Chapter 5: Part 2: The girl with Lillies on her spine
The ZGDX gym was usually quiet in the early afternoons, tucked between scrims and evening meal prep. Most of the team rarely used it outside of basic conditioning, preferring the comfort of their chairs and the glow of their monitors. But today, Tong Yao and Lao Mao had the space to themselves.
Or so they thought.
She had come down in a tight black sports bra and dark grey leggings, her hair pulled up into a loose bun that let the nape of her neck breathe. The moment she pulled off her oversized hoodie, Lao Mao—who had been setting up dumbbells and checking form—went perfectly still. Because down the length of her spine, starting just below the nape and trailing all the way down to the curve above her hips, was ink.
Not just ink.
Art.
Bloodred lilies bloomed at the top, vibrant and sharp-edged, petals dripping slightly as if dipped in fresh memory. Intertwined with them were silver and black lilies, layered like shadows and moonlight, curling over one another like they were guarding something deeply personal. The contrast of colors was breathtaking against the smooth pale stretch of her back.
"Yao-er," Lao Mao said, the name catching slightly in his throat.
She glanced at him, noticed where his gaze had landed, and blinked once. "Oh." Her tone was quiet, not shy exactly, but thoughtful. "You didn't know."
Lao Mao shook his head slowly. "No one does."
She took a breath, crossing the room with calm steps and reaching for her water bottle before leaning against the wall. The stretch of her arm shifted the curve of the lilies across her back, and the ink seemed to move like flame caught in the wind. "I got it after I broke up with Jian Yang," she said softly, voice neither bitter nor mournful—just clear. Honest. "It hurt. Like hell. Not just the tattoo. That whole year."
Lao Mao didn't speak, simply listening.
"He made me feel like I wasn't enough. Like I had to be quiet and pretty and convenient. Something to brag about until something shinier came along." She looked up at him, her chocolate eyes calm, but burning at the center. "So I marked my back with the things I wanted to carry instead—pain, yes. But also strength. Rebirth. Lilies are for mourning and renewal. The bloodred ones are for what I lost. The silver ones… are for what I became after."
Lao Mao's throat worked silently. "And the black ones?"
She smiled faintly. "For the things I buried."
He stood quietly beside her for a long moment, the respect in his expression heavy, palpable.
"That's why I never let anyone see it," she added with a small shrug. "Not until I'm ready."
Lao Mao gave a slow, thoughtful nod, and just as he was about to respond, the gym door creaked open behind them.
They both turned.
And the entire team—Yue, Pang, Lao K, Ming, Rui, and Sicheng—stood frozen in the doorway like a group of cartoon intruders who had just walked into a museum after hours.
Pang's mouth opened. Closed. "Holy hell, Xiao xiān… you have a tattoo?"
Yue was already halfway to having a spiritual crisis. "Down her entire spine? Is she a boss battle now?!"
Lao K, blinking, muttered, "Those are lilies…"
Ming pushed his glasses up. "Bloodred. Black. Silver."
And Sicheng?
Sicheng's amber eyes had darkened like a gathering storm. Not out of anger. Out of awe. Out of the quiet, lethal protectiveness of a man who already knew he was in too deep and now had to contend with the visual confirmation that the woman he wanted was even more stunning, even more scarred, even more unapologetically herself than he'd realized.
Yao, flustered but refusing to retreat, rolled her eyes as she took a sip from her water bottle. "Jinyang has one too," she muttered. "Hers are pink and gold and silver. We got them together."
Yue made a strangled noise and collapsed into a nearby bench. "You two are secretly badass warrior queens and I've been living in ignorance."
Sicheng still hadn't moved.
Not until she looked at him, brow raised slightly in defiance. "What?" she asked.
He stepped forward, slowly. "I think," he said, voice deep and low, "that I need to see it again. Slower. Without an audience."
Yao nearly dropped her bottle.
The second the words left Lu Sicheng's mouth— "I need to see it again. Slower. Without an audience"
Tong Yao went red. Not pink, not flushed, but scarlet, the color blooming across her cheeks, up her ears, and down her throat in a wave of sheer mortified disbelief. "Nope!" she yelped, pointing a sharp, trembling finger at him. "Not happening! Not now, not in this lifetime, not unless everyone else in this base is either blindfolded or unconscious!"
Pang wheezed in laughter and ducked behind Lao K for cover.
Yue, who had recovered from his earlier theatrics just long enough to zero in on the rising blush threatening to overtake Yao's entire face, clutched his stomach and cackled with wild glee. "Oh, this is so good," he gasped, doubling over. "So good. Our bunny is fierce and terrifying with a sword of logic, but the moment Captain Casanova here says something remotely possessive, she turns into a tomato!"
Yao, already flustered beyond saving, narrowed her eyes at him, her voice icy despite the heat in her cheeks. "Keep laughing, Yue. I dare you."
Yue didn't even flinch. He straightened with a cocky smirk, arms crossing over his chest like he was ready to deliver a full-blown dramatic monologue. "Oh, come on, Yao-er. What are you gonna do? Lecture me to death? Use your death glare? Break my mouse DPI settings again? What, toss me to Da Bing?"
She didn't respond. She moved. Quick as lightning and with all the smooth, deadly grace of someone who had absolutely wrestled before, Yao lunged forward, dropped low, swept Yue's legs out from under him, and in a blur of motion—
Slammed him flat onto the mat.
A collective "OHHHHHHHHH—" rippled through the rest of the team as Yue's body hit the floor with a thud and a half-cough.
And before he could so much as blink, she was on him. Legs locked tight around his shoulders, thighs clamped on either side of his head, one hand gripping his wrist and the other balancing her weight over his chest. "Yield," she said sweetly, smiling down at him with eyes that did not match her voice.
Yue's muffled voice squeaked out beneath her. "Thith ith not how I thought my day would go—"
"Yield."
He tapped the mat with one hand furiously. "Yield! Yield! I yield!"
Yao calmly released the hold and stood, dusting off her leggings while Yue groaned from the floor, completely stunned, blinking up at the ceiling like he was reevaluating every decision that had led him to that point.
Pang was howling. "She choked him with her thighs! She choked him with her thighs!"
Lao K looked vaguely impressed. "He kind of asked for it."
Ming muttered, "That's what happens when you poke a bunny with a death wish."
And Sicheng?
He was silent. Eyes dark. Expression unreadable. Until a small, deadly smirk curled the edge of his lips as his gaze swept slowly— very slowly—over the woman who had just taken down his younger brother with surgical, thigh-powered efficiency. "Well," he murmured, voice low and heat-laced, "now I want to challenge you."
Yao turned beet red again and shouted, "Not happening either!"
Sicheng moved. He stepped forward with calm, predatory precision, the kind that didn't announce itself with sound but presence, peeling off his hoodie in one fluid motion, tossing it carelessly to the side. His shoes were off before she even realized what was happening, bare feet brushing the edge of the mat as he closed the distance between them.
And for the first time that day, Tong Yao froze. Her breath caught. Because the look in his eyes wasn't teasing. It wasn't amused. It was dark, lethal, focused entirely on her as if she were the only thing in the room worth chasing and she knew instantly that this time, there would be no darting away, no retreating to safe distances or pretending the air hadn't turned heavy with something sharp and electric. "S-Sicheng," she stammered, eyes wide as she took half a step back.
