She didn't gloat. She didn't smirk. But she did glance at Lao Mao, and in that brief, fleeting moment, her eyes lit up with something fierce and grateful. He nodded once. She'd earned her place. Not just on the team. But in the spaces no one had made for her.
The shift didn't happen all at once. It wasn't loud, it wasn't dramatic, and it wasn't something anyone would have been able to pinpoint to a single moment—not a big game, not a victory lap, not even that now-famous CK takedown. No, it was quieter than that, something that slipped beneath the surface like a current, gradually reshaping the atmosphere inside the ZGDX base with every small exchange between Tong Yao and Lao Mao.
And the others noticed.
They all did.
Even if none of them said a word about it at first.
Pang, despite his usual flippancy and love for stirring chaos in the room, noticed how the first person Tong Yao gravitated toward during breaks wasn't the team captain, wasn't the ever-talkative Yue, wasn't even Ming, who technically had her job before becoming coach. No, it was Lao Mao. The joking, simple giant who used to spend his mealtimes in silence, often misunderstood and frequently the butt of unintentional jokes. And yet there she was, explaining balance changes over hotpot, offering him the first helping of tofu skin, asking his thoughts and then listening when he answered. Pang never saw her glance at her phone during those chats. Never saw her interrupt. And maybe that's when it clicked for him, that whatever this was—it wasn't for show. So he stopped teasing. At least, not about that. About everything else? Fair game.
Lao K observed from a quiet distance. He always had a good eye for how people moved around each other, how dynamics shifted and realigned. He had seen how long it took new players to earn Mao's trust—months, sometimes never. But with her? It had taken less than a week. That alone made Lao K sit up and take notice. And though he never said much, not even to Lao Mao directly, he made sure she got her red buffs when they scrimmed together. He let her make the first call on jungle pathing. It wasn't favoritism—it was recognition. He saw what Lao Mao saw. And more than that, he respected her for it.
Yue, who lived to needle people and stir up reactions just to see what made them tick, was the only one who actually said anything out loud. "You're like his translator," he quipped one evening, flopping sideways over the arm of the couch as Tong Yao adjusted Lao Mao's mic settings for him. "Or his Midlane whisperer." When she gave him a pointed look and returned to her task without answering, Yue had just smirked and added, "Don't worry, I'm not mocking. Honestly? Kinda wholesome." He paused, gaze flicking between the two of them. "You're the first one who never made him feel like he had to catch up to the rest of us." And that was something Yue never forgot.
Ming, despite being the coach now, had watched it unfold like a slow-burning fuse. He'd been skeptical at first, not about her skill, he knew what she could do with a mouse and keyboard but about how she'd integrate. He hadn't expected her to go toward Mao. He'd assumed she'd bond with Yue over Midlane talk, maybe seek guidance from K, or even challenge Pang. But no. She aligned herself with the quietest one, the one who never fought for attention, who sometimes missed sarcasm or got lost when the group got too fast, too loud. And what truly struck Ming wasn't just that she saw Lao Mao. It was that she never tried to change him. She just made space for him. Ming watched her do it again and again, without effort, without expectation. He wasn't sure if she even realized how rare that was.
Rui , their manager, noticed the bond and logged it quietly under unexpected stability. He didn't voice concerns. In fact, after seeing the steady improvement in both players' performance metrics—and noting how Mao's communication clarity had subtly increased during matches—he simply told sponsors that ZGDX was "thriving under fresh dynamics." It was corporate speak, sure, but in his mind, it translated more clearly: She brought something we didn't know we needed. And she gave it to someone who had been waiting for it without asking.
And Lu Sicheng, the Captain himself, said nothing for a long time.
But he watched. Watched how Tong Yao would slow her speech when Lao Mao tilted his head, unsure of the jargon. Watched how Mao stood just slightly in front of her whenever a camera crew came too close or someone from another team made an offhand comment she didn't deserve. Watched how the two of them didn't talk much when it wasn't needed but how their silences were never awkward. They were aligned.
He hadn't expected it. But even he had to admit, she'd done the one thing no one else had managed: she'd brought Lao Mao fully into the heart of the team. And for that, whether he ever said it aloud or not, Lu Sicheng held a kind of unspoken respect for her that would never quite fade.
And Lao Mao ?
Lao Mao never put it into words. That wasn't his way. But when they got back from a match one night, late and exhausted, and Tong Yao was half-asleep on the common room couch with her legs tucked up under her, her laptop still open from match reviews—he carefully took the laptop, set it on the table, draped his own hoodie over her shoulders, and quietly sat beside her. Not because she needed protecting. But because that's where he felt she was safest and where he felt most understood.
It was Yue who brought it up first, of course. Not because he was being nosy, well, not just because of that but because something about the way Tong Yao's expression sharpened whenever CK was mentioned had been gnawing at him. She was calm by nature, patient and mild-tempered to the point of passivity in some cases, and not once since joining the team had she ever truly snapped at anyone. She met criticism with logic, teasing with quiet deflections, and even Pang's constant poking with dry humor or silence.
But the one time Jian Yang's name came up during a roster review? Her entire body had gone still. Not the flinching kind of still. Not the startled or wounded kind. It was the quiet tension of something buried so deep it had been forced into silence, a silence that was not peaceful, but deliberate. Yue noticed. Of course he noticed. He was the kind of man who poked at wounds just to see if they'd flinch—but he didn't poke this one. Not right away. He watched.
Watched how she excused herself from that particular team breakdown. Watched how she didn't offer to analyze CK's jungle strategy even though she was always sharp with map analysis. Watched how, when Jian Yang's name appeared on a match schedule pinned to the board in Rui's office, her hand had curled into the sleeve of her hoodie so tight her knuckles went white.
So he waited. Then he asked. It wasn't a dramatic moment. It was late, just the two of them on the balcony outside the lounge, warm tea cooling between them on the ledge. The others were inside, gaming or passed out. And Yue, who had been spinning an empty soda cap between his fingers, finally asked the question he'd been holding onto for weeks.
"You hate Jian Yang."
It wasn't a question. And she didn't deny it.
She sipped her tea slowly. "Hate's a strong word."
"But accurate," he replied, watching her. "You don't hate anyone. I've never even seen you get mad at anyone. But him? You won't even say his name."
There was silence for a long moment.
