Summary: A simple knock at the door nearly shatters Sicheng's control, while a lunch meeting that should've brought comfort leaves Yao with more questions than answers. Familiar relationships shift, loyalties are tested, and behind quiet expressions and forced smiles, the foundation of what was once certain begins to crack.
Chapter Seventeen
Sicheng had always been difficult to shake, always prided himself on control, composure, and the ability to stay unaffected no matter the situation. But when Yao opened the door that morning, all of that nearly came crashing down.
He had knocked twice, exhaling sharply as he prepared to tell her they were heading to HQ in two hours. He had expected her usual sleepy grumbling, maybe a bit of fidgeting as she tried to fully wake up.
What he had not expected—
Was this.
The door cracked open, and there she stood—barefoot, hair completely messy, strands falling over her shoulders in a way that looked too much like she had spent the night tangled in the arms of a lover.
And she was wearing—
Sicheng froze. Not just a pause. A full-body halt. Because she wasn't wearing one of her usual oversized shirts or hoodies. She wasn't even wearing the hoodie of his she had claimed as her own. No—she was wearing a dark green, thin-strapped nightgown.
Short.
Too short.
The hem barely brushed past the curve of her thighs, leaving too much bare skin visible, too much softness peeking out beneath the fabric. It was simple, nothing extravagant, no lace, no embellishments—just soft fabric that clung lightly to her form, giving the illusion of something effortless, something easy.
And yet—
It was lethal.
Sicheng's entire body went tense, his gaze flickering for a second before he forced it back up to her face, focusing on the way she was rubbing at her eyes sleepily, her expression full of barely-contained irritation.
And then—she pouted.
Not a playful, teasing pout.
No.
A real, sulky, pouty glare directed straight at him, her lips pressing together as her brows furrowed, frustration clear in every fiber of her being.
And all of it—
The messy hair.
The nightgown.
The sleepy, half-lidded eyes.
The sulky pout.
—was killing him.
Yao, still blinking at him blearily, muffled a soft yawn before mumbling, her voice hoarse from sleep. "Why… are you waking me up before seven?"
Sicheng didn't answer right away. Because he couldn't. Because for the first time in a long, long time. He had nothing to say. Absolutely nothing. His brain, his usually sharp, quick, calculating brain, had completely, utterly short-circuited. And she had no idea. She had absolutely no idea what she was doing to him right now. He had no idea what to say. He, Lu Sicheng, tactician, leader, strategist—had absolutely nothing. His brain was not processing language. His mouth was not forming words.
"I am heading to HQ today in two years."
The second it left his mouth, he knew it was a disaster. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head once like that would reset the part of him that had just short-circuited entirely.
"I mean, in two hours."
She didn't question the mistake. Didn't tease him for it. She was too busy yawning, shifting her weight as her legs peeked further into view. It was not helping. "That's still not a good reason to wake me up before seven," she grumbled. "Besides, I can't go today. I have some lunch plans with Jinyang to talk." And then she pouted harder. A full-on sulky, scrunched-lipped expression that pushed her cheeks forward and made her eyes round with quiet protest.
Sicheng's self-control cracked like glass. He clenched his jaw, fingers twitching at his sides, his body so tightly strung he wasn't even sure he could relax if he tried. He needed to walk away.
Now.
Before he forgot that she was half-asleep and didn't know what she was doing to him. Before he stepped forward and backed her into that doorframe. Before he showed her, without words, exactly what she looked like to him right now. His voice dropped, the words low, rough, unfiltered. "Be careful when you go out today, Tong Yao."
She blinked at the shift, her expression flickering with subtle confusion. She'd heard it. The edge. The weight behind it. But she didn't ask. She didn't press. And he didn't let her. He turned before she could say anything, before he lost what was left of his sense, walking down the hall with sharp, even strides. He didn't look back. Because if he did….if he let himself see that damn nightgown one more time. He wasn't going to walk away. And he couldn't afford that. Not yet. Not when she still had no idea just how far gone he already was.
The café buzzed faintly with conversation, spoons tapping against ceramic cups, and the occasional hum of the espresso machine. Yao sat in the farthest booth, tucked neatly against the wall, her coat buttoned even though the indoor heating was warm. She'd arrived early. She always did.