He followed. One pace. Then another. His steps slow. Silent. Inevitable.
Yue sat up, dazed. "Is this… happening again?"
Pang reached for his phone, already recording.
Yao lifted her hands as if to stop him, but Sicheng didn't stop moving.
"You want a challenge," he said, voice low, smooth, and terrifyingly calm, "then you better be prepared to finish it, Wǔ xiān."
She backed up one more step and bumped into the wall, her spine going rigid as he approached and planted one hand beside her head, not caging her in, but claiming the space.
"You can choke my brother out in front of me," he murmured, voice like velvet over iron, "but you don't get to run anymore."
Before she could respond, Lao Mao, still standing nearby with his arms crossed and a perfectly unreadable expression, cleared his throat and stated in the same calm tone he used for lane communication: "If you hurt her—emotionally, physically, psychologically—I'll make you run six miles with me."
Sicheng didn't turn. "That's not a threat."
"It is when it's at my speed," Mao replied, deadly serious.
Pang whispered, "He once lapped Yue. Twice."
Yue nodded solemnly. "There were tears."
Sicheng smirked. "Noted." Then he leaned in just slightly, his mouth brushing against the shell of Yao's ear, and whispered, "I don't plan on hurting her. I plan on keeping her."
Yao's knees wobbled and somewhere, someone dropped their protein shake.
The room, already thick with anticipation, turned into a living pressure cooker the moment Yao blinked up at him, cheeks still pink, breath short, but her chin lifting in that quiet, unmistakable defiance that meant only one thing. Challenge accepted. She didn't speak. Didn't warn him. She just moved.
A sharp pivot to the side, ducking under his arm, her feet gliding silently over the mat as she dropped low and tried to sweep him off balance. The first time, he saw it coming. Stepped back. Countered. His hands reached for her waist with sharp precision, aiming to lock her against him but she twisted, spun, and shoved his wrist away with force that belied her size. He grinned. Low. Dangerous. And lunged.
The others had already backed off to the edges of the gym, eyes wide, snacks abandoned, Pang whispering prayers and Yue whispering death sentences, but no one dared interrupt. They moved like flame and wind—wild and untouchable.
She slipped under his guard again, landing a palm to his chest that would've shoved most people off balance. He caught her wrist. Spun her around. Hooked an arm around her waist and lowered her hard to the mat. She landed with a sharp breath, back flat, his body over hers, one hand braced beside her head, the other catching her forearm just as she tried to elbow free. His knees caged her hips, the tension between them almost unbearable. Their eyes met. "You done yet?" he asked, low, smug, his breath brushing her cheek.
Yao narrowed her eyes and smiled. "No." Before he could register the shift, she twisted her hips, dropped her weight back against the mat for leverage, and in one clean, practiced motion—
She flipped him.
His body hit the mat with a solid thud , breath escaping his chest as she rolled on top of him, his wrists pinned flat beneath her knees, her hand pressing firmly against his sternum to keep him grounded.
The room exploded.
Yue actually screamed. "SHE FLIPPED HIM! SHE FLIPPED LU SICHENG!"
Pang dropped to his knees like he'd witnessed divine justice.
Even Lao K made a noise that might've been a suppressed gasp.
But Tong Yao didn't gloat. Didn't smirk. She simply stared down at him, flushed and breathless, hair loose from her bun, a bead of sweat trailing down her temple, chest rising and falling with adrenaline. "You assumed I'd stop once I was underneath you," she whispered, voice steady but soft.
Sicheng, flat on the mat beneath her, chest rising beneath her palm, gaze locked into hers, gave a single, sharp exhale—half laughter, half surrender. "Noted."
"You done yet?" she echoed.
He looked up at her. Really looked. And then, slowly, he smiled. "Never."
For a beat, the world held still.
Yao straddled Lu Sicheng, pinning him beneath her with firm precision, her hand pressed against his sternum, her legs anchoring his wrists. Her golden hair had come loose in soft waves, wild from the spar, a few strands sticking to her damp cheeks. Her breathing was shallow, controlled, but there was fire in her eyes, sharp, focused, blazing with the kind of energy that made time feel irrelevant.
And Lu Sicheng, despite being flat on his back and very literally restrained, had never looked more smug. Or more thoroughly undone. She stared down at him. His smile deepened. And just when the others thought it couldn't get more intense…. She leaned in. Not slowly. Not shyly. Deliberately. Her face hovered above his, close enough that he could count her lashes, close enough that her breath warmed his mouth, and then…. Her teeth nipped his nose. Quick. Blunt.
Decisive.
Sicheng's eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise.
Then she was gone. She sprang off him with fluid, dancer's grace, grabbed her hoodie from the bench like it was a war banner, and tore out of the gym in a flurry of bare feet and breathless adrenaline. The door slammed behind her hard enough to rattle the walls. A second later, the click of her bedroom door locking echoed faintly down the hallway.
Silence followed.
Utter.
Disbelieving.
Silence.
Until—
"She bit him," Yue whispered in reverence. "She bit him and ran."
Pang fell to the floor howling. "That's it. That's the match. GG. Game over. Yao wins. All teams surrender."
Ming didn't even look up from his phone. "That was either a warning bite… or a promise."
Sicheng remained on the mat for a few moments longer, staring up at the ceiling, expression unreadable, breath still shallow. Than he laughed. Low. Deep. Quiet. The kind of sound that slid under the skin and lingered there. Still lying flat on the mat, one hand came up to brush the spot on his nose she had nipped. And though no one could see his face clearly from their angles, the faintest curve of a grin touched his lips. She could run. She could lock the door. But she had nipped him. And he would be knocking on that door very, very soon.
Her door slammed with a force she barely registered, fingers fumbling with the lock until it clicked with a sharp, decisive snap. The echo of her retreat still rang down the hall, but inside her room, everything was muffled—except the sound of her heart, pounding so loudly it might as well have been a drumbeat rattling against her ribs.
Tong Yao stood in the middle of her room like a statue, wide-eyed, flushed to her ears, her hands trembling as she stared at the reflection in her vanity mirror. Her golden hair was a mess, loose and wild, sticking to her forehead and cheeks, her sports bra damp with sweat from the sparring match that had spiraled into something so much more. Her lips were parted slightly, her breathing uneven, and her entire face was painted in red. She looked unhinged. She looked daring. She looked like a woman who had just straddled Lu Sicheng in the gym, pinned him, nipped him on the nose and then ran like hell. Her fingers came up to cover her face as she let out a strangled noise halfway between a groan and a gasp.
"What the hell did I just do…" She turned from the mirror and began pacing, her bare feet gliding across the floor like a panic-stricken ghost. Her thoughts raced in a dizzying loop. He kissed me. He said I was his. He said he wanted me. That was real. That's real. But that, "That," she muttered aloud, pressing both hands to her flaming cheeks, "was so not me. Who the hell bites someone and bolts?!" Her knees gave out beneath her, and she collapsed into the cushioned bench at the foot of her bed, Da Bing staring at her from his perch on the pillow with wide, silent judgment in his eyes. "I know," she whispered to him miserably, "I'm a disaster."