Then, softly, barely above the hum of the city outside their base, she spoke. "We were best friends. Grew up together. Knew each other's schedules, birthdays, favorite bubble tea orders." Her voice was even, but Yue recognized the control in it. That careful restraint only someone deeply hurt could wield without cracking. "We dated for four years. Through high school. Into college. I thought…" She stopped, exhaled slowly. "I thought we were solid. That maybe… in a few years, once I was done with my engineering degree and he was more settled with CK, we'd move in together. We talked about it. He told me I was his constant. Said I was the one thing he could always count on."
Yue didn't move.
"He started ghosting me a few months after CK picked him up. At first, I thought it was stress. Training. New pressure. So I backed off. Gave him space. Then he missed my birthday. Our anniversary. Didn't answer messages. And then one night, I logged onto a stream CK was doing with some fans." Her fingers tightened around the tea cup. "He was with someone else. Laughing. Holding her hand. Someone from the team's fanbase. She posted a photo later. Tagged him. Public account. I found out he'd been cheating on me for months. Ever since he joined."
Yue was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, low, uncharacteristically devoid of teasing. "Did he even try to explain?"
She shook her head. "He said I wasn't exciting enough. That the league came with temptations, and he couldn't help it. That if I couldn't handle being with someone famous, I shouldn't have been with him."
Yue cursed under his breath, soft and furious.
"He made me feel like it was my fault for being steady. For believing in him. And then he asked if we could still be friends."
Yue stared at her like she'd just told him Jian Yang had suggested setting her on fire for fun.
She gave a small shrug. "So no. I don't hate him. I just refuse to respect him."
It didn't take long for the others to find out after that. Yue, despite his many chaotic tendencies, had a mouth like a vault when it came to real things, things that mattered. But his behavior changed, and that got noticed. He stopped making snarky remarks during CK matches. He rerouted VOD review days whenever CK was involved unless Yao volunteered herself—which she never did. And when the scrim schedule came out showing a two-day friendly against CK, he was the first one to object—not to Rui, but to Sicheng.
"She doesn't need to deal with that bullshit," he said flatly, arms crossed over his chest.
That's when Sicheng asked.
And once the truth came out?
Everything shifted.
Lao K didn't say anything. But when the team arrived at the venue that day, he made sure to walk beside Yao the entire time, his stance relaxed but unmistakably alert. Pang, who normally loved crowd energy, refused to stream their prep warmup if CK was in the room. Ming reviewed every CK match himself so she wouldn't have to.
And Lao Mao?
Lao Mao, who rarely got involved in anything off-Rift, took one look at Jian Yang in the hallway, saw the smug smile, the casual arrogance, the eyes that flicked toward Yao and lingered too long and without saying a word, shifted position to stand directly in Jian Yang's line of sight, his massive frame blocking Yao completely. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence alone was warning enough and that was when Jian Yang finally looked away.
The energy backstage was electric, high from the win but still thick with that lingering charge of adrenaline that always trailed closely behind a hard-fought match. ZGDX had just stomped CK in the kick-off opener, three-zero sweep with absolutely no room for excuses. Tong Yao had landed the final combo of the third game with such flawless execution that the shoutcasters had gone silent for a moment before erupting into stunned praise.
As they walked down the back corridor toward their lounge, the team's steps were light, chatter weaving around them. Pang was already grumbling that he'd burned enough calories to deserve two dinners, and Yue was halfway through a smug retelling of the second game's tower dive when Lao K muttered a warning low under his breath.
Sicheng didn't need him to explain. He'd felt the change in atmosphere the moment they rounded the corner.
Jian Yang.
He was leaning against the wall just outside the ZGDX lounge, arms folded loosely, the edge of a smirk tugging at his mouth, as if he had the right to be standing there—like nothing had happened, like he had not just lost to the woman he betrayed. And the worst part? His eyes weren't on the team. They were on Yao.
"Impressive plays," Jian Yang said, voice smooth, self-satisfied in a way that grated like sandpaper against skin. "Guess I should've known you'd blow up eventually, huh? I mean, not everyone stays a sidekick forever."
Yao didn't stop walking, didn't respond, didn't even glance at him. Her posture didn't change, steady, calm, untouchable. But the faintest tension flickered through her shoulders, and that was enough.
Because Lu Sicheng saw it. He had always seen it. He was at her side in the next heartbeat, stepping just enough to angle himself between her and Jian Yang, the motion so casual it might've been missed if it weren't for the shift in his expression. There was no heat in it. No raised voice. No overt threat. Only that cold, razor-edged calm that turned every word into a blade, every glance into a reckoning. "I see losing didn't knock the arrogance out of you," Sicheng said, voice low and cutting with surgical precision. "Shame. I was hoping it might finally teach you the difference between charisma and sleaze."
Jian Yang's eyes flicked toward him, the smirk twitching. "Just saying hi."
"Try saying it to someone who still gives a damn," Sicheng replied, his amber gaze narrowing with quiet finality. "You had years to know her. To respect her. You failed at both. So you don't get to speak to her now like the past didn't happen."
The rest of the team had gone silent behind them, the air around them sharpened to a single point, like everyone knew exactly where this was going.
But Sicheng wasn't finished. "You see, the difference between you and me," he continued, voice still calm, still too smooth to be safe, "is that I know what I have when I have it. And I don't need to break something just to feel powerful. I protect my Midlaner. I don't humiliate her. And if you ever try to approach her again—on stage, off-stage, online, I don't care—I will make sure every sponsor you're clinging to knows exactly why CK's stock keeps dropping."
Jian Yang opened his mouth, likely to protest, deflect, laugh it off—whatever pitiful defense he thought might work—but Sicheng cut him off without raising his voice.
"Careful. You're not good enough to be this forgettable."
That landed.
It landed hard.
Because Jian Yang flinched—not visibly, not dramatically, but just enough for anyone paying attention to see the hit register. And then Sicheng turned, not even sparing another glance, and gently placed a hand against Yao's lower back as he steered her past him without a word, the others closing in behind them like a wall.
Yue's smirk was lethal.
Lao Mao's eyes lingered just long enough to ensure Jian Yang didn't so much as twitch in their direction.
Pang gave a theatrical yawn.
And Yao?