Across from her, Jinyang stormed in, dropping into the seat with a dramatic huff, eyes flashing. "Ai Jia said Sicheng took your phone and hung up on him."
Yao blinked, caught off guard by the lack of greeting, and fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. Her voice came out quiet, hesitant. "He… didn't take it. I handed it to him."
Jinyang stared. "You what ?"
Yao's fingers curled tighter into her sleeve, eyes darting toward her mug. "I didn't want to argue anymore. And he… was right."
"Right about what?" Jinyang leaned forward, tone sharpening. "That you shouldn't go out with your friends ? That you need permission to leave the house now?"
Yao flinched slightly, shoulders pulling inward. "No, I just—" she swallowed, voice dipping even softer. "You never asked what happened."
That stopped Jinyang for a breath, but only for a breath.
Yao took a quiet inhale, fingers pressing against the warm mug, grounding herself. "The night I moved to the base… someone broke into my apartment."
Jinyang blinked, her lips parting.
Yao didn't raise her voice. Didn't push. She simply continued, her voice almost too soft to hear. "I was home. I hid in the bathroom and locked the door. I didn't have time to think." The mug shook slightly between her hands, and she tightened her grip. "He—Sicheng's security guy—he called him. Told him to come get me. And he did." She didn't say more. Didn't explain that the man had already been there watching from afar. Didn't say the intruder never made it past the hallway. She left those pieces in silence where they belonged.
Jinyang, for once, said nothing.
"I moved into the ZGDX base that night. Temporarily. For safety." Yao added, voice steadier now, even if her hands were not.
"And they made you work?" Jinyang asked, voice rising again.
Yao shook her head, firmly. "No. I asked. I wanted to help. I am helping. I'm ZGDX's part-time data analyst."
Jinyang scoffed. "That's not helping, Yao. That's burying yourself. You need to quit. I'll hire you for YQCB."
That did it.
Yao's expression didn't change much. Her voice didn't grow cold. But something in her spine straightened, subtle but unshakable. "You didn't ask me what I wanted," she said, finally lifting her gaze. "You came here angry. Deciding for me. Telling me what I should do."
Jinyang faltered. "I'm trying to help you."
Yao nodded once. "I know. But help that doesn't listen first… isn't help." The words were quiet. Blunt. And they made Jinyang sit back for the first time. "I'm fine at ZGDX," Yao said. "I'm working. I have my own room. I'm safe."
Jinyang blinked. "But you'd be safer at YQCB—"
"Would I?" Yao asked, blinking slowly. "When the Midlaner's girlfriend is trying to hire someone behind the board's back?" Jinyang opened her mouth. "I didn't think they'd like that," Yao added, more to herself than anyone else. "But… it doesn't matter."
Jinyang scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I own YQCB."
The words settled for a beat.
Yao blinked, confused. "You what?"
"I bought it. Full stake. All mine," Jinyang said, voice filled with pride. "Three days ago."
Yao stared, stunned. "You hate e-sports."
"You know why," Jinyang shot back. "Those Netizens were calling me names. Saying I was irrelevant. Riding Ai Jia's status."
Yao didn't say anything. She just blinked again. And something behind her soft eyes dimmed slightly. "So you bought a whole team," she said quietly. "To prove a point."
"It's about respect. " Jinyang snapped.
Yao nodded once, her expression unreadable. "Right." She stood, slowly, carefully adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. She didn't look angry. She didn't raise her voice. But she didn't sit back down either. "I'm not quitting ZGDX," she said simply. Jinyang stared. "And I'm not going to YQCB." Her fingers fidgeted once with the edge of her sleeve. "I hope… this works out for you. But I think you want something from me that I can't give." Jinyang opened her mouth, but Yao dipped her head slightly—a small bow, polite and distant—and turned. She walked out with quiet steps. Not because she was defeated. But because, for the first time, she was choosing something that belonged entirely to her.
The sky had shifted by the time Yao left the café.
What had been faint afternoon light filtered now through thick clouds, the kind that held back rain just long enough to lull people into false comfort. The wind had picked up, brushing against her coat and sweeping her silver hair across her cheek. She didn't mind. Not really. Her steps were quiet, her pace steady. She could've called a DiDi. Should've, maybe. But her body had needed the motion, the rhythm of walking, the space it gave her to think—quiet and uninterrupted.