She looked back toward the door. Still closed. Still locked. No sound from the hallway. Not yet. But she knew it was coming. Because Sicheng wasn't the kind of man to leave something like that unanswered. Not when she had kissed him without kissing him. Not when her thighs had pinned him, her mouth had branded him, and then she'd run. And not when he'd already promised he wasn't letting her go. Another groan slipped past her lips as she dropped onto her back, arm flung across her face. "I nipped him," she muttered, voice muffled by the crook of her elbow. "I nipped him and ran. And now I'm going to have to see him. And talk. And not spontaneously combust."
As if summoned by the words themselves, there was a knock. Not loud. Not hesitant. Just… there. Steady. Certain.
She bolted upright, panic flaring like wildfire. Her heart slammed harder against her chest as she stared at the door, like maybe if she glared hard enough, it would dissolve into mist and take the man standing behind it with it.
Another knock.
"Yao," came his voice—low, calm, but laced with something unreadable. "Open the door."
She clutched a pillow to her chest like it might ward off the chaos that stood outside. But the truth was, she didn't want him to go. She just didn't know how to face him after that.
"Yao."
She closed her eyes. Swallowed hard. And finally reached for the handle with fingers that trembled just slightly. The lock clicked, and the door cracked open—just enough for her to peek out, trying to arrange her face into something neutral, maybe even light, like she hadn't just melted into a puddle of panic and flustered chaos ten minutes ago. She forced a weak smile. "I wasn't running. Just—cooling down. Gym was hot—"
Sicheng was already there. Close. Too close. And the look in his eyes shattered every illusion she had about playing it off. He didn't speak. He didn't give her time to finish her excuse. He reached for her—hands warm, sure—and slid one arm around her waist, the other cupping her cheek with devastating care. She gasped, breath catching on his name, but he was already moving, already leaning in. His mouth captured hers in a kiss that stole everything. Not rushed. Not angry. Deep. Slow. Claiming. His lips moved over hers with heat and aching control, like he'd been holding back for days, weeks, and now that he finally had her, there would be no retreat.
Yao melted. Utterly. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt, holding on like she didn't know which way was up anymore. He pulled her flush against him, her body sliding naturally into the space carved for her in his arms. And with one firm step forward, he moved them both into her room—never breaking the kiss—his hand reaching behind her to quietly, deliberately shut the door.
The soft click of it closing was final.
His forehead rested against hers as the kiss broke, his arms still wrapped around her small frame, holding her so close she could feel every breath he took. "I told you," he murmured, voice low and warm against her lips, "you don't get to run."
Her fingers curled against his chest, her voice barely a whisper. "I didn't mean to."
"I know."
"But I panicked."
"I know that too."
She swallowed, breath trembling. "I've never been that bold before."
He tilted his head, brushing his nose lightly against hers. "You didn't scare me off, Wǔ xiān," he said softly. "You just made me fall harder." And with that he kissed her again and when he kissed her the second time, slower now, deeper in a way that made her knees weak and her spine turn to water, Tong Yao lost all sense of anything beyond the feel of him, the warmth of his hands, the scent of his skin, and the low hum of his breath threading through hers. For the first time, she wasn't thinking, wasn't overanalyzing, wasn't trying to guard the fragile parts of herself.
She was simply his, if only in this moment. But when she finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, her heart pounding against his chest, she wasn't expecting the look in his eyes. Gone was the smirk from earlier, replaced by something darker—slow-burning, intense. His gaze flicked down to her lips, then her throat, then lower still, until he finally lifted it again to meet her eyes.
And then came the smile. No, not a smile. A smirk. Wicked. Slow. Searing. The kind of expression that didn't hide desire, it announced it with unrepentant dominance. "Turn around," he said, his voice dropping into a rough, deep rumble that crawled down her spine like a slow, coiling current. "On your stomach."
She blinked. "What?"
"I want to see your tattoo," he said, the words so low and weighted with hunger it wasn't a request—it was a need. "Up close."
Her eyes widened, color blooming furiously across her cheeks as she stammered, "I—it's just a tattoo, it's not—"
"Yao," he murmured, stepping closer, "now."
Her breath hitched, the sharp command making her pulse skitter in her throat, but her body moved before her brain could catch up. Face still hot, she turned from him and crawled slowly onto the bed, fingers digging into the soft comforter as she lay down on her stomach. Her golden hair tumbled around her shoulders as she shifted, her breath uneven, heart pounding , and her back now fully exposed to him. The soft fabric of her sports bra dipped just enough to reveal the upper curve of red lilies blooming into silver and black as they trailed down the smooth stretch of her spine.
Sicheng's breath left him slowly, controlled, as he approached. He didn't speak. Didn't joke. He knelt at the edge of the bed beside her, one hand reaching out, hovering just above her back without touching for a second, then barely brushing against the first bloom at the nape of her neck. Her whole body shivered. His fingers trailed lower, featherlight. Following the ink. Tracing each petal. Each dark stem. Each curve that coiled across her spine like a secret only now being spoken aloud.
She bit her lip, trembling, her voice barely a whisper. "Sicheng…"
"Beautiful," he murmured, leaning down, breath ghosting over her skin. "Absolutely… stunning." And then his fingers pressed slightly firmer, dragging slow, reverent lines down the length of her back as if committing every detail to memory—not for curiosity, but for possession. The room was quiet, the air thick with something unspoken yet undeniable as Lu Sicheng leaned over her, his fingers continuing to drift slowly, reverently, down the delicate trail of bloodred, black, and silver lilies inked into her spine.
Tong Yao lay still beneath him, her breath catching with each pass, her fingers curled into the comforter, face half-hidden by the turn of her head, as if trying to will the heat in her cheeks to fade. But it didn't fade. It only grew. Especially when his touch stilled. And then his lips replaced his fingers.
The first kiss landed at the nape of her neck, just above the highest bloom, soft and warm, the heat of his breath making her shiver. Her shoulders tensed, not from discomfort but from sheer, startled sensation. Another kiss followed, just below the first, firmer this time, slower. His mouth moved lower, pressing into the ink with precision, with intention, as if each touch was a vow. The curve of a petal. The sweep of a stem. The dip of her spine. And with every press of his lips, Tong Yao drew in a little more sharply, the sound she made soft, barely audible, but unmistakably real. A breathless whimper. A small, stuttering exhale. A whispered sound that wasn't quite a word but something far more intimate—trust.
His mouth moved lower, tracing the curve where the lilies shifted in color, where black bled into silver, his hands planted firmly on either side of her waist now, steadying her as she shifted beneath him, her muscles twitching beneath the warmth of his kiss. "Every one of these…" he murmured against her skin, voice rough with emotion, "…is a piece of you."
She turned her face into the blanket, trying to hide the soft, flustered noise that escaped her.
Sicheng smirked faintly against her lower back, his lips never leaving her. "And I want them all memorized." Another kiss. Softer. Lower.
Her fingers fisted into the covers. "Sicheng," she breathed, voice shaky. "Y-you're not playing fair…"
"I'm not playing at all," he said, lips brushing just above the waistband of her leggings now. He paused. Letting the weight of that stillness press into her just as surely as his hands did. "Do you want me to stop?" The question wasn't teasing. It was serious. Grounded. Real.
