Chapter 5: Part 3 The girl with Lillies on her spine
Author's Note: Sorry everyone but apparently there is a word count on here limit I am not used because Ao3 does not have have and neither does Wattpad!
The gala was everything Yao had feared and more. Lights flashed like stuttering stars, too bright and too frequent, each one slicing into the room like a silent demand for attention. The music, tasteful and muted, still pulsed beneath her ribs like a second heartbeat she hadn't asked for. Chatter draped over the crowd in waves—formal laughter, polished conversation, the clinking of crystal glasses, compliments that didn't sound real. Everywhere she looked, faces blurred behind layers of curated elegance.
And she?
She felt like a ghost in silver silk, floating between expectations. Her heels clicked softly against the polished marble floor as she moved away from the edge of the ballroom, eyes scanning for a window, a door, a hallway—anywhere that wasn't packed shoulder to shoulder with strangers pretending to know who she was. She passed a waiter offering champagne. Declined a sponsor wanting a photo. Slipped behind a pair of floral arrangements twice her height and turned down a side corridor as quickly and quietly as she could. She didn't see it—but behind her, two things happened.
Lao K, standing near one of the high-backed chairs at the edge of the room, caught her movement instantly. His sharp eyes flicked toward Lao Mao, who was only a few feet away. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. A quiet nod passed between them. And Lao K shifted just enough to block one of the event staff trying to follow her path, redirecting their attention with a simple gesture. Lao Mao—silent and steady—moved forward into the crowd, casually inserting himself between two wandering guests who looked a little too interested in following the direction Yao had gone.
Meanwhile, in the far corner of the ballroom, Sicheng had seen it all.
He always saw her. Even when she thought she was invisible. Especially then. And the moment he saw Lao K help Lao Mao create a pocket of distraction, the moment he realized what they were doing—that they were covering for her, buying her the space to breathe—he didn't hesitate. He slipped away without a sound. The hall was dimmer, the soft music fading behind heavy walls and tall doors. Yao had made it to a quiet corner, a shadowed alcove just past the glass terrace doors, where a small bench sat beneath a tall window lined with velvet curtains. She stood there with her hands braced against the frame, forehead resting gently against the cool glass as she tried to slow her breath. The silk of her gown shimmered like starlight under the faint lighting, but her shoulders were tense, her spine drawn tight like a bowstring. She hadn't heard him approach. She only felt it. That familiar weight of his presence—quiet, grounding.
"You okay?" His voice was low, close, steady as ever.
She didn't turn. "Too many people," she whispered. "Too much noise. I couldn't breathe in there."
A pause.
"I know," he murmured and then—his hand came to rest gently against her lower back, warm through the layers of fabric, his thumb brushing in slow, grounding circles. "You didn't do anything wrong," he said quietly. "It's not your job to entertain them. You're not a prop. You don't owe anyone a smile."
She let out a small, uneven breath. "I know. I just… needed out."
"I saw Lao Mao and Lao K help you slip away."
That made her blink. "They were subtle," she said softly.
He smirked. "They've known you long enough to recognize when you're about to ghost an entire ballroom."
She finally turned then, her eyes meeting his. "I didn't mean to cause a scene."
"You didn't," he replied firmly. "But if you had, I still would've followed." He stepped closer, his hands finding her waist gently, the heat of him pressing into her like a shield.
"You don't need to perform for anyone tonight, Yao. You don't have to wear the gown or play the role if it stops feeling like you. You just have to let me stay here with you."
Her eyes stung unexpectedly, and she lowered her gaze for a second before whispering, "Then stay."
And he did. No questions. No expectations. Just him, wrapping his arms fully around her, holding her close against his chest in a quiet hallway lit by nothing but moonlight and the muted hush of the world outside a ballroom she didn't belong to. Because she belonged to them. To him. And here? In this quiet moment? He was exactly where she needed him to be.
The silence between them stretched long and warm, the steady thrum of Lu Sicheng's heartbeat beneath Yao's ear grounding her more than any words could. His arms stayed locked around her, not too tight, not demanding—just there , solid and constant, like everything else could disappear and it wouldn't change his hold.
She didn't want to go back. Not yet. And he didn't ask her to. Instead, after another breath, he whispered softly near her ear, "Come on. Let's get you some air."
She didn't hesitate. Fingers curling around his hand, Yao let him guide her toward the terrace doors, their steps quiet and light as shadows. The gala still pulsed behind them—flashing cameras, clinking glasses, hollow laughter that echoed in spaces too wide and too bright.
They slipped past the velvet curtains with barely a rustle, unnoticed by the crowd.
But not by the two standing sentinels.
Lao K and Lao Mao had silently stationed themselves by the terrace doors like they'd planned it in advance. Lao K, sharp-eyed and stone-faced, leaned casually against the marble column to the right, his gaze sweeping the room in measured intervals. Lao Mao, still in his formal suit but looking more like a looming mythic figure than a party guest, stood to the left—silent, broad-shouldered, calm, his presence a quiet warning that no one would pass without reason.
