Summary: An ordinary Monday evening becomes something more when a small gesture, offered with hesitation, is answered without question. Between shared meals and soft conversation, what begins as a simple night unfolds into something far more intentional—proof that the quiet kind of care, the steady kind, is sometimes the most difficult to ignore.
Notes:
Author's Note: A one of a kind date! The best kind of date!
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The soft creak of the wooden-framed swing gliding gently back and forth echoed beneath the quiet hush of dusk, the motion accompanied by the subtle rustle of grass stirred by the breeze—a lulling rhythm that wrapped itself around the shared courtyard space nestled between the dorm-style wings of the ZGDX base.
It was Monday evening. That rare, fleeting stretch of calm before the inevitable chaos of the week descended like clockwork.
Sicheng sat settled into one side of the old swing near the far corner of the lawn, one arm stretched lazily across the backrest, the other loosely holding a half-finished bottle of water as he leaned into the slow rhythm of movement. Seated beside him, long legs sprawled out before him, was Lee Kun Hyeok—Hierophant—his best friend, occasional headache, and, as always, the only person who could speak to him in a strange hybrid of Korean and accented Mandarin without getting corrected.
They had been like this for a while now—moving easily between teasing banter and low, reflective conversation, the kind only possible when the world around them paused long enough for friendship to breathe.
No media obligations.
No bracket strategy.
No schedules.
Just quiet, open air and the occasional shared silence that didn't need to be filled.
Until—
Sicheng shifted.
Barely.
Subtly.
But unmistakably.
Because he saw her.
Out of the corner of his eye, moonlight in motion, soft platinum catching the golden threads of sunset, Yao was walking across the lawn. Slow, hesitant, but deliberate, her steps careful and measured, like she'd thought through every one of them before she took it. She was dressed in her house clothes, soft joggers and the same oversized sweater she always wore when she studied late at the table near the living room window, sleeves tugged down to her knuckles, fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem as if the walk from the kitchen had been miles, not meters.
Kun Hyeok fell silent beside him, the conversation stalling mid-thought. But he didn't speak. He didn't need to. Because even he knew—when it came to her, Sicheng's attention didn't just shift.
It locked.
Yao stopped a few steps away from them, her eyes flicking toward Kun Hyeok for only a breath before drifting to the center of Sicheng's chest, anywhere but his face, as if looking directly at him might undo whatever resolve had carried her out here. She rocked slightly on her heels. Swallowed. Then cleared her throat, her voice a soft, barely-there murmur, each word careful, her tone painted with that familiar shade of shyness only those closest to her knew how to read.
"I… um… I cooked dinner."
A pause.
The faintest bloom of color brushed her cheeks.
"And… I picked out a movie. I know it's Monday and we…" Her voice trailed for a beat, her fingers pulling at the edge of her sleeves with nervous determination before she found the rest of her sentence—quieter now, but steady enough to reach him. "…we settled on that being our date night."
Sicheng blinked once—just once—before he straightened, his posture shifting immediately with intent, his grip on the bottle forgotten, his entire focus now tuned to her, already turning over questions in his mind—what she might've made, which movie she'd picked, how long she'd been standing in the kitchen trying to gather the courage to come out and say something. But before he could move, She rushed forward, her words tumbling out in a breathless spill.
"B-But! If you wanted to keep talking with your best friend tonight, that's fine too! I—I didn't mean to interrupt, I just…" Her voice faltered, the soft, familiar cadence of hesitation creeping back in, and her head dropped slightly, the end of her braid swaying forward, brushing across the front of her sweater like a curtain she could hide behind. "…We can start next Monday." Her tone wasn't disappointed—just soft. Measured. Careful in the way she always was when she thought maybe, just maybe, she'd asked for something that might be too much.
And Sicheng's chest tightened. The words absolutely not burned at the back of his throat. But before he could say them, Kun Hyeok—who hadn't missed a single beat—let out a low, thoughtful hum and stood from the swing with the ease of someone who knew exactly what his exit meant.
"You cooked?" he asked in Mandarin, stretching slowly, deliberately.
"…Yes." Yao blinked, visibly startled by the directness.
Kun Hyeok glanced at Sicheng with a knowing glint in his eye, smirking just enough to make the unspoken perfectly clear. "Then I'm leaving. He's yours." And just like that, he waved lazily over his shoulder and strolled off toward the dorms without another word, the soft crunch of his steps fading as he disappeared into the quiet.