Tong Yao, breathless and trembling beneath him, turned her head slowly, eyes dark and wide as she met his. "…No." Her breath hitched the moment she felt his teeth graze her skin, not rough, not forceful, but a deliberate nip, right at the base of one of the lilies etched along the delicate curve of her spine. It wasn't the pressure that startled her, it was the sensation, the boldness of it, the way it sent sparks rocketing through her nerves and curled something molten low in her stomach.
She gasped, fingers fisting tighter into the blanket beneath her as her entire body tensed, thighs trembling with the raw jolt of reaction she couldn't suppress.
Sicheng stilled. Just for a moment. His hands, planted firmly against the bed on either side of her hips, flexed slightly, the muscle in his forearm twitching. He lifted his head enough to see the side of her face, flushed and turned halfway into the mattress, her lips parted around unsteady breaths.
She spoke or tried to. "I—" she stammered, voice caught in her throat. "I've never—um—never done… more than kissing. And just… over-the-clothing stuff." Her voice broke at the end, mortified. It was barely audible, soft and hesitant, not ashamed, not afraid—just vulnerable. Exposed in a way far deeper than skin.
Sicheng's body went still again, this time for longer. His breath deepened. Not heavy. Not predatory. But tight. Restrained. Every inch of him that had been moving with purpose before suddenly locked into place, as if her words had drawn a line through the heat and dropped the weight of understanding onto him all at once. He lifted himself slightly, just enough to shift his weight off her without fully breaking contact, and looked down at her with a different kind of intensity now—still dark, still hungry, but threaded with something deeper. Respect. Reverence.
And something almost unbearably gentle. "You've never…?"
She nodded, still too flustered to meet his gaze, her voice barely above a whisper. "No one's ever gotten close enough," she admitted softly. "I mean—not in a way that felt… safe. Real. Right."
His hand came to rest at the center of her back, not pushing, not coaxing—just anchoring.
"You trust me?" he asked, voice low, voice careful.
She nodded once. Slow. "Yeah," she whispered. "Too much, probably."
A faint breath of laughter left him, but there was no humor in it—only something raw, something fierce, something shaken. "I'm not going to touch you like that until you want me to. Until you ask me to," he murmured, his lips brushing the top of her spine. "And when that time comes…" He paused, gaze burning into the back of her neck. "I'll show you just how much that trust means to me." Then, slowly, he kissed her tattoo again—soft this time. No teeth. Just warmth. Just reverence. Just him, telling her in silence that he heard her.
Tong Yao lay still for a long moment, her breath gradually slowing as the heat in her face began to settle, though her heart continued to thud softly inside her chest—slower now, but no less heavy. The air between them had shifted again, not cooled but deepened, growing heavy with something more intimate than touch, more vulnerable than bare skin. Slowly, she turned. Rolling gently beneath the press of his hand, she shifted onto her side and then further still, until she was facing him, golden hair spilling across her shoulder, her eyes wide and impossibly soft in the dim light. Her hands, still small and trembling faintly, reached for him, resting lightly against his chest as she pressed closer.
He didn't move. Didn't breathe for a second. Not until she leaned in and kissed him. Not with heat. Not with hunger. But with something far deeper. Her lips brushed his gently, reverently, lingering in the space between confession and gratitude, between vulnerability and want. A kiss without urgency, but filled with the weight of everything she wasn't ready to say aloud. Then she pulled back, not far, just enough to breathe, just enough to find the space between them and close it again as she tucked herself quietly into his arms, her cheek resting against the warm curve of his neck, her nose pressed into his skin as if hiding from the world, from herself, from the terrifying and beautiful truth of what this had become.
Sicheng let out a slow breath and wrapped his arms around her, tight, secure, protective in a way that was absolute. One hand slid up her back, fingers curling gently at her nape, while the other stayed low at her waist, anchoring her fully against him, holding her like he had no intention of ever letting her go.
And she?
She stayed. Curled into his chest, breathing him in, heart pressed to his heartbeat. For once, not running. Not hiding. Just home.
Over the next few months, something shifted within the walls of the ZGDX base—not loudly, not in some dramatic upheaval, but in the way seasons change: slow, certain, and impossible to ignore.
The team had always functioned well enough on paper, roles filled, plays executed, wins stacked. But now? Now they moved like a unit. Not just a team, but something tighter. Family. And at the heart of it all was her.
Tong Yao.
Golden-haired, sharp-eyed, soft-voiced Yao, who had once entered their world as an unknown variable and now stood firmly as its core. She was still the same, logical, sharp, unyielding when it came to her principles but there was something different in the way she moved now. More rooted. Steadier. The sharp edges still existed, but they were balanced with warmth, with quiet affection that surfaced in surprising ways, like the soft way she'd correct Yue's mid-game missteps without mocking, or the half-smile she gave Pang when he offered her the first pick from the snack box.
And through it all, Lao Mao never left her side. Their bond remained unshaken, unchallenged. If anything, it had only grown stronger. They trained together, they reviewed footage late into the night in silent tandem, and they communicated with the ease of people who understood each other without needing translation. Where others teased or bantered, she explained. Where others misunderstood him, she waited. And he, in turn, always made space for her—not just in-game, but in the quiet in-between moments where words weren't necessary.
More than once, someone had seen them sitting on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, eating quietly and watching old match replays with no words exchanged, just peace. And everyone knew: you don't disturb that. But the greatest shift had come between her and Sicheng. If they had once been gravity pulling in opposite directions, now they were aligned, unshakably, quietly, intensely.
He no longer watched her from afar with guarded curiosity. He touched her casually now, possessively, the way a man does when he knows what belongs to him and chooses to show it only in private moments, his hand at her waist during lunch line-ups, his fingers brushing hers when passing her a controller, the subtle way he moved closer any time someone new got too near. And she let him. More than that, she reached for him too.
Not in grand gestures. But in soft, lingering glances, the way her hoodie sleeves now almost always carried his scent, or the way she no longer hesitated to curl into his side when they watched VODs together, head against his chest as his arm curled protectively around her. They weren't loud. They weren't performative. But their closeness was undeniable. The others learned quickly, if Yao entered a room looking flustered and Sicheng followed looking like sin incarnate in a loose hoodie and calm smirk, no one asked questions. If she reached for his hand mid-meeting, Yue rolled his eyes, but no one dared say a word. And if Sicheng so much as sensed something was off with her, so much as caught a flicker of discomfort in her eyes—he moved with the kind of silent fury that made it very clear no one would ever hurt her and walk away without consequence. What had once been a team of individuals had, over time, become something else entirely. A unit. And at its center, the girl with the lilies on her spine.
Tong Yao had been in the middle of reviewing mid-lane pressure charts with Ming, crouched beside the coffee table with a pen in one hand and Da Bing sprawled across her feet, when the front door of the base slammed open so violently it echoed down the entire hall. She froze. Everyone else in the room did too.
Footsteps thundered in.