Neither of them spoke when Yao and Sicheng passed between them.
But Lao Mao did meet Yao's gaze for half a second and offered a single, subtle nod.
They've got the door.
And that was all she needed. Outside, the world was softer. Cooler. The air kissed her bare shoulders and the silver fabric of her gown rippled like water as she stepped out onto the stone balcony. Far below, the city lights twinkled in soft clusters. The sounds of the gala were muted now, faint murmurs behind heavy glass.
Yao walked to the edge and leaned lightly on the railing, closing her eyes and tilting her face toward the night.
Sicheng came to stand beside her, close but not crowding, his presence like gravity—unspoken, anchoring.
She let out a slow breath. "I know I'm supposed to be grateful," she murmured. "That I'm supposed to smile and say it's beautiful and pretend it all feels worth it. But…"
He waited. And when she didn't finish, he quietly said, "You don't have to want any of this. I don't love you for the dress."
She looked at him, the moonlight catching in her lashes. "Then what do you love me for?"
He didn't smile. Didn't tease. He stepped in, brushing a strand of her hair away from her cheek, his hand cupping her jaw with devastating gentleness. "For being you," he said. "For being the girl who takes care of everyone without asking for anything back. For staying soft when you have every reason not to be. For being brilliant, loyal, and mine."
Her breath caught. Then slowly, she reached for his lapel, gripping it lightly, leaning in until her forehead rested against his. "Then just stay with me," she whispered, "until this part's over."
His voice was nothing more than a breath. "Always."
Behind them, Lao K and Lao Mao stood guard at the door like twin dragons—silent, watchful, unmoving. No one would disturb them here. Not tonight.
The gala had ended hours ago, but Tong Yao's night was far from over. The base was quiet now, heavy with the soft hum of exhaustion, distant doors shutting one by one as her teammates retreated to their rooms in search of rest. The lights were low. Da Bing had curled up on the end of her bed, already asleep with Xiao Cong nestled between his front paws like a smug gray comma.
But Yao?
Yao stood in front of her full-length mirror with a growing look of betrayal stamped across her flushed face and muttered, " I'm going to murder her. " She tugged at the silk robe draped over her shoulders, trying for the fourth time to reach the damn ribboned laces twisted high and tight behind her spine. The corset—delicate and pretty and absolute hell—had been designed specifically so she didn't need a bra. Madam Lu had called it streamlined elegance. Yao now called it vengeance by fabric. She groaned again, slumping back against her vanity chair, staring up at the ceiling as if the plaster could offer divine intervention. Jinyang would usually be her solution in a crisis like this, but her soul sister was halfway across the country on a business trip and had already threatened literal homicide if Yao asked one of the guys to help her out of something this… personal.
"I don't care if they're gay or nuns or blindfolded," Jinyang had once declared. "If I hear you let anyone other than me or a licensed seamstress near your corset ties, I will bury someone. Maybe two people. Just to be safe. This corset is not cheap and the ties are made from actual silk"
But this was different. This wasn't the whole team. This was him.
Fingers trembling, Yao pulled her phone off the nightstand and typed:
ZGDX_Smiling: Are you still awake?
The reply came almost immediately.
ZGDX_Chessman: I am now. What's wrong?
She bit her lip. Thought about lying. Then sighed.
ZGDX_Smiling: …can you come to my room? I need help with something.
There was a short pause.
Then:
ZGDX_Chessman: On my way.
She stood quickly, trying to arrange her robe in a way that made it look less like she was one wardrobe malfunction away from dying of embarrassment. It wasn't sheer, at least. Soft silk, pale gray with embroidered thread along the sleeves but it didn't hide the fact that she was wearing nothing underneath but the corset. No gown. No shoes. No armor.
A soft knock came seconds later.
Yao swallowed hard and crossed the room barefoot, cracked the door open just wide enough.
Lu Sicheng stepped inside, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed down now in joggers and a fitted black tee that made him look far too comfortable in her space. He closed the door behind him without a word, his amber eyes sweeping over her with a quiet edge of tension she could feel. He blinked. Saw the robe. The flushed cheeks. The bare feet. Then looked back up at her face, voice rougher than usual. "…What do you need help with?"
She turned bright red. Eyes darting toward the floor, she pulled the robe tighter around her front and turned, exposing the intricate weave of ribbon that twisted its way down the middle of her back. "I—um—I can't get the corset off," she mumbled, each word smaller than the last. "The ties are in the back and I've tried, but I can't reach them, and Jinyang would kill me if I asked anyone, but she's not here, and this thing was your mother's idea and I just—please don't say anything. Just… help me." She didn't see the way his jaw tightened or the flicker of something darker pass through his eyes. But she felt the silence that followed.
Thick. Charged.
"Turn around," he said quietly.
The silence between them was heavier than any words Yao could've offered. The air inside her room seemed to still completely, every soft sound from the rest of the base falling away as Lu Sicheng stood only a breath behind her, the door now shut, the low light casting soft shadows across the floor and the silk draped over her shoulders. She stayed perfectly still, her back to him, every inch of her body tense beneath the robe.