The conversation with Jinyang still echoed in her head.
Not in sharp fragments, but in low, tired waves. The kind that didn't sting so much as press—dull and unrelenting. She hadn't said everything she wanted. But she'd said enough. She hadn't expected Jinyang to understand. But she had hoped. The weight of that disappointment settled in her chest like cold tea—bitter and familiar. A drop of rain landed on her cheek. Then another. Her steps didn't falter. She had her coat. She had her hood. It wasn't far. And she didn't want to be in a car. Not right now.
So she walked. The breeze picked up again. The clouds finally gave in. Light drops pattered softly against the pavement, dotting her shoulders, clinging to her sleeves. She kept walking.
Lu Sicheng's fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, the windshield wipers already swiping in intervals as the first streaks of rain began tracing lines across the glass. He wasn't in a hurry. The meeting had dragged. The board had been tolerable. And for once, he hadn't minded the silence afterward. But as he turned onto the stretch of road that led toward the base, a flicker of motion caught the corner of his eye.
Platinum hair.
Unmistakable.
He braked harder than necessary. His foot was already off the pedal before his brain finished processing. There—walking with her hood half-up, rain catching along her shoulders, her head slightly bowed but her steps steady—was Yao.
No umbrella.
No DiDi.
No sign of a ride.
Just… walking.
He stared for a half-second too long before his jaw tightened and he swung the car to the side of the road, hazard lights flashing as the tires rolled into gravel. By the time he got out, she had already taken another few steps. "Tong Yao."
She froze mid-step. The rain was steady now, soft but insistent. She turned slowly, her wide hazel eyes blinking up at him beneath the fringe of damp hair. "…You weren't supposed to be back yet," she said softly.
"You weren't supposed to be walking."
"I'm fine," she said immediately, too fast.
He stared at her.
She fidgeted.
He took a slow step forward, his voice low. "You could've called a car."
"I didn't want to." The answer came simple. Honest. A little stubborn. "I needed to walk."
Something in his chest gave. She wasn't flustered. Not now. Just quiet. Closed in. Holding herself together with the same precision she used when organizing match data—neat, efficient, fragile in its own way. "You're getting soaked," he said.
"I've had worse."
He looked at her again. The light rain traced down her cheek like the kind of tears she would never let herself shed in front of anyone. His voice softened. "Get in the car, Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
She hesitated. Her fingers curled into the sleeve of her coat. "…Are you angry?"
He blinked.
"No."
Her gaze dropped slightly. "I just didn't want to go straight back," she said. "I needed time. Jinyang—she—" she shook her head, silver strands sticking to her skin. "It doesn't matter."
He stepped forward again, close now, but not touching her. Never touching unless she saw it coming. "I told you before," he said quietly. "You don't owe her anything."
Her lip trembled. Just once. Then she nodded and stepped past him. He didn't stop her. Only turned, falling into step behind her. He opened the passenger door. She paused. Then slowly, carefully, she climbed in.
By the time he slid behind the wheel and closed his door, she had curled into herself in the seat, damp sleeves pulled over her hands. The silence stretched. He didn't break it. He just reached over, turned the heat up two notches, and wordlessly handed her the thick black hoodie that had been resting in the backseat.
She blinked at it.
"…Isn't this yours?"
"Yes."
She hesitated.
He didn't push.
Then—her hands reached out, tentative fingers wrapping around the hoodie's edge, pulling it into her lap like armor. "…Thank you."
His knuckles flexed once on the steering wheel. Then he pulled away from the curb—slow, steady, constant. She didn't say anything else. She didn't need to. She was still here and that was enough.
By the time they pulled into the gated drive leading toward the base, the rain had settled into a light mist, soft and clinging to the air, more fog than storm now. The world looked blurred beyond the windshield, like the edges had been softened on purpose. The car came to a smooth stop.
Yao didn't say anything. She didn't need to. She uncurled herself slowly from the passenger seat, one hand still gripping the borrowed hoodie like a shield. When she stepped out into the chilled damp, she tugged it on properly—oversized, black, warm—and without looking at him, she murmured, "Thank you for the ride."