And then—
" Sicheng! Yue! "
A voice like rolling thunder exploded through the base, familiar in tone but laced with full-blown panic, and suddenly a man, tall, broad-shouldered, his expression caught somewhere between frantic and furious, came barreling into the living room. He looked exactly like someone had taken Yue and Sicheng, smashed them together with thirty years of refined chaos, and given him military posture and a flair for dramatics. His presence swallowed the room. His voice shook it. "Run for your lives!" he bellowed, eyes wide with something that looked suspiciously like real terror. "Both of you. Out the windows if you have to—don't use the front door, she'll be waiting—"
"Wait—" Yao blinked from her crouched position on the floor, completely stunned, pen halfway to the page. "What's happening—who is—"
Sicheng appeared from the hallway, already rubbing his temple. "Father."
Yue leaned out from the kitchen, holding a banana and chewing like he'd just seen a ghost. "You weren't supposed to come back until Friday."
The man—Lu Zheng, by reputation alone—whirled on them both like they'd personally betrayed him. "She's planning a fundraising gala," he hissed dramatically, eyes wild. "A formal, media-invited, ballroom-rented nightmare. And guess who she expects to be there, dressed like heirs of the dynasty with their oh-so-photogenic partners?! All of you."
Yao's eyes widened as realization slowly dawned. "Oh no," she whispered, horror spreading like a slow wave across her face. "Not Aunt Lan's kind of gala…"
"Yes," Zheng said, slumping into the armchair like a man facing his execution. "The kind with photographers and society matrons and themed dessert tables."
Yue paled. "She's going to make me wear another tuxedo."
"She's already pulled your measurements," his father said with all the bitterness of someone who had lived this nightmare far too many times.
Sicheng, voice dry, added, "She'll want a full roster of ZGDX in attendance. Press coverage. Strategic photo ops. Probably matching accessories."
Yao made a noise of horror and buried her face in Da Bing.
Zheng turned toward her suddenly, eyes gleaming. "And you—you, young lady—are the centerpiece."
She froze. "I—I what?"
"She's already sent swatch samples to the tailor. Gold and silver with pale rose. Something about complementing your hair. Do you know what that means?"
"She's going to make me wear a dress, isn't she?" Yao whimpered.
"A gown," Sicheng said grimly, walking toward her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "With a corset. And probably gloves."
"I'm going to die," she whispered.
Pang peeked out from behind a doorway. "Wait. Are we all invited?"
Zheng pointed at him like he'd walked into a minefield. "No one is safe. Not even you."
The chaos was still unraveling, Lu Zheng mid-rant about tailor tyranny and themed ice sculptures, Yue quietly mourning his fashion autonomy, and Tong Yao curled into herself whispering prayers to be struck by lightning before the gala could arrive, when the front door clicked. Not slammed. Not thrown open. Just a smooth, ominous click. And the room fell into absolute silence. The kind of silence that settled over prey just before a predator entered the clearing.
Every single person—Yue, Pang, Ming, Lao Mao, even Da Bing—froze.
Because they knew that sound. A second later, she walked in.
Madam Lu.
Aunt Lan.
Wife. Mother. Strategist. Social powerhouse. Dressed in a sleek tailored coat, heels clicking like punctuation, and eyes sharp enough to carve diamonds, she stepped into the living room like a queen reclaiming her throne. The aura she carried didn't shout. It didn't need to. It commanded. And her gaze, ice-cold and utterly unimpressed, swept across the frozen room— Until it landed on one man.
Lu Zheng. Her husband. The six-foot-two war veteran who had, moments ago, been declaring tactical retreat from an event that involved floral centerpieces. Her eyes narrowed.
Zheng, now halfway into the couch cushions, suddenly looked like a man who had been caught red-handed stealing state secrets. "Lan," he said, weakly, lifting both hands. "Let's talk about this—"
Too late.
She moved. One sharp step. One swift reach. And her fingers snatched his ear.
Yao gasped.
Yue whimpered.
Pang turned and ran.
Zheng let out a strangled yelp that was part betrayal, part surrender, as she yanked him upward from the armchair like he weighed nothing more than a guilty teenager. She turned gracefully, like a queen on parade and addressed the rest of the room with chilling calm, still holding her flailing husband by the ear as he grimaced behind her. "Fittings are tomorrow," she said crisply. "Ten a.m. sharp. Full formal wear. Hair neat, shoes clean. Be there—" Her voice dipped, dangerously quiet. "Or else." And without another word, she turned on her heel and dragged her husband out of the room, heels clicking, Zheng muttering under his breath about exile and martial law as the door shut with final, imperial elegance behind them.
Silence reigned.
Yue spoke first, whispering like he was afraid she'd hear him from across the city. "I'm starting to think Dad married up."
Sicheng sipped his tea and muttered, "That's the understatement of the century."
Yao, still frozen in place, blinked slowly. "…Am I the centerpiece or the sacrificial lamb?"
Da Bing meowed softly, and everyone unanimously took that as both.
It was later that evening when the base had mostly settled—if one could call the oppressive dread of an incoming formal fitting settled. Tong Yao sat curled on the lounge couch in one of Sicheng's hoodies, her knees pulled up to her chest as she scowled at her own reflection in the darkened screen of her laptop. The others were scattered around, picking halfheartedly at snacks, all of them stewing in the shared knowledge that they were about to be thrown into the jaws of a society gala orchestrated by a woman who could frighten CEOs into silence with a single raised brow.
Yue, ever the agent of chaos, had been watching Yao from his perch on the back of the couch for several minutes, chewing slowly on a piece of candy like he was contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Finally, he spoke—deadpan, blunt, and entirely Yue. "You know," he said, tone observational, "you're kinda weird for a girl."
The room collectively froze again.
Yao turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"
Yue shrugged. "I mean, you hate shopping. You hate makeup. You wear like… one color. You avoid formal events like they're diseased. You don't care about jewelry, or shoes, or handbags. You have zero interest in designer anything unless it's limited-edition keyboard gear."
From the hallway, Pang stuck his head in, grinning. "Don't forget she's also terrifying with a controller and can wipe a team in thirty seconds if you piss her off."
Yao sighed, resting her chin on her knees. "I just don't like all that other stuff. I don't see the point."
"It's not a bad thing," Yue said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "It's just… rare. Most girls I know would kill for a shopping trip funded by Madam Lu."
Before Yao could answer, Ming stepped into the room, tablet in hand, gaze sharp despite the relaxed slope of his shoulders. His voice, as always, was calm but now edged with something distinctly protective. "I don't see the problem," he said. "She doesn't like shallow things. She hates fake people. She doesn't pretend to be something she's not. She doesn't throw tantrums or play dumb to get attention. She's rational, she's sharp, and she has standards." He paused. "And she despises the word henpecked, which makes her the ideal woman in my book."
Yao blinked.
Yue blinked harder. "Wait—really?"
Ming looked up from his tablet. "Anyone who hates the idea that a woman being strong means a man is somehow 'controlled' by her? Yeah. That's the one."
Yao's ears turned red.
Pang whistled. "Damn, Coach out here preaching truth."
Yue muttered, "Okay, but I'm still not wearing that cursed tux tomorrow."
Yao's voice was soft. "Neither am I… hopefully."
All eyes turned to her.