He didn't move. Didn't rush. Didn't lift his hand. Not yet. His voice came low, quiet, barely more than a breath. "Yao…"
She squeezed her eyes shut. "Yes?"
"Do you trust me?"
The question hit her like a pulse, straight through the ribs. She nodded slowly, unable to speak at first, her throat thick, her hands curling into the edge of her robe where it wrapped across her front. "Yes," she whispered. "Completely."
He still didn't move, but she could feel the shift in the air around him. It wasn't just desire. It wasn't even temptation. It was care. So much care. "Then let me help you." Her breath stuttered as she nodded again. He moved. His hands rose slowly, reverently, until his fingers brushed the back of her shoulders. She flinched—not from fear, but from the intensity. The way it felt to be touched like that, with patience, with certainty, with no intention to claim or rush. Just be there. His fingertips found the delicate knot of ribbon at the top of the corset, just below where the robe had slipped back, revealing the embroidered edge. He tugged once—gently—and began to unwind the laces. Each pull was slow. Careful. The silk loosened in increments, inch by inch, and with every release of tension from the corset, something in Yao's breath loosened too. Her shoulders dipped, her posture softened. She swayed forward slightly, her hand pressing to the vanity for balance as she exhaled shakily.
Sicheng said nothing. His fingers continued downward, brushing the length of her spine as he worked through each loop, the pads of his thumbs grazing bare skin in careful, feather-light strokes that left a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
She was shaking by the time he reached the last knot. Not from cold. Not from fear. From him. From trust. From the knowledge that no one else had ever touched her like this—with so much restraint wrapped in so much desire. When the final tie slipped loose, the pressure of the corset gave way entirely. Her knees trembled slightly as the laced fabric loosened around her waist, and she let out a soft, breathy sound—relief and release woven together. Still, he didn't move. Didn't touch what he wasn't asked to. He leaned forward slowly, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath just beneath her ear. "Done," he murmured.
She turned slightly toward him, the robe still clasped tightly in her hands, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and wide. "Thank you," she whispered.
His gaze met hers, deep and dark and impossibly steady. "You never have to ask twice."
The robe had slipped just enough to bare her shoulder, smooth, pale skin kissed with goosebumps from his touch, the fabric of the corset now loose around her frame. She stood there, still turned slightly toward him, eyes wide, chest rising and falling with unsteady breath as she held the silk closed over her.
Lu Sicheng's gaze lingered on her face for a heartbeat longer, searching. And then he leaned in. His lips brushed against her bare shoulder—soft, reverent, slow. It wasn't a kiss made to claim. It was a kiss that said I could. But I won't. Not unless you ask. The warmth of his breath lingered, his mouth just a whisper from her skin as he spoke. "I should go," he murmured, voice low and ragged. "Before temptation makes me stay." His words settled in the air between them like the tension already hadn't pulled taut enough.
She didn't move at first. Her grip on the robe was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. But then— Her lips parted. And she whispered, barely audible, barely brave, "…What if I want you to stay?"
Silence.
Thick. Shattering. Real.
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze fully. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide, but steady. Honest. Scared—but not of him. Scared of what it meant to want. To ask. To let someone in.
Sicheng, who had waited patiently through every wall, every breath of hesitation, every darted glance and subtle retreat, looked at her like the rest of the world didn't matter. Then he reached up slowly, his hand resting just beneath her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek. "Then I'll stay," he said, voice low and certain. "Just say it again."
Her fingers unclenched from the robe just enough to reach for him, her hand resting over his heart. "…Stay."
The room was quiet now, cloaked in the kind of silence that held weight. Not hesitation, intention.
Sicheng stood before her, her whisper still ringing between them like a promise that hadn't fully settled into form. Her hand rested lightly against his chest, her robe loose, the undone corset beneath it barely clinging to her frame, and her eyes—
God, her eyes.
Wide, uncertain, burning with emotion she hadn't spoken aloud yet. Want tangled with fear, affection curled tightly with vulnerability.
Sicheng raised a hand, brushing his knuckles down the curve of her cheek, then lower, along the edge of her jaw, slow and deliberate, until he felt her lean into the touch like she couldn't help it. His voice, when it came, was rough. Low. A quiet growl softened by care. "Yao…"
She looked up at him through her lashes, lips parted in the faintest breath.
He stepped closer, his other hand finding the knot of her robe, not untying it, just resting there. "Where do you want this to go?" he asked, voice thick with control and something deeper, darker, far more patient than lust. "Do you just want to sleep…?" A pause. His head tilted slightly, his mouth now dangerously close to hers. "Or do you want… something else?" His eyes, sharp amber, darkened now with barely held restraint—held hers without blinking. Not a push. Not a tease. Just a question.
And behind it, a promise.
I won't move unless you ask me to.