She didn't say anything until they reached the lounge and the door clicked closed behind them, cutting off the outside noise completely. Then, slowly, she looked up at Sicheng. "Thanks." she said quietly.
He met her gaze evenly, hand still warm at the small of her back, his tone softer now, no less firm. "Don't thank me for protecting what's mine."
The base was quiet by the time the night settled in fully, the usual chaos muted beneath the lull that only came after a long day, a clean win, and the burn of something unresolved finally laid to rest. Most of the team had drifted off—some to the game room, others to their respective rooms—but Yao found herself drawn to the terrace, the furthest edge of the upper floor where the lights from the city softened into a glow that never quite reached the stars.
She stood there with her arms loosely crossed, the night wind curling softly around her loose hair, gold strands catching faint silver from the moonlight. The hum of traffic was distant. The base behind her was silent. But she heard the steps long before he joined her, his presence slipping into her space not like an intrusion, but like gravity—quiet, certain, impossible to ignore.
Lu Sicheng didn't say anything at first. He came to stand beside her, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, head tilting back slightly as he looked out over the city with that same unreadable calm he wore on stage. But she could feel the weight of his attention. He always watched more than he let on.
"You didn't have to do that," Yao said after a long stretch of silence, her voice quiet but not fragile. "You didn't owe me anything."
His response was immediate, low and unflinching. "That wasn't about debt."
She turned her head to look at him, searching his face in the soft shadows. "You didn't even hesitate," she murmured. "Most people would've tried to play it safe, brush it off, or stay out of it. But you just… stepped in."
Sicheng's eyes met hers, steady and intense in that way that made it feel like the rest of the world disappeared behind the moment. "He disrespected you," he said, his voice firm but not loud, each word deliberate. "That's all the reason I need."
Yao swallowed, something tightening in her chest that she wasn't entirely prepared to name. "You don't even know the whole story."
"I know enough." His gaze didn't waver. "I know he threw away someone who would've moved mountains for him. I know he used what you gave him like it was disposable. And I know you still carry the weight of that without ever asking anyone else to hold it for you."
Her breath hitched, just barely, but she held herself still, eyes flicking away briefly to the skyline before settling back on him. "It took me a long time to stop thinking it was my fault."
His brow furrowed slightly, something dark flickering behind his calm. "It wasn't."
"I know that now," she admitted, voice softening even more. "But back then… it broke something in me. And I spent so long trying to put it back together without letting anyone see that it ever cracked."
Sicheng took a slow step closer, not crowding her, but anchoring her in a way that was somehow more intimate than touch. His voice lowered, losing its edge, taking on something deeper—almost reverent. "Don't let that bastard take credit for the strength you have now. You didn't become this because of him, Yao. You became this in spite of him."
Her eyes stung, just a little, but she didn't let the tears fall. She nodded slowly, exhaling a breath that felt like it had been trapped for too many years.
"And if he ever tries to crawl back into your orbit again," Sicheng continued, his tone sharpening just slightly, "I will bury him in so much public humiliation he'll start wishing for a rematch just to feel relevant again."
That finally made her laugh—a soft, startled sound that broke the tension like sunlight cracking through storm clouds. "You're a little terrifying when you're angry," she murmured.
He gave her a slow smirk, something rare and fleeting and for her alone. "Only when it counts."
They stood in silence for a while longer after that, the wind wrapping around them like a quiet shield, the city lights glowing beneath their feet.
Eventually, she leaned her shoulder gently against his arm, not seeking shelter, just grounding herself beside the one person who had chosen, without ever needing to be asked, to stand between her and the past. And he let her. No words. No pressure. Just the stillness of the night, and the man who had drawn a line in the sand and dared anyone to cross it.
The kitchen was unusually quiet that morning, which should have been her first warning. With ZGDX, silence was almost never a good thing—not unless everyone was still asleep or scheming something that would eventually lead to loud apologies and a lot of Rui's exasperated sighing.
Tong Yao pushed open the door, still barefoot and wearing one of Sicheng's oversized hoodies, her hair a soft, sleep-mussed halo of gold. She padded across the tile in search of tea, blinking blearily as she rounded the island.
And froze.
Right there, in the soft morning light filtering through the tall windows, stood Lao Mao and Lao K—close, tender, eyes half-lidded in that quiet bubble where the world didn't quite exist yet. And in that bubble, they were kissing. Not frantic or rushed. Not something to be hidden or dismissed. Just two people who clearly were.
Yao blinked once. Twice. Behind her, the sound of someone holding their breath gave her the second warning. Yue was sitting at the counter, elbow halfway to his mouth with a piece of toast he hadn't bitten into yet, eyes flicking rapidly between the couple and Yao like he was watching a bomb's countdown tick toward zero. Pang was already halfway behind the fridge door, peeking through the crack with popcorn he absolutely had not had ten seconds ago. Even Ming, leaned against the far wall with his tablet, raised one brow slowly in anticipation.
Because Yao was Yao—sweet, steady, quiet—and no one had ever seen her deal with this. She stared for another long, slow moment. Then she set her mug down on the counter, turned to Lao K with the same expression she used when explaining game mechanics to clueless sponsors, and said with perfect, crisp clarity, "If you hurt my male best friend, I will end you. I won't raise my voice. I won't warn you twice. I won't even blink. I will end you."
Lao K's brows lifted, caught off guard—but not offended.
Yao continued, tone unwavering as she poured water into her cup. "And I have a very rich, very terrifying female best friend, who would absolutely help me hide your body and rewrite the security footage."
Yue made a choking noise that might've been laughter or a death rattle.
Pang dropped his popcorn.
Ming didn't look up from his tablet. "Chen Jinyang?"
"Chen Jinyang," Yao confirmed serenely, stirring her tea with all the poise of someone discussing the weather. Lao Mao, completely unfazed, gave her a small smile and reached to take Lao K's hand with quiet certainty. Yao glanced between them once more, then gave a small nod of approval and raised her cup. "Good. Carry on." And just like that, she turned and walked out, the long sleeves of the hoodie swaying at her sides, the room she left behind caught between stunned silence and outright chaos.
Yue finally broke it, whispering as if in awe, "She didn't even blink."