And then—
A low, quiet voice cut in from beside her. Sicheng. Still sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched out along the back, his hand resting loosely behind her, thumb occasionally brushing her shoulder. He'd said nothing up to now, had barely glanced at the others, eyes half-lidded in that deceptively lazy way of his. But his voice now was very much not lazy. "Maybe," he murmured, his tone dark and edged with something rough, "she is the most ideal woman." His fingers curled slightly into the fabric near her arm. "But she's mine."
The entire room fell quiet.
Yue blinked once, slowly. "Okay. That was… that was something."
Pang whispered, "Do I need to clear the room?"
Yao, cheeks flushing instantly, turned and shot Sicheng a wide-eyed glare. "Could you not say things like that so casually?!"
He shrugged, entirely unapologetic, gaze now locked onto hers, burning with something far too intense for the casual setting. "Why? It's true."
Ming muttered without looking up, "And now I'll be noting that in the official team dynamic profile: Alpha Wolf unlocked."
Yao hid her face in the hoodie sleeves again. "I'm going to die before the fittings tomorrow."
Sicheng leaned in just slightly, his voice low and meant for her alone. "Not before I see you in that dress."
She squeaked.
The morning of the fittings arrived with a sense of impending doom thick enough to chew through. The ride over had been eerily quiet, each member of ZGDX nursing their own version of dread—except for Yue, who had spent the entire trip whispering "she can't make me wear cufflinks" under his breath like a man trying to manifest his own survival.
When they arrived at the studio, it was already worse than they imagined.
Madam Lu was there. Waiting. Perfectly poised in cream silk, seated like royalty with a tablet in one hand and a latte in the other, flanked by three designers, two assistants, a tailor with a tape measure draped like a sash, and a woman with color swatches fanned out like throwing stars. She barely glanced up as the door opened. "You're late." she said without looking.
"We're five minutes early," Pang whispered, stunned.
"You're late," she repeated.
They filed in like condemned men.
And then it began.
Fittings. Measurements. Pins. Cuffs. Silk. Satin. Threats. More pins.
Yue wailed once when someone tried to touch his hair.
Sicheng, unbothered, stood with his arms folded as a tailor adjusted the collar of a sharply tailored black suit that even he had to admit was lethal.
But the room shifted—completely—when the door to the private dressing area opened.
They hadn't seen her yet.
Yao had been tucked away since they arrived, swept into a whirlwind of fabrics and designs by Aunt Lan's personal team, and when she finally emerged, guided by a quiet stylist, the air in the studio froze. She stepped up onto the central platform beneath the soft overhead lights, adjusting her posture as the stylist moved away, and… Everything stopped. The conversation. The measurements. The air. The silence that followed was deep, immediate, and absolute.
Even Da Bing, who had been napping on a velvet-covered bench near the back, lifted his head.
Yao stood at the center of it all, shoulders straight, chin lifted slightly in self-defense but she was breathtaking. The gown, soft silver with intricate embroidery in pale rose and white-gold thread, flowed like moonlight around her, fitted to her waist and falling in elegant lines to the floor. The bodice swept across her chest in a clean, off-the-shoulder curve, dipping just low enough to leave the tops of her shoulder blades bare, where the edge of her tattoo just peeked above the silk. Her hair had been pulled into a soft twist, a few strands left loose to frame her face. She wasn't wearing makeup. She didn't need to. She looked like stillness. Like grace made flesh. Like a storm holding its breath.
Pang's mouth opened and no sound came out.
Yue, for the first time in his life, dropped whatever joke had been forming on his tongue.
Even Madam Lu looked up and actually set down her tablet.
But it was Lu Sicheng who moved first. Slowly. Silently. His steps carried him toward the platform with no urgency, but all the weight of inevitability. He stopped at the edge of the platform, his gaze never leaving her. There was no smirk, no clever remark. Only eyes dark with something deep, and voice low when he finally spoke. "Come down."
Yao blinked. "What?"
"Come down, Wǔ xiān," he repeated.
She stepped down, hesitant, unsure. And the moment her foot touched the floor, he caught her—hands at her waist, steady, reverent, anchoring her like she might vanish otherwise.
He leaned in. His voice was barely a breath. "You're the most dangerous thing I've ever seen."
The chaos resumed almost immediately after Yao stepped off the platform. Madam Lu, unsatisfied with the angle of Pang's lapels, the length of Yue's sleeves, and the fact that Lao K's shoes weren't polished to a mirror shine, had sent everyone back into fitting rooms with the grace of a general preparing her army for battle. She had declared loudly, and with the weight of divine authority—that their looks were unrefined, their postures disrespectful to the fabric, and if one more suit had a wrinkle, she would light it on fire herself.
In the middle of the storm, Yao had tried to slip away. Just for a moment. The gown was still fitted to her body, but the stylists had let her breathe, giving her five minutes to regroup before the final detail passes. She stepped into a quiet side hallway lined with empty racks and mirrors, pressing her back against the wall as she exhaled hard, eyes fluttering shut. Her skin still tingled where Sicheng's hands had held her waist. She didn't hear his footsteps. But she felt him.
Lu Sicheng turned the corner with the silent purpose of a man who had been watching for that exact moment, waiting for her to step away, for the crowd to shift, for the brief gap between pins and perfection to open wide enough for him to slip through. He didn't speak when he reached her. He didn't ask. He simply moved into her space, one hand bracing against the wall beside her head, the other settling low on her waist, fingers brushing over the embroidered silk with something far rougher than reverence.
She gasped, eyes snapping open as he pressed in close, his presence consuming her entirely. "Sicheng—"
"I've waited," he murmured, voice low and dark, "so long to see you like this."
Her heart stuttered. "In a dress?"
"No," he breathed, his eyes dragging over her like a man memorizing every angle. "Like this."
She swallowed hard.
"Open," he continued, his words a slow rumble, "stunning, untouched by all the noise. Yours. Fully yours. Unapologetically. Mine." And before she could speak—before she could take another breath…. He kissed her. Hard. There was no hesitation. No softness. It was deep, consuming, desperate with restraint he wasn't bothering to hide anymore. His mouth captured hers with the weight of everything he'd held back for weeks—months—pressing her back into the wall as if anchoring her there, grounding himself in the feel of her. Her hands came up instinctively, curling into his jacket, fingers trembling from the sheer force of the kiss and the overwhelming heat pooling low in her belly. He kissed her like he was starving. Like she was the only thing he wanted to taste. When he finally pulled back, just barely, his breath harsh against her lips, his eyes burned into hers. "I knew you'd be mine from the moment you walked into the base," he said, voice rough and reverent all at once, "but I've never seen you like this."
She stared up at him, dazed, trembling. "Then what am I right now?" she whispered.
His lips hovered above hers. "Everything I'll never let go of."
Tong Yao could barely breathe. Not because the dress was too tight or because the fitting room was too warm—but because Lu Sicheng's kiss had stolen the air from her lungs, the thoughts from her head, and the floor from beneath her feet. Her fingers were still curled into his jacket, the embroidered silk of her gown crushed between them, her lips swollen and parted as she blinked up at him, caught in the haze of everything he was and everything he meant when he said she was his.
"Everything I'll never let go of," he had whispered, voice rough, raw, and completely unguarded.