Her breath caught, her fingers tightening slightly on his shirt. He could feel her pulse against his palm. She didn't answer right away. But he didn't rush her. He never did. Because this—she—meant more than just a single night. She didn't speak. Not at first. Not with words. But her body did.
Yao stepped forward—slowly, deliberately—closing the space between them until her chest brushed his, until her robe, still barely clutched to her frame, shifted with the quietest sigh of silk. Her gaze never left his, wide and shimmering beneath the low, golden light of the lamp. Vulnerable. Brave. She lifted her hand and reached up to him, her fingers brushing lightly along the side of his face, trailing across the sharp line of his jaw. Then her lips, barely, barely , ghosted over his. A breath of a kiss. A whisper of want. "Be gentle." she murmured, her voice so soft he almost questioned if he'd heard it at all. But the look in her eyes told him she meant it. Every word. Every step. She reached behind her, never breaking eye contact, and flicked off the lamp with a small click.
The room plunged into darkness, save for the pale silver glow of moonlight that streamed through the window, casting soft shadows along her features, illuminating the curve of her cheek, the bare sweep of her collarbone, the fragile silk of her robe that shimmered like water. The world went still. Quiet. Sacred.
Sicheng's breath caught in his chest. And then he leaned down and kissed her again. Slow. Deep. Gentle. Not just with his hands, but with every part of him that had waited—waited—for this moment to be hers to give. She had asked him to stay. She had asked him to be gentle. And Lu Sicheng would give her everything she asked for—starting with this.
She kissed him back—soft at first, timid, unsure—but it grew with each second, deepening into something that held both tenderness and trembling hunger. Her fingers slid into his shirt, curling gently in the fabric as he tilted his head to press further into her, guiding the kiss with a quiet command that wasn't forceful—it was steady, unwavering, and deliberate. She flushed deeply when she felt his hands move, not rushed, not greedy, just sure , as if he'd memorized every breath she took. He kissed her again as his hands gently guided her backwards, his body easing her step by step toward the edge of her bed, her thighs brushing the mattress. When the back of her knees met the edge, she sat without thinking—eyes wide, lips parted, heart hammering against her ribs as she looked up at him.
He watched her for a long moment. Not just the way she looked in moonlight, not just the robe half-fallen from one shoulder or the stammering rhythm of her breath—but her . The girl who had once trembled at touch. The girl who had fought to trust someone again. Then he moved.
Sicheng leaned down, kissed her again, and slowly, reverently, began to slip the robe from her shoulders. She shivered beneath him—not from fear, but from the sensation. From the weight of how gently he touched her. He peeled the silk away like something sacred, and it fell to the side in a soundless rush, leaving only the loosened corset and the pale lace of her underthings. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, fingers hovering at the corset ties again, eyes locked on hers.
She shook her head once, breathless, pink blooming across her cheeks. "I don't."
With that, he finished what he had started earlier. The corset slid away, slow and deliberate, his fingers trailing her skin in its wake. She flushed deeper, but she didn't hide. Not from him. Not this time. When he laid her back on the bed, her hair spilled across the pillow in a golden wave, and the moonlight caught in her eyes, shimmering like stars. He knelt over her, gaze drinking her in, his hands braced on either side of her as he hovered, not yet touching, but there. Fully. "Beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick. "You're so beautiful." He hovered over her for a heartbeat longer, the moonlight wrapping around them both like a silken veil. His gaze swept over her—laid out beneath him in nothing but pale lace and soft vulnerability, until it burned into his chest, into something deeper than desire. Something reverent. Something claimed.
Then he leaned in.
And kissed her neck.
Soft.
Lingering.
His lips brushed just beneath her jawline, then lower, over the gentle curve where her pulse beat frantic and exposed. The second his mouth found that spot, her breath caught, her body arching ever so slightly beneath him. She made a sound—small, unguarded, helpless. He froze, not from guilt, not from fear, but because it struck him all at once: He was the first. The first to touch her like this. The first to hear her fall apart in tiny, shy gasps. The first to explore her skin, her sounds, her sacred, hidden edges with no one else's memory in the way.
It wrecked him in the best way possible. His hand skimmed her side, slow and careful, following the dip of her waist, feeling the quiver there. She whimpered softly, and his eyes fluttered closed against her neck, grounding himself in her. His fingers explored in reverent patterns, mapping the soft skin beneath the lace, listening for every little hitch of breath, every quiet sound she didn't know she was making. And she made them. Just for him. Because of him.
"Yao…" he whispered, his voice a low rumble against her collarbone, his mouth brushing her skin as he spoke. "I'll never forget a single sound you make." She trembled beneath him, half-shattered already, her fingers sliding into his hair as her lips parted on another soft, broken moan that made his restraint snap a little more. He kissed lower and slower and she let him, wrapped up in moonlight, in trust, in him. The moonlight bathed her in silver, soft and quiet, wrapping around the curves of her body like it knew her secrets, like it understood that this moment wasn't just intimacy, it was sanctuary. Her robe was gone, the corset discarded, the pale lace of her underwear the only thing left between her and the man above her, the man who had kissed every inch of her skin like a vow and held her sounds like they were his to protect.