Sicheng was already standing, his expression unreadable, his gaze fixed entirely on her. "You sure you want to wait until next Monday?" he asked, his voice low, warm, threading gently into the soft space between them as he stepped closer.
Yao's lashes fluttered, her gaze lifting for just a second—just long enough to meet his—and then she shook her head, a quiet blush rising to her cheeks as she whispered, "…No."
And that was all he needed to hear.
The soft clink of ceramic and glass against wood was the only sound filling the quiet warmth of Yao's apartment, each muted note folding seamlessly into the lingering scent of simmering spices—rich, earthy, and layered. The fragrance curled through the air like a soft hand tugging at memory, settling into corners and cracks with a quiet intimacy that made the space feel less like a dorm and more like a home.
Sicheng had barely stepped inside when she was already there, gently nudging him toward the couch with a small wave of her hand, her sweater sleeves trailing past her fingers as she motioned without looking directly at him.
"Just go relax… please," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks tinted pink as she ducked her head and padded back toward the kitchen. "The drinks are already set out. I'll bring the food in a minute."
He blinked, glancing toward the coffee table. Sure enough—two bottles of water, two chilled cans of Rio, and a folded napkin sat perfectly arranged next to a small stack of printed movie titles, each sheet highlighted and annotated, clearly meant to help them pick together. She had thought of everything. And it hit him harder than it should have. Because no one did this. Not for him. Not anymore. Not when everything about his life had become performance and expectation—titles, contracts, cameras, people who smiled just a little too wide because of what he could offer. But here? Here was this girl, this small, thoughtful girl, setting a table not out of obligation or strategy, but because this was how she showed care.
Quiet. Uncomplicated. Genuine.
He eased onto the couch, elbows resting loosely on his knees, eyes following her as she moved—barefoot, her silver braid swaying gently against her back, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder as she leaned over the kitchen counter with careful precision, utterly focused on arranging the plates just right.
And then—he caught it.
The scent.
It had been lingering since he entered, but now, now it sharpened—warm, spiced, just slightly sweet, with a depth that made his senses still. He inhaled again, slower this time, the familiarity wrapping around him like a hook in his memory.
Curry.
But not the kind you found in the usual takeout boxes.
No—this was different.
This was heat and layering, spice and care. Indian curry, if he had to guess. The last time he'd tasted anything like it had been years ago, back in California, dragged into a crowded little restaurant off a tucked-away street in San Francisco by a teammate with too much curiosity and a stubborn obsession with non-chain food. He hadn't tasted anything like it since. And now, it was here—filling her apartment above his base, cooked by her. Not for attention. Not to prove anything. Just for him.
His phone buzzed softly in his pocket.
Sicheng pulled it out, expecting a calendar ping or maybe a message from Rui about scheduling adjustments—but no. The sender's name lit up across the screen in familiar, bold lettering.
[Hierophant]: So, she really cooked for you?
He huffed under his breath, thumbs moving quickly over the screen.
[ZGDX_Chessman]: Yeah. She made curry.
The reply came within seconds.
[Hierophant]: Curry? Like, actual curry? Indian-style?
[ZGDX_Chessman]: Yeah. Smells incredible.
There was a pause. Then—
[Hierophant]:…You lucky bastard.
Followed by:
[Hierophant]: No, seriously. If you screw this up, I swear on my lane dominance, I'll be tempted to steal that sweet thing for myself, you know I swing both ways. I will gladly commnet myself to her and only her!
Sicheng stared flatly at the screen, expression deadpan, before lifting his eyes, just in time to see her.
Yao.
Turning around with two carefully balanced plates cradled in her hands, her expression focused, lips pressed together in a soft line as she moved slowly toward the coffee table. There was a gentleness to her movements, a quiet deliberateness in the way she placed the plates down with soft clinks, smoothing the corner of the napkin she'd laid out beneath the bowls like it was something far more precious than just dinner.
And to him—it was.
His Xiǎo Tùzǐ.
Warm, flushed, and utterly unaware of how much space she now occupied inside him. He smirked faintly, thumb tapping out one last reply before locking his phone and sliding it into his pocket as he gave her his full attention.
[ZGDX_Chessman]: Try it, and I'll break your fingers.
As Yao settled onto the couch beside him, her knees tucked neatly beneath her and her dinner plate balanced with quiet precision on the cushion between them, Sicheng leaned back slightly, his posture loose but attentive as he reached for the small, neatly printed stack of movie options she'd placed on the coffee table.