It didn't hit Yue right away, not until a full minute after Yao had swept from the kitchen like a threat wrapped in soft cotton and tea-scented menace. But once it did, it clicked into place with all the sharp satisfaction of a younger sibling realizing exactly which string to pull to get a reaction. Still perched at the counter with half his toast now forgotten, Yue leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with theatrical suspicion as he tilted his head toward his brother's Midlaner—who had just walked off wrapped in a familiar oversized black hoodie, the hem nearly grazing her knees, sleeves falling past her fingertips.
"Wait a second…" Yue's voice rose with the slow, dawning mischief that should've set off alarms. "That's not just any hoodie."
Silence.
Sicheng, who had entered a minute ago and leaned against the doorframe sipping his coffee like a man who owned the building—and very possibly the league—lifted an eyebrow without looking up from his mug.
Yue grinned, devilishly pleased. "I've been noticing it a lot lately. You know, now that I think about it?" He turned to the others, who were suddenly pretending not to listen, all of them frozen like children caught in the middle of an adult conversation they absolutely wanted to hear. "She's been stealing your hoodies. A lot. Like… the last four mornings. And I also noticed you've been leaving them out more often. Conveniently placed on chairs. Or her desk. Or literally right outside her door."
Yao, who had paused by the doorway halfway through her exit, flushed a beautiful shade of pink as she slowly turned back around. "I get cold easily," she muttered defensively, clutching the hem of the hoodie like it might shield her from the teasing. "I just… grab whatever's closest. I didn't even check whose it was."
Yue pounced like a cat who had just caught sight of a particularly squishy mouse. "So," he said, eyes sparkling, "if I leave one of mine out next time, you'll wear my hoodie?"
She rolled her eyes with a weary sigh, already walking away again. "If I'm cold and it's there, then yeah, probably."
Yue turned, smirking over his shoulder at his brother with the smugness only the youngest sibling could pull off. But what he met? Was not amusement. It was not even annoyance. It was warning.
Lu Sicheng's eyes had lifted from his coffee slowly, steadily, and fixed onto Yue with the kind of cold, bone-deep stare that didn't need raised voices or overt threats. It was the kind of territorial glare that ancient apex predators might've leveled across the battlefield before going in for the kill.
It said, with absolute clarity:
Don't.
Even.
Think about it.
Yue stiffened, the grin faltering for a half-second before recovering into something more sheepish as he straightened, hands lifting in mock surrender. "I mean, if I want to survive the season, I probably won't," he added quickly. "Besides, not my color. Black makes me look pale."
Yao, unaware of the look that had passed behind her, sighed at him without turning around, her voice drifting back into the kitchen like a breeze. "You're already pale."
Lao Mao choked on his water.
Pang nearly fell off the stool laughing.
And Sicheng?
Sicheng turned back to his coffee, the corner of his mouth tugging up just barely as he took another sip—satisfied, amused, and deadly quiet. He didn't need to say the words. The hoodie she wore had already said them for him.
It was sometime after lunch when the noise in the base had settled enough for the deeper, unspoken things to rise to the surface, those quiet, persistent thoughts that had no place among strategy meetings or scrim breakdowns. Lao Mao had tried to shake it off for most of the day, told himself that if it were anyone else, he wouldn't even be thinking this hard. But it wasn't anyone else.
It was Tong Yao.
And Tong Yao was no one's game. Not to him. Not to the team. And definitely not to be taken lightly. The door to Sicheng's office was open, though barely, the sound of typing and the occasional flick of papers the only indication that their captain was inside. Lao Mao hesitated outside for a moment, then raised his hand and knocked—not hard, just enough.
Sicheng's voice came through immediately. "Come in."
The room was lit by soft afternoon light bleeding through the half-shut blinds. Sicheng sat behind his desk, hoodie sleeves pushed up, expression unreadable as he adjusted something on his monitor. He didn't look surprised to see him. He rarely did.
Lao Mao stepped inside, shoulders straight but uneasy, not nervous exactly—just carrying the weight of something he didn't say often.
Sicheng leaned back in his chair, finally looking at him. "What's up?"
Lao Mao didn't dance around it. "Are you serious about her?" His voice was low, grounded, with that direct simplicity he always used when it mattered. "About Yao." Sicheng's expression didn't change. He just watched him for a long moment, like he was waiting to see whether there was more. But Lao Mao held his gaze, steady and firm. "I'm not asking because I think you'll hurt her," Lao Mao said slowly, "but because I need to know if this is real. Not flirting. Not passing time. Not just… something temporary."
There was no accusation in his tone. Just the weight of someone who had found, in Yao, a kind of understanding he didn't often get, and who wasn't willing to sit back in silence if that was about to be toyed with.
Sicheng didn't answer right away. Instead, he stood up, walked to the window, and folded his arms as he stared out at the base grounds. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than usual—not sharp, not cold, but something heavier. Older. "I don't play with people like her," he said. "I don't touch people like her unless I'm all in." He turned, then, his gaze locking onto Lao Mao's with the weight of something that had long passed the point of casual interest. "She's it. I don't know when that happened exactly, but it did. And if she ever lets me close enough to prove it, I won't be letting go."
Lao Mao was silent. Not because he didn't believe him—but because he did. The air between them held still for a moment, something like respect thickening the quiet. Then Lao Mao gave a small nod, shoulders easing, and said simply, "Good." He turned to go, pausing at the door just long enough to add, "She's never had someone in her corner like that. Just make sure, if it ever does get serious, you don't make her walk alone."
Sicheng's reply was immediate, absolute. "She won't."
The afternoon wore on in the usual quiet rhythm that fell over the ZGDX base after drills. A few of them were gathered in the review lounge, screens dimmed to standby, laptops open but untouched. Lao Mao sat beside Yao while she leaned slightly toward him, explaining the difference in ward timing between solo queue and competitive setups, her voice smooth and patient in the way it always was when she spoke to him—low enough to be heard, but gentle enough to invite understanding rather than pressure.
She traced the moment on the screen with her fingertip, breaking down the map's pathing without once sounding condescending, even as Mao nodded with focused attention, occasionally asking for clarification, which she gave without hesitation. It was just the two of them in that space, comfortable, quiet, familiar. But somewhere between showing him where to set a defensive ward at ten minutes and double-clicking through the replay playback, Yao felt it.
A shift.