Her heart stuttered in her chest.
And without a word, she pulled him back in. This kiss was different. Still deep, still heady, but slower now, savoring. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck as she kissed him with all the quiet intensity she never knew how to say aloud. Her lips moved against his like a vow, a promise that she wasn't running, that she wasn't hiding, that he had her now, completely.
Sicheng groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through her as his hands settled more firmly around her waist, his fingers bunching the fabric of her gown. The taste of her, the feel of her, the way she melted into him like she was always meant to fit there—it all slammed into him like a tidal wave of mine. He didn't want to let go. And neither did she.
But then—
"SICHENG!"
The voice cracked like a whip through the hallway.
Both of them froze.
Yao's eyes widened.
Sicheng stiffened.
They both knew that voice.
Madam Lu. Commanding. Unamused. Too close.
Sicheng dropped his forehead against Yao's shoulder and muttered in a low growl that might've been prayer, curse, or surrender all at once, "Of course."
"She's going to kill you." Yao squeaked and shoved him back slightly, face flushed all over again.
"She's going to kill you." he shot back, though he made no move to actually separate from her.
The voice came again, closer now, sharper. "LU SICHENG, DO NOT THINK I DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU WANDERED OFF TO!"
He sighed, pressed a quick, lingering kiss to Yao's temple, and finally let her go with a look so possessive and full of promise it made her knees go weak. "Later," he murmured. "We're not done." He turned, composed himself in a single breath, and strode back toward the fitting room like the obedient son who hadn't just been making out with the centerpiece of the gala behind a row of empty garment racks.
Yao stayed behind for a second longer, breathing hard, clutching her chest like it could hold everything that had just happened in place. "…We're so dead."
Da Bing, seated like a judgmental cloud in the hallway, let out a meow that sounded a lot like agreement.
The night tucked in the soft hush of twilight, the ZGDX base warm with golden lamplight and the comforting scent of food drifting from the kitchen. The chaos of the fittings was behind them—barely, and only because Madam Lu had finally declared, with a nod of imperial satisfaction, that they "would do."
No one questioned her authority. Not even Sicheng. And now, the team— her team—was gathered around the long dining table, bowls of noodles passed back and forth, chopsticks clinking gently, the occasional laugh breaking the peace as if to remind them all that the storm hadn't come yet. But tonight? Tonight was calm.
Yao sat between Lao Mao and Sicheng, her knees tucked to the side, one hand wrapped around a warm bowl, the other lazily pushing tofu across her plate as she listened to Yue attempt to convince Pang to wear sunglasses indoors for the gala entrance "for drama." Pang, mouth full of dumplings, told him to wear pants that fit first. Lao K, leaning on one elbow with a bottle of tea, calmly added that if Yue embarrassed them tomorrow, he would pretend not to know him. Yue argued back that it would only be fair, since he didn't know him during the last charity match when K had face-planted onstage. Ming, dry as ever, suggested that they all stop giving Aunt Lan reasons to commit murder in front of the cameras. It was a mess. It was warm. It was theirs. Yao smiled softly, lifting her gaze from her food to take it all in.
Sicheng sat beside her, one arm resting on the back of her chair, not quite touching, but close enough that she felt the quiet weight of his presence anyway. He was listening, watching, his eyes sharper than they appeared. But when she glanced at him, he looked at her like nothing else in the room existed for that single moment. It was so subtle. So steady. So him. Her heart ached quietly in her chest—full, overwhelmed, grateful.
She looked across the table at Lao Mao, who was quietly spooning more soup into her bowl without asking because he'd seen her pushing the tofu aside. She looked at Pang, who was already halfway through planning a victory dinner for after the gala that included a "dessert war bracket." She looked at Ming, who despite his monotone delivery, always handed her the best chair without saying a word. She looked at Yue, obnoxious and loyal and loud, who would burn the world down for her with the same fire he used to light it up. And she realized…this was home. Not the walls, not the trophies, not the jersey stitched with her name. Them. They were her family. They had become it when she hadn't been looking. Her eyes prickled suddenly, and she ducked her head slightly, blinking fast.
"Yao?" Sicheng's voice was soft in her ear, low enough that the others didn't hear. "You okay?"
She nodded, smiling faintly as she leaned just a little closer, her shoulder brushing his. "Yeah," she murmured, "I'm really okay." And for the first time in a long time, she truly was.
It was late afternoon when the base door opened with its usual soft click, barely loud enough to draw attention from the team, who were all lounging in various states of post-practice recovery. Pang was sprawled across the couch flipping through a snack catalog like it held national secrets. Yue was curled upside-down in a gaming chair, muttering about how tomorrow's media schedule should be declared a human rights violation. Ming was dozing upright with a tablet still in hand.
Sicheng, who had been checking replays with Lao K, glanced up at the sound of the door. And then froze. Because she walked in.
Tong Yao, cheeks pink from the cold, her long golden hair slightly windswept, stepped inside with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder and something moving inside it. Not shifting. Squirming.
Immediately, Da Bing, who had been napping in the corner like the white mountain of judgment he was, lifted his head and narrowed his blue eyes with suspicion.
Yao paused just inside the doorway. "I brought something back," she said, her voice deceptively casual.
Sicheng stood slowly. "What kind of 'something'?"
Jinyang's voice shouted from outside, "I said one, not twelve!"
Yao ignored her. With the air of someone about to drop a very soft, very tiny bomb, she carefully unzipped the top of the bag… And out popped a tiny gray-striped head. Big silver-gray eyes blinked sleepily at the room. A soft, high-pitched meow followed, almost apologetic in its tone.
Silence.
Yao scooped the kitten into her hands and held it up like an offering. "He's five months old. Someone dumped him behind the café. I couldn't leave him there."
Sicheng blinked.
Yue was already off the chair and halfway to the kitten. "Oh my god. You got a baby. You got a tiny, fuzzy baby."
Pang gasped. "Does Da Bing know?!"
Da Bing, still watching from the corner, let out a long, low mrrowww that could have meant anything from traitor to is that a threat?
Yao, unbothered, gently cradled the kitten against her chest. The small creature curled into her immediately, purring as though it had found safety and warmth for the first time. "I'm naming him Xiao Cong," she said softly. "Because he's clever. And he's mine."
Sicheng walked over to her, his eyes on the kitten, then back to her face. "And Da Bing?"
She smiled sweetly. "He'll learn."
Sicheng stared at the tiny gray fluffball curled under her chin. Then muttered, "Of course you brought home another sharp-eyed predator with no sense of self-preservation."
The base had fallen into silence by the time the last of the lights were dimmed and doors began to close. The others had retreated to their rooms, worn out from the long day, their earlier laughter fading into soft echoes behind walls. But not him.
Lu Sicheng stood in the open doorway of the lounge, one hand braced lightly against the frame, his gaze fixed on the couch beneath the softest of lamplight, where a scene so disarming it made his chest ache was quietly unfolding.