He didn't respond right away. Just watched as she straightened, her shoulders small beneath the weight of exhaustion she wasn't voicing. She closed the door gently. And walked toward the base. Not fast. Not slow. Just… forward. Inside, the base was dim and quiet—training room lights muted, the television casting a soft glow against the lounge wall, half the team draped across furniture in varying states of distraction.
Lao Mao was sprawled on the lower couch, one leg up, head tilted slightly as he scrolled through something on his phone.
Da Bing sat in the middle of the open space—completely still.
His thick, silver-and-gray-striped body was squared like a statue, tail wrapped neatly around his front paws. His blue eyes were narrowed and locked directly on Lao Mao.
He did not move.
He did not blink.
Lao Mao didn't dare shift.
The second Yao walked through the entrance, Da Bing's ears flicked. And the moment her soft voice floated into the room, low and worn— "Da Bing, come."
—he turned.
Smooth. Silent. Immediate.
The great cat moved like a shadow drawn toward light, padding across the wooden floor with regal grace before brushing past Lao Mao's foot with pointed disdain. Lao Mao visibly exhaled the breath he'd been holding.
"Thank god," he muttered under it.
Yao didn't pause, didn't explain. Her footsteps carried straight past the main living room, up the personal staircase that led to her loft apartment above the base.
The others watched, some lifting their heads slightly, sensing something in the air—something heavier than usual.
Pang, halfway through chewing, furrowed his brows.
Yue straightened slightly on the armrest of the couch, mouth half-open as if to say something before he thought better of it.
"She okay?" Lao K murmured from the back.
Sicheng, stepping in behind her and pausing at the base of the stairs, didn't answer right away. His amber eyes trailed the way she climbed, hoodie sleeves half-draped over her hands, silver hair brushing the edge of her damp coat as Da Bing silently followed behind her, ever her silent guardian.
At the top, she opened her door, her voice low but audible as it drifted back down to her cat. "Close it, please."
The door clicked softly shut behind them.
Sicheng stared at it for a long second. Then turned. "She's fine." And he walked past them toward his office, not offering more. Because she needed space.
The steam still clung faintly to the air when Yao stepped out of the bathroom, towel twisted into her damp silver hair, oversized sleep shirt falling soft and loose over her shoulders. The hot water had done little to clear the tight ache sitting just under her collarbone, that strange blend of confusion and something quieter—something like sadness, but without sharp edges. She padded barefoot across the polished floor of her small apartment, Da Bing curled in his usual spot near the foot of the bed, tail flicking gently, eyes half-closed but still watchful. Her phone lay on the nightstand, screen dark.
Yao stared at it for a moment, chewing gently on the inside of her cheek. Her fingers hovered, then curled. Then hovered again. She didn't want comfort. Not really. And she wasn't looking for someone to take her side. She wanted perspective. She wanted someone who would tell her the truth—not in a harsh way, not cruel or punishing—but with clarity. With reason. The kind of truth that didn't sting so much as settle. So she picked up the phone. Scrolled down.
Stopped at the contact labeled simply: Madam Lu .
After a short pause, she tapped the icon.
The line rang only twice before the smooth, elegant voice answered.
"Yao'er?"
Yao blinked. "You answered fast."
"I always answer when it's you," came the warm reply.
Yao let out a soft breath and sat down at the edge of her bed, towel still in her hair, the edge of her sleeves brushing her fingers. "I… needed your opinion."
There was a brief pause on the other end, then a shift in tone—still warm, but quieter, more attentive. "I'm listening."
Yao hesitated. Not from fear—but from the weight of choosing the right words. "I had lunch with Jinyang today."
"I see," Madam Lu replied, tone even, without judgment.
"She… wanted me to quit ZGDX." Another pause. "She bought YQCB. She wanted to hire me."
"I see," Madam Lu said again.
"She didn't ask if I was okay," Yao continued, her voice quiet. "Not once. She didn't ask about the break-in. She didn't ask about the job I'm doing here. She just told me I needed to leave."
"And what did you say?"
"I told her no," Yao said simply.
There was silence for a breath. Then—
"And now you're wondering if you were wrong."
Yao nodded slowly, forgetting for a moment that Madam Lu couldn't see her. "Yes."
"Because she's your friend."
"…Yes."
Madam Lu didn't rush her reply. When it came, her voice was calm. Measured. Clear. "You weren't wrong to say no."