His amber eyes flicked over the titles in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching with faint, amused interest as he took in the meticulous organization: action, sci-fi, historical drama, psychological thrillers, and even a carefully curated handful of documentaries. Everything was categorized with that same quiet, deliberate clarity she brought to all things—clean fonts, evenly spaced columns, numbered rankings.
But one thing stood out.
Or rather—didn't.
There were no romance films.
Not a single one.
He tilted the sheet slightly in her direction, brow arched, his head turning just enough to catch the soft profile of her face, still tinged pink from earlier, still slightly guarded despite the comfortable quiet between them. "No romance?" he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. "Not even one overly dramatic love story with violins and some idiot sprinting through the rain?"
Yao wrinkled her nose instantly, the reaction instinctive and utterly genuine, more honest than any flustered glance or shy stumble. Her lips pursed, her head tilting slightly as she gave a soft, exasperated huff and muttered, "I'm not really into romance movies."
Sicheng blinked once, amused. "No?"
She shook her head, fingers slowly circling the edge of her fork along her plate as if stirring her thoughts into coherence. "Most of them feel… off. Forced." Her gaze flicked upward for a heartbeat—then away again, the words picking up rhythm now, fueled by something deeper, something thoughtful and precise, the way all of her reasoning usually was when she chose to share it. "They don't show love right. Or respect. Or even what healthy affection looks like. It's always about some dramatic declaration or unrealistic grand gesture, and no one ever talks about how people actually care for each other—quietly. Consistently."
Sicheng said nothing. He didn't need to. He simply watched her, absorbing the cadence of her words, the logic beneath the emotion, the way her voice carried not irritation, but disappointment—like someone who had tried to see herself in those stories and found nothing waiting there.
She continued—softer now, almost as if she was just talking to herself, but he knew better. "And more than half the time? The girl's some helpless, spoiled princess who never lifts a finger, and the guy's an arrogant ass who talks down to her until he 'changes' and somehow we're all supposed to root for that. Like that's love. Like that's enough."
The silence that followed was heavier than it looked.
He didn't rush to fill it. Instead, he reached across the cushion, his hand sliding gently over hers—stilling the quiet, restless motion of her fork. His touch was warm, deliberate, anchoring. His thumb brushed once, slowly, across her knuckles. "Then we won't watch that crap," he said simply.
Yao's head turned toward him, startled by how casual he sounded—how unbothered, how easy it was for him to agree without questioning or minimizing what she'd just shared.
"We'll stick to stories that don't insult your intelligence," he added, voice lower now, his gaze steady on hers. "You deserve better than fairy tales that treat love like a circus act."
Her breath hitched slightly, lips parting as if to reply, but she didn't speak. Instead, she dropped her gaze again, flushing deeper as she focused on her food. But she didn't pull her hand away. Not even when his thumb moved again—slow, steady, reassuring. Because maybe—just maybe—this was what it looked like when affection wasn't performative. When respect wasn't a plot device. When romance didn't need a soundtrack to feel real. And Lu Sicheng—hers—was already writing the version that never made it to the screen.
Yao's plate was still half-full, her appetite present but distant, the gentle curve of her spoon tracing idle swirls through the curry as her thoughts drifted elsewhere. Her gaze kept flicking back to his hand, still resting over hers—warm, steady, grounding. His thumb moved in slow, absent circles against her skin, a rhythm that said more than any carefully crafted line from a film ever could. She looked up at him—quiet, soft, thoughtful—and when she spoke, her voice was gentler than usual, so light it barely stirred the air between them.
"You pick the movie."
Sicheng's brow lifted, one corner of his mouth tugging upward as his fingers stilled. "Me?"
She nodded, small and sure. "You're here. You should choose."
He leaned back into the couch, turning slightly to face her, his expression slipping into something contemplative as his eyes returned to the printed list she'd prepared with almost comical precision. "Even though you've already categorized them by genre, sub-genre, and... emotional trauma scale?"
"It helps narrow it down…" she muttered, cheeks tinged with the faintest pink.
His low chuckle followed, warm and quiet, a soft rumble that didn't carry even a hint of mockery. Just that rare kind of fondness she was still learning was his way of saying I see you. I like what I see. He scanned the list again, his attention flicking back to her after a moment. "Anything you don't want me to pick?"
Yao hesitated—then shook her head.
Sicheng made a quiet sound of acknowledgment, then tapped one long finger against the edge of the paper, amber eyes slowly drifting down the neatly labeled rows. "Alright then."