Her body stilled slightly, the hairs along her neck pricking, the same way they did when someone entered her proximity without sound. Her eyes flicked up instinctively—and found Lu Sicheng leaning silently in the doorway. He wasn't saying anything. Wasn't interrupting. Wasn't even holding his usual cup of coffee or his phone. He just… stood there. Watching her. Not the screen. Not the map.
Her.
There was nothing teasing in his expression, no amusement or indifference. His gaze held something heavier now—sharper and impossibly still. Like he was studying something that already belonged to him but that he wasn't ready to touch just yet. Not because he doubted it. But because he respected it too much to rush. The warmth of it hit her slowly, like sunlight she hadn't realized was creeping through the blinds. Not overwhelming. Just steady. Deliberate.
Yao blinked once, looked down at her screen again, and then muttered under her breath as she gestured toward the brush placement in the jungle path, her voice low and edged with something like baffled amusement. "Okay, but our Captain is being weird."
The reaction was instant.
Yue, who had just walked in holding a banana and looking bored, nearly choked. "Weird?"
Pang, sitting on the floor surrounded by energy drink cans, perked up immediately. "Weird how? Like normal weird or Sicheng-on-a-love-mission weird?"
Lao K, from where he was re-tying his shoelaces, glanced up slowly with the same look he gave ward misplacement. "Define weird."
Yao flushed slightly and waved them off, trying to sound nonchalant. "He's staring like… weird staring. Like intense staring. Like he's about to walk over and say something dramatic."
Everyone turned at once.
Sicheng, still standing in the doorway, didn't flinch. Didn't shift. Didn't try to hide it. He just raised one brow like the predator he was and responded coolly, his tone unreadable but his gaze never leaving her. "Maybe I am."
Yao froze.
So did the room.
Yue dropped his banana.
Pang whispered, "Oh my god, he said it."
Ming's voice came from the hallway as he passed, deadpan and perfectly timed. "Finally."
Yao swallowed hard and looked back down at the screen. Except this time, her finger missed the click, landing slightly off the mark.
Lao Mao, watching quietly, didn't comment. He just gave a rare, soft smile to himself, because of course their Captain wasn't being weird. He was just done pretending not to want her.
The base had long since settled into its familiar late-night quiet. Most of the lights were off, save for the soft glow coming from monitors in the game room and the dim overhead bulbs in the kitchen. The kind of hush that wrapped around the space when matches were over, stomachs were full, and thoughts began to turn inward.
Tong Yao had spent the evening exactly as she always did post-scrim—cleaning up her notes, organizing her footage review, and walking Da Bing through the garden path outside the terrace window. She told herself it was normal. Routine. That the way her fingers trembled slightly while tying her hoodie drawstrings wasn't nerves. But it was nerves. Because for the first time since joining ZGDX, she could feel it. A shift. Not in the team. Not in her rank. But in him.
Lu Sicheng had watched her earlier. Really watched her. With that still, unyielding gaze that didn't ask for attention—it commanded it. Not through words or gestures, but by sheer gravity. It had been possessive, yes—but not in the way Jian Yang had once held her too tightly to keep her close while hiding something else behind his smile.
No.
Sicheng's stare had been quiet promise. And that terrified her. Because deep down, beneath the steel spine and sharp logic, beneath the Midlaner who stood toe-to-toe with the best, there was still a girl who had once handed her heart to someone she thought would never drop it—and watched as he shattered it with a smile. And now she was staring down a man who didn't just want her…. He intended to keep her.
So naturally, she did the only logical thing her panic-riddled brain could come up with.
She ran.
Not literally. No. That would have been too obvious. Instead, she became a master of avoidance. By the time the others began to notice, it was already comedy gold. She was gone from the rec room just as Sicheng walked in. She'd just finished her tea in the kitchen when he appeared behind the island. Her laptop was mysteriously missing from the lounge where she always reviewed replays—until Yue found her reviewing them in the laundry room with her knees tucked to her chest and Da Bing perched like a judgmental cloud beside her.
The next day was worse.
When Sicheng turned the corner near the stairwell, she vanished so fast into the side hallway that Pang actually blinked and whispered, "Did she phase through the wall?"
By the third near-encounter, where she darted behind Lao Mao during a pause in morning drills, Yue's jaw dropped as realization bloomed in full, chaotic glory. "Oh my god," he said, gaping as he pointed after her retreating form. "She's bunnying him. She's literally bunnying—look at her! She's terrified."
Lao K raised a brow. "He hasn't even done anything yet."
Pang was howling with laughter by that point, clutching his stomach. "Look at her eyes! That is a cornered bunny. That is a 'no thoughts, just flee' expression."
Sicheng, who had turned the corner just in time to catch the tail end of Yao's retreat, stopped in place, hands in his pockets, watching as her hoodie disappeared up the stairs with Da Bing trotting loyally after her. He sighed. He looked far too calm for a man being actively evaded like the final boss in a stealth mission.
Yue leaned in, grinning like a gremlin. "Gonna chase her?"
"No," Sicheng replied, his voice as low and unhurried as ever, though his eyes burned with something dangerous. "I'll wait."
"Why?"
"Because if I chase her," he said simply, "she'll run." He turned and walked away, but not before adding, "And when she stops… I want her walking toward me."
That shut Yue up. Completely.
It was late.
Later than she should have been up, considering training started at eight the next morning, but Tong Yao had convinced herself that heading downstairs for water at one in the morning would be quick. Da Bing was asleep on her pillow, the base was dark and silent, and she had checked twice—twice—to make sure no one else was in the hallway.
She crept down the stairs barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, her hair in a soft messy bun. The floor was cool beneath her feet, and the only light came from the faint glow of the kitchen's stove clock. She made it all the way to the fridge. Hand on the door. Victory within reach.
And then—
"Couldn't sleep either?"
Her heart jumped into her throat. She spun so fast her heel nearly skidded on the tile, her back bumping against the fridge door as her wide hazel eyes shot up to meet the source of the voice.
Lu Sicheng. Leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, one shoulder braced against the wall like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be. He was barefoot too, loose black sweatpants hanging low on his hips, one of his sleeveless shirts exposing the sharp cut of his shoulders. His dark eyes were locked on her, unreadable, steady, amused.