Yao closed her eyes. "But?"
"No 'but,'" Madam Lu replied. "Just this—disappointment doesn't always mean someone failed you. Sometimes, it means you expected something they were never prepared to give. And that's not your fault. It's not theirs either. It just is."
Yao swallowed hard. "I didn't want to fight with her."
"I know."
"I just… wanted her to listen."
"I know that too."
Madam Lu's voice softened further, warmth woven through every syllable. "You didn't lash out. You didn't insult her. You stood your ground without being cruel. And that takes strength most people never learn."
Yao's lips parted. "But it still hurts."
"That's how you know you did it with your heart intact."
There was silence again, but this one wasn't heavy. It was… settling. Yao leaned slightly forward, resting her elbows on her knees, phone pressed gently to her ear. "Thank you."
"You don't need to thank me."
"I do."
A faint hum of amusement filtered through the speaker. "Then next time, come have tea with me in person and let me fix your hair. That towel twist is going to ruin the roots."
Yao blinked, looking in the mirror across the room. She immediately winced. "That was uncalled for."
"I'm being honest, not cruel."
Yao laughed softly. Just once. A little breath of sound that made Da Bing's ears twitch. "I'll come visit," she said after a pause. "Soon."
"I'll be waiting."
And with that, the call ended.
Yao set the phone down beside her, reaching up to finally undo the towel, fingers moving slowly through her damp hair. She didn't feel better. Not entirely. But she felt understood. And sometimes, that was enough.
A Week of Avoiding and Withdrawing and something finally cracks.
It was long past midnight when the quiet settled into its usual rhythm inside the ZGDX base, the soft hum of machines finally fading, the lights in the hallway dimmed to a low glow, and the last murmurs of laughter drifting off into silence as doors closed and the world stilled. Most of them assumed Yao was already tucked away in her loft apartment, either lost in the meticulous depths of her dissertation or curled beneath a blanket fast asleep, her fox curled nearby and the glow of her desk lamp the only light left burning.
But then, something shattered that peace.
It came suddenly, cutting through the stillness with such sharpness that for a moment, no one moved—because none of them had ever heard that sound before.
A single, low yowl.
Followed by another.
Then another—louder this time, more desperate, more frantic, laced with a pitch that didn't belong to hunger or boredom or the usual dramatics of Da Bing's oversized feline theatrics. It was something raw. Something panicked. Something that immediately struck a nerve.
And when the fourth yowl came—high, keening, broken—there was no hesitation left in any of them.
They moved.
Fast.
Doors slammed open, feet thundered down hallways, sleep forgotten in an instant as panic took over. No one asked questions. No one joked. The sound had cut through bone, and their instincts—honed through matches, through emergencies, through months of learning what silence and noise meant when it came to one another—didn't fail them now.
Rui was already halfway up the stairs, his fingers digging for the emergency key—the one Yao had handed him weeks ago, tucked into his palm with quiet trust and soft certainty, her only condition being that it should be used only if absolutely necessary. And this, without question, was that moment.
The second the key slid into the lock and the door swung open, chaos met them.
Da Bing was pacing near the entrance, his thick fur puffed up to full volume, tail bristled like a bottlebrush, his entire body language screaming distress. His ears were flattened to his skull, and his normally calm, icy-blue eyes were wide, glowing with the kind of panic that animals didn't fake. The moment they entered, the Maine Coon let out another deep, yowling cry and turned, bolting down the short hallway leading to Yao's room.
And then they heard her. It wasn't a call for help. It wasn't a coherent sound. It was a broken whimper. A strained, panicked sob. Followed by something that turned all their blood to ice.
A scream.
The kind not meant for waking ears, the kind not formed from conscious fear, but the kind dragged from the depths of someone's mind when everything has gone dark and the only thing left is terror.
Sicheng was gone before the others could react, his strides long, fast, sharp as he charged down the hallway and slammed into her bedroom door with zero hesitation. It flew open, crashing against the inside wall.
And what met them wasn't violence.
It wasn't an intruder.
It was worse.
It was Yao.