She didn't speak as he read, didn't rush him, didn't fill the silence. The quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable—it was steady, like the low hum of the air conditioner above or the soft ticking of the clock mounted on her wall. He looked so at home like this—legs stretched comfortably across the rug, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, shirt slightly wrinkled from how he'd leaned back into the cushions. His hand never left hers.
And when he finally tapped the page, lifting his gaze with quiet certainty and said, "This one," she smiled.
Not at the choice. Not at the title. But at the moment itself—small, quiet, wholly unremarkable to anyone else. Because it wasn't about the movie.
It was about him.
Here.
Now.
Choosing to stay.
Choosing her .
As the end credits rolled, the soft swell of the film's final score fading into a quiet hush, Yao reached forward with careful, practiced movements, gathering the now-empty plates from the coffee table, stacking them neatly without breaking the stillness that had settled over the room. Her movements were slow but not hesitant—comfortable, like muscle memory—and she didn't speak, not yet, not as the screen dimmed to black and the soft glow of the side lamp painted golden light across the low curve of her cheekbone.
Sicheng didn't move right away either.
He sat with one elbow propped against the couch arm, his fingers absently resting near the remote, his posture loose in a way that only ever happened in this room, in this space, with her. But eventually—after a long stretch of shared silence, the kind that didn't need to be filled—he shifted forward, rising from the couch with an easy stretch that pulled lightly at the fabric of his shirt. His voice came low, quiet, but certain.
"I need to head down."
"Training?" Yao glanced up from the small stack of dishes she was carrying toward the sink, her expression curious, a touch reluctant.
He nodded, running a hand lightly through his hair as he stepped around the edge of the couch, eyes briefly scanning the dim room before settling on her again. "Early morning. If I don't get sleep now, Ming's going to claim I'm getting old when I snap at him tomorrow."
That earned him the softest huff from across the room—a smile, almost—but she didn't say anything more as she turned back to rinse the plates.
Sicheng lingered for just a second longer, watching the way her fingers moved with that same care she brought to everything she did. The way she stood barefoot on the kitchen mat, half-tucked beneath the glow of the cabinet light, his sweater still draped over her frame like she had never taken it off. And then he nodded to himself once, quietly, before speaking again—softer this time. "Thanks for dinner."
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes catching his for the briefest flicker, and something in them softened—just slightly, just enough. "Goodnight, Cheng-ge."
He smirked at that, just a little, already backing toward the door. "Goodnight, Xiǎo Tùzǐ." And with that, he disappeared down the stairs—leaving the scent of curry, quiet music humming in the background, and the faint, steady thud of her heart still catching up to the moment.
Sicheng lay in the quiet dark of his room, the faint hum of the base settling into its nighttime rhythm—low mechanical whirs, the soft creak of pipes behind the walls, the occasional shuffle of someone turning over in a bunk two doors down—but none of it touched the thoughts running slow and heavy through his mind.
He'd meant to fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. He really had. Training started early tomorrow. Kwon would be a nightmare if they weren't sharp, and Ming would definitely test his patience the moment his caffeine levels dipped. But his body—relaxed as it was, tucked beneath the sheets in the familiar space of his room—refused to settle.
Because her voice wouldn't leave his head.
Goodnight, Cheng-ge.
It had slipped out soft. Unintended, maybe. Almost absentminded, like she hadn't realized she'd said it aloud. But he had heard it—clear, quiet, and entirely hers.
She had always called him Sicheng before. Not formally, not coldly, but with a kind of distance, a thread of caution that mirrored the careful way she approached everything she hadn't quite claimed yet.
But Cheng-ge?
That was different. It was smaller. Closer. Something private tucked into the quiet hours after dinner. Something she hadn't been pushed into, hadn't said for anyone else's benefit. It hadn't been performative. It had been hers.
And now?
Now, it was his.
A slow breath left him as he turned onto his side, one arm folded beneath the pillow, the other draped across his stomach, fingers flexing slightly as if trying to hold on to something that wasn't there.
He didn't need to overthink it. It was just a nickname. A single syllable difference. But it wasn't. Not really. Not when it came from her. So, before the thought could drift too far, before sleep finally started to tug at the edges of his mind, he made a quiet note to himself—solid, sharp, and simple.
Tell her to keep calling you that.
Tomorrow. Just after breakfast. Right before training. Not a command. Not even a request. Just a quiet, steady suggestion.
Because Cheng-ge sounded a lot like the beginning of something permanent. And he wanted her to know she could say it again.