Tong Yao lay curled up on her side, the thick hoodie she wore slightly rumpled, her cheek resting against the curve of a throw pillow, her lips parted in sleep. One hand was tucked beneath her chin, the other loosely draped over the tiny gray-striped body nestled against her stomach. Xiao Cong—new, small, uncertain—was fast asleep, breathing shallow and slow, his little ears twitching every so often as he dreamed. And at the curve of her back, stretched out like a self-appointed guardian, was Da Bing. The massive white Maine Coon didn't even blink at Sicheng. He simply looked up once, blue eyes sharp, then settled again—tail flicking once in silent approval.
As if to say, She's protected.
Sicheng didn't move. Didn't speak. He just watched. Watched the way Yao, who used to flinch from unexpected touch, now slept surrounded by fur and trust. Watched the way Da Bing's weight pressed against her like a shield, and the way Xiao Cong had buried his tiny face under her arm like he'd known her his entire life. And in the center of it all was her—small, soft, unaware of how fiercely she was loved, how deeply she was held, even in sleep. The girl who had once walked into his team like a storm he hadn't seen coming—and had somehow become the heart of all of it. The center of their small, strange, messy universe. And his. His jaw tightened slightly, not in tension, but in something closer to awe. His fingers twitched at his side like they wanted to touch, to pull her closer, to press his lips to her hair and breathe her in. But he didn't disturb them. Not yet. Not when she was at peace like this. He let himself take one more long look at the girl and the two strange, beautiful creatures curled around her like she was made of gravity and starlight. Then he turned and quietly pulled the lounge door halfway shut behind him. Because she was safe. And that was enough—for now.
In the days that followed Xiao Cong's unexpected arrival, the ZGDX base underwent a slow and subtle transformation—not just in daily routine, but in the hierarchy of its feline residents. Da Bing, who had long reigned as the silent and judgmental guardian of the base (and undisputed king of Yao's heart), had met the appearance of the gray-striped kitten with the same energy one might expect from a seasoned general confronted with a wide-eyed, clumsy recruit daring to breathe the same air.
At first, he did not engage. He observed. From across the room. From the top of the stairs. From beneath the coffee table with narrowed blue eyes and a flicking tail that signaled "I am watching."
Xiao Cong, blissfully unaware of the silent trial he was undergoing, had attached himself to Yao with a fervor that made Da Bing's ear twitch. The kitten followed her everywhere. When she was at her desk, Xiao Cong was curled under her chair. When she made tea in the kitchen, he perched beside the kettle, tail curled around his paws, eyes wide and alert. During practice matches, he draped himself across the back of her gaming chair like a living scarf—tiny, smug, and absolutely not concerned about screens or keyboards.
But it wasn't just her.
It was Lao Mao.
Yao's best friend, besides Jinyang.
Her carefree anchor.
Xiao Cong trailed him like a shadow—careful, soft-footed, never intrusive. He'd sit just behind his heel while Mao reviewed strategy, curl beside him while he stretched before training, and more than once, the team had found the kitten curled directly atop one of Mao's massive slippers, purring contentedly like it was his designated safe zone.
Lao Mao, for his part, never said a word about it. He simply glanced down, adjusted his seat if necessary, and let the kitten be.
Yao noticed first. "Da Bing is glaring at him again," she said one evening as they all gathered in the lounge, eyes flicking to the corner where the Maine Coon sat—watching. Again.
Sicheng glanced up. "He's vetting him."
Pang leaned closer, whispering to Xiao Cong as he gently lifted the kitten into his arms. "You're going to need a military clearance badge at this rate."
But the true shift came three days later.
It was quiet in the afternoon, the base half-napping between lunch and the next scheduled scrim, when Yao sat on the couch with her legs tucked under her, Xiao Cong dozing in her lap. Da Bing climbed up onto the couch—slowly, purposefully—and didn't sit beside her.
He sat beside the kitten. Right beside him. Not touching. But close enough that when Xiao Cong stirred in his sleep and stretched, his tiny back pressed against the larger cat's chest. Da Bing didn't move. Didn't hiss. Didn't flee. He blinked slowly, reached out, and with regal grace—began to groom the kitten's ears.
Yao blinked, stunned.
Yue, who had walked in at that exact moment with a bag of shrimp chips, froze. "Did he… did he just accept him?"
Sicheng, not even looking up from his phone, smirked faintly. "He's been watching. Measuring. Judging. Guess he's decided the kitten's not a threat."
Pang whispered reverently, "Or he's just tired of resisting the cuteness."
Yao reached out, gently brushing her fingers over both of their fur. "Welcome to the family, Xiao Cong." she whispered. The kitten purred in response. Da Bing, silent as always, just kept grooming.
The day of the fundraiser arrived like the slow crawl of impending doom wrapped in satin and glitz.
The ZGDX base had been up since dawn, thanks to Madam Lu's unholy alliance with three stylists, two photographers, and one event coordinator who'd shown up with clipboards and expressions that made grown men flinch. Yue had tried to hide in a bathroom—twice—and been forcibly extracted both times. Pang had attempted to fake a cold, only to be met with a thermometer, a glare, and a threat of IV drip glamour prep.
And then there were them.
Yao and Lao Mao.
The two that were now the quietest in the room. The two most likely to do their jobs without complaint. And the two currently standing in the hallway near the front entrance, both fully dressed for the evening, both staring down at the sleek black SUV waiting outside with tinted windows and floral embroidery detailing along the doors.
She wore a silver gown. The one Madam Lu had picked to compliment her eyes, her hair, her existence. Her makeup was soft and minimal but flawless, and the faint shimmer on her collarbones caught the hallway light as if even the building was rooting for her tonight.
He wore a dark navy suit with clean lines and a subtle dragon-scale pattern stitched along the cuffs—an understated nod to tradition he hadn't asked for but accepted without comment. His hair was neater than usual, and his expression was… the same.
Neutral.
Unmoving.
But not unreadable.
Yao glanced up at him slowly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the heels she wore making her all of an inch taller than usual. "Mao-Mao," she said quietly, "how much trouble do you think we'd be in if we ditched?"
Lao Mao didn't even blink. "Depends."
"On?"
"Whether we make it out the front door or get dragged back in by the ear like Lu Zheng."
She snorted under her breath.
He tilted his head, glancing at her sidelong. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
She looked up at him, deadpan. "If I run, you're running with me. I'm not suffering alone."
He nodded solemnly with mischief in his eyes. "Best friends don't leave each other behind."
"Exactly."
A pause.
Then—
"…Back window?"
Yao grinned. "I was thinking fire escape."
"Too exposed," he replied. "You shimmer in that dress. We'd get caught."
"I knew this thing was too sparkly."
They stared down the hallway again.
Silence.
Then, as one—
They sighed and stepped forward, walking in unison toward their fate.
Sicheng, standing at the end of the hall waiting for her, watched them approach—one in shining silver, one in midnight blue, both looking like reluctant celebrities walking toward a firing squad. "What were you two whispering about?" he asked, brow raised as he eyed them suspiciously.
Yao offered a beatific smile. "Just agreeing to stick together."
Lao Mao added, "As best friends do."
Sicheng narrowed his eyes. "You were trying to run, weren't you?"
Yao blinked, all innocence.
Lao Mao said nothing.
Sicheng looked at them both before he sighed at the pains in the asses because in all reality? If they tried to make break for it without him? He would kick their asses because if he had to suffer? They were going to suffer with him. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Just get in the car."