And she—tiny, barefoot, cornered in a borrowed hoodie two sizes too big for her—let out an involuntary, completely unfiltered that she would deny to her dying day, "Squeak!" It wasn't even a proper word. It was the startled noise of a very small creature suddenly face-to-face with something very large and potentially lethal.
Sicheng blinked. Then slowly, slowly, a smirk curled across his lips, the kind that didn't say gotcha but something far more dangerous…. Mine. He pushed off the wall and stepped inside the kitchen, slow, deliberate steps, the kind that made the tile seem to echo louder than it should. "Did you just squeak?" he asked, voice low, velvet with amusement, but beneath it—beneath it was something else entirely. Heat. Interest. Possession.
Yao, flushed all the way to the tips of her ears, pressed her back firmer against the fridge and stammered, "No! That was—I—I just… you startled me."
His head tilted slightly as he came to stand directly in front of her, looking down at all five feet and three inches of her. He didn't touch her. Didn't box her in. But he was close. So close she had to tilt her chin up just to meet his gaze, and he didn't look away for a second. "You've been avoiding me," he said softly.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I wasn't—"
He arched a brow.
She sighed, flustered and cornered and looking anywhere but him. "…Okay, maybe a little."
His gaze swept over her, slow and steady. "You afraid of me, Wǔ xiān?" he asked, and the nickname— his name for her—rolled off his tongue like a silk promise.
"No," she whispered. "I'm afraid of… what it means."
He didn't smile, not quite, but his voice dropped lower, steadier. "It means I see you."
"I know," she breathed.
"It means I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
"It means," he said, finally lifting a hand and brushing the back of his fingers lightly—just lightly —along her jaw, "that when you're done running, I'll be right here."
The soft exhale that escaped her lips wasn't a squeak this time. But it was close.
The kitchen had gone impossibly still, as if the very air around them was holding its breath.
Tong Yao, still pressed against the cool surface of the fridge in an oversized hoodie that swallowed her petite frame, stared up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. Her lips parted, breath caught somewhere between fear and something dangerously close to hope, her chest rising and falling with the weight of the moment.
Lu Sicheng, tall and quiet and steady before her, said nothing more. He didn't need to. Because she could feel it now—that intense, focused energy that always surrounded him onstage, now turned entirely on her. Not as a challenge, not as a Captain issuing orders, but as a man who had already chosen, already decided.
And that was what terrified her most. He wasn't trying to convince her. He was just waiting. She swallowed hard, the sound barely audible over the thudding in her ears. A slight tremble passed through her—one she couldn't control. Her voice came out quiet, raw, barely above a whisper. "…What do you want from me?" The vulnerability in her tone cracked through the silence like thunder in the distance, not loud but impossible to ignore. It wasn't a challenge, not a plea. It was a question born from someone who had once given everything she was and had it thrown back in her face. Someone who had learned to tread carefully, to retreat behind layers of logic and distance. Someone who had spent so long being the steady one that she didn't know what it felt like to be held steady by someone else.
Sicheng's eyes softened, but his voice remained low, grounded, unshakable. "Nothing you don't want to give." She blinked, stunned. "I don't want your past," he said slowly, the words deliberate and clean. "I don't want you broken or fixed. I don't want you in pieces. I want you—as you are. Sharp. Soft. Scared. Fierce. All of it." Her lower lip trembled. He stepped closer, still not touching her, still giving her every inch of space she might need—but his presence wrapped around her like something she couldn't run from even if she tried. "I want to be the one who doesn't make you doubt. Who doesn't make you feel like you're too much or not enough. I want your smile in the morning, your sarcasm when you're tired, your fingers reaching for my hoodie because you forgot to do laundry again." A small, startled laugh slipped from her lips, helpless and watery, and his mouth twitched at the sound. "I want you to know," he said, his voice deepening just slightly, "that you don't have to run. Not from me. Not ever."
She stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed. And then—slowly—her gaze lifted again, locking into his. Still wide. Still hesitant. But no longer running. "Okay," she whispered. "Just… don't let go."
His hand lifted then, finally, slowly, to brush a strand of gold behind her ear, his touch featherlight. "Never."
The moment stretched between them, suspended in quiet vulnerability and something far heavier, far deeper than simple attraction. Tong Yao stood utterly still, her breath soft against the hush of the dark kitchen, her heart loud in her chest, her gaze locked into his like she couldn't quite believe what he had just said—like maybe if she blinked too fast, it would all vanish.
But Lu Sicheng didn't vanish. He stood right there in front of her, tall and unyielding, his eyes steady and dark and filled with something that wrapped around her chest and pulled, not hard, but with unwavering certainty. And when she whispered "Just… don't let go," it shifted something in the air—something final, something inevitable. He didn't say a word in return. He just leaned in. His hand rose gently, curling around the side of her face, fingers threading through her soft hair, his touch firm but reverent, as though he was holding something precious and fragile—not because he thought she'd break, but because she mattered that much. Her breath caught, eyes fluttering shut just as he closed the distance.
The first press of his lips to hers was slow—achingly slow—measured, deep, and impossibly sure. There was no rush. No hesitation. He kissed her the way a man kisses someone he's thought about for far too long. Someone he's waited for. Someone he intends to keep. It wasn't soft. It was steady. Warm. Possessive. His mouth moved over hers with the kind of deliberate control that left no space for doubt. One hand slid around her waist, grounding her to him, while the other stayed at her jaw, angling her gently, guiding her deeper into him without force.
And Yao, trembling beneath his touch, melted. She didn't know when her hands had curled into the fabric of his shirt. She didn't know when she'd risen on her toes to reach him better. All she knew was the warmth of his mouth, the way her chest rose and fell against his, the way the world shrank until it was nothing but this. By the time he pulled back, barely a breath away from her, his thumb still brushing her cheek, she could barely stand.
His forehead rested lightly against hers as he whispered against her lips, "Wǔ xiān… you're mine now."
And for the first time, she didn't run.
The next morning dawned with all the usual signs of post-match peace—light filtering in through the windows, the scent of coffee drifting from the kitchen, and the quiet shuffle of slippers against hardwood floors as the team began to stir.
But for once, it wasn't the food, the game updates, or the scrim schedule that had everyone buzzing.
It was her.