She was tangled in her sheets, her limbs locked in panic, her hands twisted into the blankets like she was holding on to them for dear life, her chest heaving, her face soaked with sweat, and her breath coming out in short, choked gasps. She was crying—openly, freely, but without awareness. She wasn't awake. Not truly. She was lost in whatever horror had her trapped. Her lips moved, but no words formed. Her body trembled violently, her back arching and then curling, trying to pull away from something that wasn't even there.
Da Bing leapt onto the bed with the kind of urgency that defied his usual regal pacing, shoving his nose against her jaw, his deep purring replaced with a distressed series of short, insistent meows. He nudged her, licked her cheek, curled beside her like he could wrap himself around her panic and protect her from it.
But she didn't wake.
Not for him.
And that—that was what broke something in Sicheng. He crossed the room in two strides, his hands reaching out with a firm steadiness that didn't waver, even as his jaw clenched hard enough to ache. "Yao." His voice cut through the noise, but she didn't hear it. He shook her shoulders gently but with weight, enough to draw her back if she was close. "Tong Yao. Wake up." Still nothing. Her breath hitched, another soft, terrified whimper escaping her lips, one that sounded far too much like someone remembering something they had tried too hard to forget. His voice dropped lower, steadier, the kind of tone that brokered no argument, no refusal. "Tong Yao. Wake up. Right now."
Her body jolted. Her breath caught. Then, all at once, she gasped—loud and panicked—and her eyes flew open. For a long second, she wasn't there. Not truly.
Her gaze was glassy, wild, scanning a world only she could see, her chest rising and falling so fast it looked painful. She blinked once. Twice. And then, finally—finally—her eyes found him. Recognition hit like a slow wave. Not immediate. Not all at once. But steady. Real. And then came the tremble. Her shoulders curled inward, her hands rising to her face as if to block the light, her voice breaking in a whisper, fragile and stuttered. "S-Sorry… I didn't… I didn't mean to wake anyone…" She looked like she was trying to disappear. And that—that was what broke the others.
Lao Mao, standing just behind the door, folded his arms slowly, his expression unreadable but tight. Yue, already piecing things together faster than anyone else, stepped forward slightly, his voice low but cutting straight to the heart of it. "How long has this been happening?"
Yao flinched. She curled tighter, her hands gripping the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering her to the room. Her voice was so soft it nearly vanished. "S-Since the first night I moved in…"
The silence was deafening.
Sicheng didn't move. Didn't release her. His hand remained on her shoulder, grounding her, keeping her tethered not just to the moment—but to him. And as the truth sank in—how long this had been going on, how many nights she had spent suffering in silence, how many times she had curled into herself and said nothing, asked for nothing—it took everything in him not to react. Because the urge to snap, to demand why she hadn't said anything, to growl at her for holding it in—it was strong. But the doctor's voice echoed in his mind, cutting through the noise with sharp clarity.
"She doesn't need judgment. She needs support. She needs reassurance. She needs presence."
And so, for once, Lu Sicheng said nothing. Instead, his hand shifted—less grip, more contact—and his voice dropped into something quieter, steadier, something only she could hear. "Xiǎo Tùzǐ."
Her breath caught.
Her fingers twitched.
But she didn't pull away.
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as something clicked into place. "You haven't been wearing the hoodie."
That was the only thing he said. And she knew.
He saw it immediately—the flicker of guilt in her eyes, the sudden clench of her hands, the way her lower lip trembled. She had stopped wearing it. Slowly. Without reason. Without thought. Because she had been trying to tell them. Not with words. Not with cries. With silence. And no one had heard her.
Sicheng didn't ask permission. He didn't shift to make room. He simply pulled the blankets back and sat beside her, his presence unyielding and quiet, his gaze fixed forward but his attention entirely hers. And when she finally looked up at him—eyes wide, watery, so full of exhaustion and confusion and apology—he didn't smirk. He didn't tease. He didn't say anything at all. He just sat there. Because Tong Yao didn't need distance. She didn't need speeches or promises. She needed presence. And Lu Sicheng, for once, gave her exactly that.
~
As the silence in the room stretched on, settling over them like the soft, suffocating weight of storm-heavy clouds, as Yao remained curled into herself, her shoulders hunched beneath the blankets she pulled tighter and tighter around her frame as if trying to vanish entirely beneath the folds, as Sicheng sat motionless at her side—steady, present, resisting the urge to reach for her again, to say something, to do anything more than be there without pushing—something shifted.