Sicheng's mouth slowed its trail along her collarbone, his breath ragged against her skin as he hovered just above her heart, listening to the rhythm pounding in her chest. He could feel it. He could feel her. The tremble in her limbs, the way her thighs shifted beneath him, the weight of her fingers curled into the back of his shirt, clinging. He pulled back just enough to see her face, to cup her cheek with a palm that had only ever been steady—on the mouse, on the map, in battle—but was now shaking with the weight of how much this meant. "Yao…" he said her name like a prayer, voice low and husky, laced with restraint that only frayed at the edges. "Are you sure?"
Her eyes fluttered open, wide and glimmering, her lips parted, her face soft with trust and heat and something so much deeper than lust. "Yes," she whispered. She didn't hesitate this time. No tremble. No doubt. Only her word—yes. And that was all he needed.
His hand slid down slowly, fingers grazing her waist as he kissed her again, slower this time, with more weight behind it. Then he began his descent—deliberate, reverent, tracing kisses down her body, his mouth worshiping each spot as if it were sacred. Her ribs. Her stomach. The inside of her hip where her breath caught like a snare.
She gasped softly, thighs shifting, one leg brushing his shoulder as he knelt at the foot of her bed. On the rug. Before her. Like she was something divine. And with the moonlight casting her in a glow too holy for this world, Lu Sicheng slowly slid down her underwear—inch by trembling inch—never taking his eyes off her, never once rushing, never once giving her anything less than his full attention. Then his hands gently parted her thighs, and he looked up at her. "Let me show you," he said, his voice a promise she would never forget, "what it means to be wanted. Completely."
Lu Sicheng worshiped her with a reverence that stole the air from her lungs. There, on his knees before her bed, his hands warm and steady against the soft skin of her thighs, he looked at her like she was everything —not just beautiful, not just his, but sacred. And when he dipped his head between her parted legs, breath hot against her skin, she shivered so hard her fingers twisted into the sheets. He kissed her softly at first. Testing. Learning. His mouth was gentle but deliberate as he tasted her like something he never wanted to rush, like something to savor and memorize until there was nothing else left in the world but the sound of her breath catching and the trembling pull of her hips toward his mouth.
And when she moaned—soft and helpless, her head tipping back against the pillow—his fingers slid slowly along her inner thigh and pressed just right, working in tandem with the slow, torturous rhythm of his tongue. He listened to her like a symphony, adjusting each motion with exquisite precision to draw out every sigh, every sweet broken sound, every shuddering whimper she offered him as if she didn't know how to hold it back anymore.
He took her apart. Slow. Intoxicating. His name left her lips in a shaky breath, barely more than a whisper, as her fingers reached for him, needing to anchor herself in something—someone—as he kept going, coaxing her higher, deeper, until she didn't know where she ended and he began. When she finally shattered beneath him, her thighs trembling around his shoulders, her back arching off the mattress, she cried out his name again—this time louder, with no shame, no fear, no hesitation. Only him. Only Sicheng. He kissed the inside of her thigh once more—gentle, reverent—before finally rising, his hands sliding up her waist as he leaned over her trembling body, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. "Perfect," he whispered, voice low and rough, breathless from holding himself back. "You're perfect."
Her body still trembled faintly from the aftershocks, flushed and glowing beneath the sweep of moonlight and the weight of everything he had just made her feel—everything she had given him.
Sicheng hovered above her now, bare-chested, still in control but softer, quieter, his amber eyes dark with restraint as he looked down at her. His hand cradled the curve of her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek like he was trying to memorize the way she looked right now—so open, so trusting, so his. But still… He kissed her forehead, slow and warm. Then pulled back just slightly, voice low, ragged with control.
"Yao…" he murmured. "Before we go further—I need to ask you one more time." She blinked up at him, lips still parted, her body pliant beneath him, but her eyes—her eyes were clear. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Do you have protection? Because if not, we'll wait. I'll wait. I'm not risking you. Not once. Not ever."
Her hand came up to brush across his ribs, and her voice, though soft, was sure. "I'm on the shot," she whispered, cheeks flushed, breath still shaky from how he'd just undone her. "I trust you." Her fingers curled gently into the waistband of his pants, and she stared up at him, wide-eyed, vulnerable in a way that made his chest ache. "I heard it hurts more with a condom," she whispered. "And I want it to be you. Just… you."
Sicheng let out a breath, deep and low, every muscle in his body fighting the restraint still holding him back as she laid herself bare with nothing but that quiet, trembling honesty. He leaned down, kissing her lips slowly, then her forehead, her cheek, her jaw. "I'll make it good for you," he murmured against her skin. "I swear it." Then, slowly, reverently, he sat up and stripped the rest of the way, peeling away the last barrier between them without flourish or pride, only intention—only her. She stared at him with wide eyes, awe and nerves curling behind every breath, and he pressed his hand over hers as he guided her to rest against the sheets, his voice steady and firm. "You already came for me," he whispered, eyes locking with hers. "You're stretched, soft, and ready. But I'll still go slow. I'll make sure you feel safe. And if you need me to stop—you say it, and I will. Immediately."