Tong Yao padded into the kitchen wrapped in another one of Lu Sicheng's hoodies—this one clearly fresh, clearly draped over her last night, and very clearly not meant to be subtle. The sleeves swallowed her hands again, and the hem nearly brushed her knees. Her hair was still slightly sleep-mussed, her cheeks faintly pink. She looked warm. She looked flustered. And she looked claimed. She poured her tea with mechanical precision, not looking at anyone, pretending—as only a woman caught in the act of new emotions could—that nothing was different.
Until Pang burst into the kitchen with Yue trailing behind him like a man possessed, waving a phone in the air. "She's still in his hoodie," Pang whispered like it was a government conspiracy.
"I told you!" Yue said, grinning like a man who had struck gold. "I knew it. She tried to bunny her way out of it but she got cornered and kissed. Didn't she? Didn't she?!"
Yao nearly dropped her mug. " Yue! "
Behind her, Lu Sicheng entered the kitchen with the slow, inevitable confidence of a man who knew what he'd done, what it meant, and who wasn't going to apologize for a single moment of it. He was in black sweatpants and a loose shirt, hair still tousled, eyes sharper than they had any right to be this early in the morning. He walked past Yue and came up behind Yao, wrapping one arm around her waist as he reached around her to grab a coffee mug like it was the most natural thing in the world. His chin brushed her temple, and her breath caught as he murmured, "Good morning, beautiful."
Yue turned to stone.
Pang made a choked wheeze.
Even Ming, who had just walked in reading off the day's schedule, stopped in the doorway and blinked once, then muttered under his breath, "It actually happened. God help us all."
Yao flushed scarlet. "I hate all of you."
Sicheng just smirked and took a long sip of his coffee.
But the real shift came when Lao Mao, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, slowly stood from his place at the table and fixed Sicheng with the same kind of look he usually reserved for faulty champion selections or misaligned practice schedules. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. He lifted one hand, pointed directly at the Captain, and said calmly, "If you hurt my best friend, I will tattle."
Sicheng blinked. "…To who?"
"To Madam Lu."
The entire kitchen fell into stunned silence.
Yue dropped his toast.
Pang gasped, eyes going wide. "You'd tattle to Madam Lu?"
Lao Mao nodded without hesitation. "Because if you mess this up, she won't be disappointed. She'll be furious."
Sicheng narrowed his eyes slightly. "She's my mother. She wouldn't—"
"She likes Yao-er," Lao Mao cut in. "And she wants you to stop being a self-isolating emotionless iceberg. If she finds out you had someone like her and still managed to ruin it?"
Ming, not looking up from the tablet he was now scrolling through, added blandly, "She'll drag you back to her estate by the ear and throw a matchmaking dinner just to humble you."
Lao Mao tilted his head. "That's only if Jinyang doesn't get to you first."
Sicheng gave the smallest twitch of his jaw.
"Jinyang," Yue echoed faintly, "will cry tears of joy and immediately gift Yao with silk pajamas and a bulletproof plan to dispose of your body if you screw this up."
Yao, face now entirely red, groaned and dropped her forehead to the counter. "I hate this team," she mumbled into the marble.
Sicheng, ever composed, reached for his coffee and took a long sip before muttering under his breath, "I'm surrounded by gremlins." Then he glanced at Lao Mao, and his voice dropped low, serious now—not sharp, not cold, but resolute. "I'm not going to screw it up."
Lao Mao held his gaze for a long, weighty moment. Then nodded once and returned to his seat like a guardian stepping off duty. And that was that.
It began, as most catastrophes in the Lu household did, with Yue. It was sometime past noon when Madam Lu received the message. From her younger son. Complete with photo evidence, timestamp, and one single line of gleeful treachery.
Lu Yue: Your demonic hell spawn of an eldest son is finally dating. No, you didn't read that wrong. Finally. You're welcome.
Attached to the message was a snapshot: blurry but unmistakable. Tong Yao, half-asleep, curled into Sicheng's side on the lounge couch, wearing one of his hoodies that was obviously too big for her. His arm was slung over the back of the couch, his hand loosely cradling the back of her head with a tenderness that screamed possession. There was a beat of silence. Then her phone dialed on its own. She didn't even text back. No. She called.
Lu Sicheng, seated quietly in his office reviewing bot lane stats for their next scrim, glanced down to see his mother's name lighting up his screen in all caps, he sighed quietly and accepted the inevitable. He answered the call with all the weariness of a man prepared for war. "…Hello, Mother."
"You absolute, cold-blooded, emotionally constipated disappointment of a firstborn," Madam Lu's voice snapped through the line with the fury of a storm barely held back by silk gloves. "You have been dating someone and didn't tell me?"
Sicheng blinked once, leaned back in his chair, and said evenly, "It's been less than twenty-four hours."
"TWENTY-FOUR HOURS TOO LONG, " she snapped. "Yue told me. Do you know how many years I have waited to hear that my emotionally barren son has finally attached himself to a real human being who isn't a desktop tower or championship trophy?! Years, Sicheng. YEARS."
Sicheng pinched the bridge of his nose. "I didn't hide anything. It just happened."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not—"
"Do not lie to me. I saw the picture. You're holding her like a man who has been emotionally compromised for months. Possibly longer. Did you kiss her?"
Silence.
"Chengcheng."
"…Yes."
A sharp inhale echoed through the speaker. "Did she kiss you back?"
"Mother."
"Did. She. Kiss. You. Back."
"…Yes."
The pause that followed was so long he pulled the phone from his ear to check if the call had dropped. It hadn't. When her voice returned, it was low. Dangerous. "If you ruin this, I swear to every ancestor with a seat at the table, I will personally march into your base, drag you out by your ear, and host a press conference disowning you as my child in front of the national media. I will reassign your inheritance to Lu Yue, and you know what that little goblin would do with it."
Sicheng's jaw ticked. "He'd build a luxury gaming dungeon and livestream it."
"Exactly," she hissed. "So you better not ruin this. You better cherish that girl, treat her like royalty, and send me her favorite dessert, shoe size, and blood type so I can start putting together a proper welcome package."
"I am not giving you her blood type."
"I'm not asking. I'm demanding."
Then she hung up. No goodbye. Just divine wrath and silk-wrapped threats.
Sicheng sat still for a long moment.
Then—
Yue's voice floated through the office door, light and sing-song. "Did she threaten to disown you yet?"
Sicheng didn't look up. He just muttered, "You're not getting the inheritance."