Not in her.
Not yet.
But in them.
Because if she wasn't going to say anything, if she couldn't bring herself to speak or explain or even breathe properly in front of them, then they would say everything for her—not with words, not with questions, not with platitudes—but with action.
And they would start now.
Yue moved first.
There was no announcement, no exaggerated stretch or teasing remark, no dramatic gesture of brotherly affection to lighten the mood as he so often did. He simply stepped forward, climbed onto the foot of the bed with all the casual ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before, stretched his legs out like he was settling in for movie night, and leaned back against the far post as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
Because that was the point.
Normalcy. Presence. No pressure.
Just warmth.
Just family.
Lao Mao was next, his arms crossed loosely over his chest as he let out a low breath—not annoyed, not performative, just… quiet understanding—and dropped himself beside Yue, his broad frame folding neatly into the space with the same sense of unspoken agreement that seemed to hum through the air now.
He didn't look at her. Didn't need to.
He was there. That was enough.
Lao K followed, silent as always, but with a kind of stillness that carried weight, his movement deliberate and unobtrusive as he made his way to the other side of the bed and settled down at the edge, not leaning in, not trying to touch, just… staying. His presence was a kind of shield, a wall built of calm, unwavering stability, and it wrapped around the space like armor.
And then there was Pang.
Pang, who had never once in his life let anyone feel like an outsider under his watch, who had always been the first to reach, the first to tease, the first to pull someone into a hug or a mess of blankets or a food run when they least expected it, let out a deep, heavy sigh, raking a hand through his hair before muttering with a faint snort, "Might as well, huh?"
And without waiting for an invitation—because none of them needed one anymore—he climbed onto the mattress with a practiced sort of ease, finding the last open spot and flopping down with a quiet grunt.
No one said anything.
No one asked if she was okay.
No one asked what the dream had been about, or why she hadn't told them sooner, or what they could do to fix it.
They just stayed.
They stayed because that's what mattered.
Because sometimes, words were too sharp, too heavy, too much, and all that someone needed was proof—unshakable, undeniable proof—that they weren't alone.
And as if sensing the exact moment the room had changed, Da Bing, who had nestled himself tight against Yao's side, his great silver body curved protectively around her frame, let out a low, steady purr that filled the quiet like a heartbeat. He didn't move much—just shifted slightly, pressing his face gently into the space beneath her chin, curling his thick tail over her arm like a second blanket.
He, too, understood what needed to be done.
He, too, wasn't going anywhere.
And in the doorway—still lingering, still watching, still holding their own tension like something braced to break—Ming and Rui exchanged a glance.
Neither of them said a word.
They didn't need to.
Ming, calm and deliberate as always, turned without fuss and disappeared into the living room, returning moments later with one of her chairs in hand. The scraping sound it made against the floor was brief and low as he brought it to the edge of the room, set it down beside the bed, and lowered himself into it with the slow, practiced ease of someone prepared to sit all night if that's what was needed.
Rui followed without a second thought, dragging the second chair into the room and settling beside Ming, his fingers rubbing at his temples like the weight of all of it had finally landed—but there was no frustration in his face, no scolding in his tone. Just presence. Just tired, unwavering commitment.
And just like that—the room was full.
Not loud. Not bright. Not busy.
But full.
Full of her people.
Full of the team who had, piece by piece, moment by moment, joke by quiet, shared silence, grown into something more than a group of professionals with matching jerseys and sponsorships.
They were her family now.
They had claimed her—not loudly, not publicly, not even consciously—but with actions like this.
With presence.
With stillness.
With every movement that said, you belong here , whether you believe it yet or not.
And her?
She was their little sister.
Their Salt Maiden.
Their Tiny Boss Rabbit
And someone's, Xiǎo Tùzǐ
Their quietly brilliant, exasperatingly humble, painfully reserved, frustratingly stubborn, blushing-but-sharp-tongued, hoodie-clutching, cat-toting analyst genius who somehow still hadn't realized how much they loved her. But she would. She was going to feel it. Whether she was ready to accept it or not. Because they weren't going anywhere. And even if she needed time, even if she needed space, even if she couldn't say the words tonight— they had already made their decision. She was ZGDX. And ZGDX never left its own behind. Not ever.