She nodded, breath hitching as her fingers brushed along his arm. "I want this," she whispered, "with you."
He kissed her again soft, deep, promising her everything. And then he reached down, guiding himself with a patience carved from months of restraint and reverence, and began to show her what it meant to be wanted by someone who saw every piece of her… and loved all of it. He moved over her slowly, reverently, the warmth of his body pressing down just enough to let her feel it—him—without overwhelming her. Lu Sicheng braced himself on one forearm beside her head, his other hand sliding gently beneath her lower back, supporting her, guiding her. His eyes never left hers.
He watched every breath. Every shift. Every flicker of emotion that crossed her face. And when he aligned himself with her, his hips nestled between her thighs, her skin soft and flushed from what he'd already given her, she trembled again, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of what she was letting happen. What she was asking for. He kissed her deep, slow, anchoring. And as his hips pressed forward and he began to enter her, his lips never left hers. The stretch was sharp. Her breath hitched in her throat as she let out a soft, high whimper, her fingers digging lightly into his shoulders.
He felt it, her body struggling to adjust, to make space for something entirely new. And so he stilled. Kissed her deeper. Swallowed the sound. "I've got you," he whispered into her mouth, voice low and shaking with restraint. "You're doing so well, sweet girl. Just breathe. I've got you." He didn't move, just held her. His hand cradled her lower back, his mouth pressing kisses to her jaw, her cheek, her temple, waiting with the kind of patience that only came from love. When she relaxed just slightly beneath him, her breath finally starting to ease, her thighs no longer as tense, she nodded against him, a silent permission. He moved again, just a little deeper, another kiss to her cheek. More whispered words. "So warm... so tight… you're doing perfect for me, Wǔ xiān." And then, with one final breath, he slowly—carefully—pushed in the rest of the way, filling her inch by aching inch, until he bottomed out inside her. She gasped again, the stretch still tender, but the way his hand stroked her waist and the way his mouth never left her skin kept her grounded, floating in sensation. He stilled fully, breathing hard now, fighting every urge to move too soon. "I'll wait," he whispered, brushing her hair back from her damp temple. "As long as you need."
Her eyes fluttered open, watery with emotion, but she nodded, her body trembling as she whispered back, "I'm okay… don't stop."
He kissed her again. And stayed there, deep inside her, his body pressed close, his voice low and endless in her ear. "You're mine now," he breathed, "and I'm yours." And with that, he began to move. He moved inside her with the kind of control that didn't come from restraint alone—but from intention. Every inch, every roll of his hips, every soft inhale drawn between their joined mouths was deliberate, steady, reverent.
Sicheng shifted slightly, one hand gliding down her thigh, fingers curling beneath her knee as he lifted her leg and slowly guided it around his waist. The change brought her closer, deeper, let him feel more of her, more warmth, more softness, more of the trembling vulnerability she'd given him so freely.
Yao gasped, a soft, breathy sound that caught in her throat and rolled into a whimper as he sank back into her again, deep and slow, hips meeting hers in a rhythm so measured it made her tremble. Her fingers curled into his shoulders, her free leg sliding along the sheets as she arched beneath him, her lips parting as another soft moan escaped.
Sicheng's breath shuddered and then he kissed her. He kissed her the way he moved inside her—like worship. Deep, firm, slow. "I love you," he whispered against her lips, his voice ragged, raw. "I love you so much it terrifies me."
She whimpered beneath him, hands gripping his back like she couldn't hold herself together without him.
"You're perfect," he murmured, lips brushing the edge of her jaw. "So beautiful. So good." Another slow thrust. Another soft sound from her lips. "You feel like heaven," he groaned, forehead resting against hers as he rocked into her, his pace never faltering, never harsh—just a steady rhythm of claiming wrapped in love . Her leg tightened around him, her body moving in sync with his now, their breaths falling into rhythm, the quiet sounds of skin and sighs filling the space between them. "I'll give you everything," he whispered, voice thick as he pressed kisses along her throat. "Every part of me. Every day. Always." And with every slow, deep stroke, he poured it into her—his devotion, his worship, his heart. Because he wasn't just making love to her. He was becoming hers. The rhythm between them had deepened into something molten, something slow and endless, like time had folded inward and all that remained was this —his breath against her skin, the press of his hips against hers, the way her body welcomed him with every stroke, soft and tight and trembling around him. Sicheng stayed close, his forehead resting against hers, their noses brushing, their breaths mingling in the space between kisses and gasps. His pace never lost its purpose, each thrust deep and deliberate, sliding into her like he was imprinting himself with every inch he gave.
Her fingers clenched at his back. Her voice cracked against the curve of his jaw. "I—" she gasped, then swallowed hard, breath catching as he rocked into her again, slow and steady. "Sicheng…" His name fell from her lips like prayer.