"Oh, I already started designing the logo for my gaming dungeon. There's a hot tub in the interview room."
It was meant to be a normal evening in the ZGDX base—or at least, as normal as it ever got with this particular group of barely-contained chaos gremlins. The team was sprawled out in the main room, half-watching a variety show, half-mocking each other's snack choices. Yao was curled up on the couch, her knees drawn to her chest, Da Bing dozing beside her like a fluffy white sentry.
Sicheng was next to her, one arm lazily draped behind her on the cushion, fingers occasionally brushing the ends of her hair in idle strokes that were very much not missed by the others. Yue had already been side-eyeing them for the past fifteen minutes, but for once, even he hadn't said anything.
And then Yao's phone buzzed.
She glanced at it. Paused. And paled. "Oh no," she whispered.
Pang, who had been mid-bite of his fourth snack bag, blinked. "What? Who is it?"
Yao didn't answer. She answered the call instead. And immediately regretted it.
Because Chen Jinyang's face exploded onto the screen, all hair rollers and fury, as if she'd just come from battle—or was about to declare one.
"YOU—"
The single syllable was delivered with such force that Da Bing's ears twitched, and Yue ducked behind a pillow like he expected a meteor to land.
"YOU ABSOLUTE TRAITOR," Jinyang shrieked. "I had to find out from YUE that you're DATING?! YUE! Of all people?!"
Yao opened her mouth, but Jinyang was already pacing in a luxurious silk robe, phone in hand like it was a weapon, eyes wide and gleaming with the fire of betrayal.
"Tong Yao, I am your soul sister, your ride or die, your emergency contact and co-conspirator in crime—how DARE you enter into a relationship with Captain Tall, Broody, and Emotionally Illiterate without telling me?!"
"I was going to tell you—"
"WHEN? After the wedding? After the first child? When I'm holding your baby in my arms, wondering why it already has your death glare and Lu Sicheng's judgmental eyebrows?!"
The room was dead silent, all eyes bouncing between the screen and Yao like an audience awaiting a public trial.
Yao flailed slightly. "We just —this literally just started!"
"Excuses!" Jinyang bellowed, jabbing a finger toward the screen. "You are wrapped in his hoodie like a warm cinnamon bun of betrayal. You knew I'd cry. You knew I'd scream. And you let me find out from YUE, who has already weaponized the entire moment for memes."
Yue waved helpfully. "Hi."
Jinyang didn't even blink. "You. I am going to unleash the wrath of every fashion-forward heiress in Shenzhen on your precious hairline."
Yue ducked.
"And you!" Jinyang shouted, suddenly redirecting to the left.
Everyone followed her gaze.
To Lu Sicheng. Sitting there, calm, legs crossed, sipping tea like this wasn't the verbal equivalent of a Category 5 hurricane.
Jinyang narrowed her eyes to slits. "If you ever hurt her—if you ever so much as breathe wrong and make her cry—I will gut you like a wild boar."
Sicheng set down his mug. "Understood."
Jinyang leaned in closer. "And I mean it. I will bury your cold, beautiful body beneath a cherry blossom tree and write 'Here Lies the Man Who Played With Fire and Got Burned By A Best Friend's Wrath' on your tombstone."
Yao's face was in her hands.
Ming, from the kitchen doorway, simply said, "That's a very specific tree."
Sicheng, expression utterly unreadable, replied coolly, "If I hurt her, you won't need to. I'll dig the hole myself."
Jinyang stared at him for three seconds straight. Then blinked. Then… smirked. "…Fine," she said, sitting back . "I still hate that you didn't tell me sooner, but at least you've got the right answer."
Yao peeked out from between her fingers. "Are we done now?"
Jinyang beamed. "Not even close! Now tell me everything. When did you realize you loved him? When did he realize? Did he confess first? Was there a kiss? Was it good?"
Yao groaned as the room erupted in laughter around her.
Sicheng leaned in, voice low against her ear. "This is your fault, you know."
She narrowed her eyes at him, still pink-cheeked. "You kissed me."
"And I'll do it again."
Jinyang shrieked in victory.
It was well past midnight when the call came through.
Lu Sicheng, stretched out on the couch in his private room with the lights dimmed and the hum of the city bleeding faintly through the closed window, glanced at his phone when it vibrated once on the table beside him.
Chen Jinyang.
No video this time. Just audio. He stared at the screen for a moment, then picked it up and pressed answer. There was no greeting. Just silence on the other end for a few long seconds.
Then—
"I meant what I said." Her voice was quiet now. Stripped of theatrics. No screams, no sarcasm, no elaborate threats. Just raw, steady truth. The kind of voice someone only used when they were speaking from a place too deep for pretense.
"I know," he said.
"I've held her before," Jinyang continued softly, "while she sobbed so hard I thought she'd break something inside herself. She couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, because that boy she trusted—who she loved like her own blood—had shattered her so carelessly it left a mark. Not the kind you see. The kind that lingers in silence. That makes her freeze up when she starts to feel something again."
Sicheng said nothing, his jaw tight, listening.
"I never want to hold her like that again."
Still, he didn't interrupt.
"I never want to wipe away tears she didn't ask for. I never want to see her go still and silent and empty, because the person she gave her heart to didn't know how to protect it."
His voice, when it came, was low. Measured. Final. "You won't."
There was another pause, and when Jinyang spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. "Say it."
He didn't hesitate. "I will never hurt her." His words were slow, clear, unshakable. "I will never betray her. Never ignore her, abandon her, or make her feel like she's not enough. I'll carry her scars if she lets me, give her everything I have, and I'll never— never —let her face this world alone. No matter what happens, I'll stand beside her. And if she falls… I'll catch her."
Silence.
The kind that said everything. The kind that made even time hold its breath.
When Jinyang finally spoke again, her voice was soft. Fragile, even. The edge was gone. "…You say that like you mean it."
"I do."
And for the first time since she'd dialed his number, Chen Jinyang had nothing left to say. No threats. No sarcasm. No sharp, blazing fury. Just the quiet weight of someone who had heard what they needed—what they hoped for but dared not ask aloud. "…Then don't make me remind you," she said at last.
"You won't need to."
He ended the call. Outside, the city slept. Inside the base, peace lingered—thin, fragile, and finally… real.