He lifted his head slightly, lips grazing hers, his voice low, hoarse with restraint and need. "What is it, Wǔ xiān?"
Her eyes fluttered open—soft, shining, filled with emotion she could no longer hold in. "I love you," she whispered, her voice breaking as the truth escaped her in a tremble. "I love you so much I don't know how to hold it."
He stilled, for just a breath of a second, like those words had reached into the center of his chest and clenched it. Then his mouth claimed hers—gently, reverently—as his hand slid between their bodies, finding the soft place where she ached for more. He kissed her like a man overcome, like everything she'd just said had shattered whatever restraint he had left but remade him at the same time. His fingers began to move in slow, firm circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, never rushing, never losing the tempo of that deep, measured pace that had her writhing beneath him. Her moans were softer now, intimate, each one a whisper of his name, broken and breathless, her voice catching as her body began to tremble again. Her leg tightened around his waist, her back arching into him, chasing his touch with the kind of trust that left him undone. "That's it," he murmured against her lips, his voice shaking. "Let me feel it. Let me have all of you."
"Sicheng—" she whimpered, eyes closing as her fingers gripped his arms, her body curling into him.
"I've got you," he breathed, moving deeper, fingers working her with slow, knowing precision. "I've always had you." And as she began to fall apart beneath him again, whimpering his name like it was the only word she remembered, he held her through it, never letting go, his mouth kissing away every cry, every tremor, as he gave her all of him. Every inch. Every word. Every breath.
Yao trembled beneath him, her fingers fisted tightly into his shoulders, her lips parted around soft, desperate cries of his name. Her body arched, her thighs trembling around his hips as his fingers continued their slow, firm circles, his voice a broken litany of devotion against her ear— so good, so perfect, mine, all mine. And then she came undone. Completely. Her body seized around him, pulsing and clenching, her walls squeezing him so tightly it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. She cried out softly, high and breathless, his name slipping past her lips like a confession she couldn't hold back, a sound so raw and unguarded it nearly brought him to his knees. "Sicheng—!"
The second he felt her break, her body trembling with release, her legs locking around his waist, he lost control. With a deep, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, grinding his hips into hers with slow, deliberate force, so deep it made her gasp again, overwhelmed and overfilled. Her release still rippled through her, milking every inch of him with breathtaking intensity, and it was too much. He came with a growl of her name against her neck, voice thick with need and love and awe as he pulsed deep inside her, his hips jerking once, twice, as he spilled into her completely, holding her tight against him like he could fuse their bodies together through sheer will. "Yao—" he breathed, voice cracked and reverent. And when it was over, when every last tremor had passed, he didn't move. He stayed inside her. Held her. Breathed her in. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other cradling her head as he whispered again and again, "I love you," between kisses pressed into her sweat-damp temple, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth. Because in that moment, there was nothing else. Just her. His. Always. The world had quieted to a hush, the moon still casting silver light across the tangled sheets, their bare limbs woven together in the softness of the night.
Yao lay curled into Lu Sicheng's chest, her fingers splayed over his heart as it beat slow and steady beneath her touch. Her breath was warm against his skin, her body exhausted and trembling still from everything he'd given her, everything he was. And he held her like she was the only thing that mattered. One hand stroking through her mussed golden hair, the other wrapped around her waist, keeping her close, anchoring her in the silence that followed something holy.
"You're mine," he whispered against her forehead, voice low and raw, thick with the weight of everything he meant. "No matter what comes… you're mine."
She nodded softly, her voice barely audible. "And you're mine."
He kissed her again, slow, deep, the kind of kiss that didn't seek more… just promised. "I'm never giving you up," he murmured. "Not for anyone. Not for anything. You're my forever, Yao."
She closed her eyes, a soft, shaky smile playing on her lips as she curled deeper into his chest, her body limp with trust.
A few moments passed in quiet peace, their bodies pressed close, her legs tangled with his beneath the sheets, before he shifted slightly and whispered near her ear, "Stay here a moment. I'm going to start a bath—you'll need it."
She flushed but didn't protest, only nodded, her body too sore, too full of him, too loved to argue.
He kissed her temple, lingered there for a moment longer, then slipped from the bed with practiced quiet.
Yao lay still, her eyes fluttering open briefly to watch him walk toward the bathroom, broad shoulders relaxed, his hair mussed from her fingers, his body completely unguarded in the soft light as the door clicked open. Moments later, the sound of water running filled the space, and when he returned, he didn't say a word, he simply leaned over, wrapped her gently in the sheet, and lifted her into his arms like she weighed nothing. She buried her face in his neck as he carried her into the bathroom, steam already rising, the scent of the lavender oil he must've found in her cabinet hanging in the air. The tub was full, the water perfectly hot.
Sicheng stepped in first, settling back with her still cradled against him, his legs stretched out beneath the surface, her body tucked to his chest. The heat seeped into her slowly, soothing, calming.
But she flushed again when she felt him reach beside them, his hand dipping into the water before emerging with a soft cloth. She didn't speak, not until his fingers parted her legs gently beneath the surface. "Sicheng—" her voice came out startled, breathy, her thighs twitching with flustered panic.
He only kissed the side of her neck, his voice soft as silk. "Shh… I'm just cleaning you up. You need this." And with quiet, careful motions, he began to clean her. Not rushed. Not rough. Gentle. His touch between her legs was slow and respectful, his other hand stroking her side to keep her calm as the cloth moved through the warm water. He didn't leer. He didn't smirk. He watched her, eyes burning with something deeper— devotion. "You're mine," he whispered again. "And I take care of what's mine."
She buried her face in his throat, flushed to her ears, her fingers gripping his arm tightly as he continued, tender and unhurried, as if cleaning her was an act of love, not routine. And in his hands, in his lap, in that warm bath with his arms around her, she realized she'd never felt more cared for. Or more his. The warmth of the bath eventually lulled them into a silence that didn't need filling, one of those sacred kinds of quiet where hearts beat loud enough to say what words no longer needed to.
Yao remained curled into Sicheng's chest, her body soft, flushed, and pliant, the water lapping gently against their skin as his hand continued its slow, steady strokes across her back. His other had long since set aside the washcloth after gently, thoroughly cleaning her, but he still held her close, like he needed the weight of her against him to believe this was real.
When the water finally began to cool, he shifted slightly beneath her and whispered against her hair, "Time to get out, beautiful."
She hummed in response, unwilling to move at first, but he coaxed her gently, lifting her with practiced ease, one hand supporting her thighs, the other at the small of her back.
The towels were already laid out, thick and warm from the heating rack. Sicheng wrapped her in one, pressing a soft kiss to her damp shoulder as he did. Then he toweled off her hair with slow, careful motions, like he wasn't drying her so much as worshipping her in small, reverent gestures. After, he picked her up again, because she didn't protest, because she let him—and carried her back into the bedroom, laying her down on fresh sheets before sliding in beside her.
She curled into his chest, hair damp against his skin, her legs tangled with his beneath the blanket as his arm wrapped protectively around her middle.
"You still alright?" he murmured, voice low with sleep and something heavier—devotion.
She tilted her head just enough to look up at him, eyes half-lidded, dazed and filled with so much more than she could put into words. "I've never felt more safe," she whispered, her fingers brushing lightly against his chest where his heart still beat strong and steady beneath her hand.
He leaned down and kissed her slow, not to begin again, but to seal what they'd shared. And as the night wrapped around them, and the moon drifted west beyond her window, Tong Yao drifted to sleep in the arms of the only man who had ever made her feel like she could stop bracing for the fall. Because she had already fallen. And he had caught her.
The next morning...
The sun crept in slow, pale, and quiet, spilling over the edges of the drawn curtains and brushing against her skin in faint gold. Tong Yao stirred first, blinking against the warm light, her body warm and comfortably sore, her legs still tangled with his beneath the sheets.
She shifted slightly, and immediately, his arm tightened around her waist—still asleep, but instinctively holding. She turned her face toward his chest, smiling softly against his skin.
And then—right on cue—a sound came from the door.
A low mrowr.
Then another.
She blinked again, and this time, her voice came out still hoarse with sleep. "…We forgot to feed them."
Da Bing meowed again.
Xiao Cong pawed at the door, a small scritch scritch of claws against the wood.
Sicheng groaned softly and pulled her tighter against him, his voice muffled by her hair. "They can wait five more minutes."
"They're going to break the door down," she mumbled, giggling softly as she pressed closer.
"If they break it," he murmured, "you're still not leaving this bed without me."
She smiled, cheeks pink again—not from shyness, but from something deeper. Something happy. Settled. She had woken up in his arms, and for once, she didn't feel like she had to run.
Wrapped in the soft golden light of morning, their bodies still pressed close beneath the sheets, Yao rested her head against Lu Sicheng's chest and felt the quiet rhythm of a heart that beat only for her. Outside the door, Da Bing and Xiao Cong continued their determined protest, their meows rising like a chorus of feline outrage but inside that room, the world remained still, sacred, and untouched. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the protective curl of his arm around her waist, the faint brush of his lips against her temple as he whispered sleepily, "Good morning, beautiful."
And for once, there was no fear. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Only the truth that had settled in both of them with the weight of everything they had finally shared, that what they had built between stolen glances, quiet moments, and long, aching silences had become something real. Something unshakable. Something theirs.
Yao smiled softly against his chest and closed her eyes again, letting the warmth of him, the steadiness of him, and the absolute safety of being his wrap around her like the sheets still tangled around their legs.
They would get up soon. Feed the cats. Face the teasing and chaos waiting outside that door. But for now? Now was just this.
The girl with the lilies on her spine and the boy who had waited—always waited—until she was ready.
And now that she was?
He would never let her go.
Not ever.
And she would never ask him to.