Summary: The night brings answers no one should ever have to seek—and a vow that needs no audience. While quiet hands prepare dinner and a home becomes something more than temporary, the lines between comfort, protection, and something deeper blur into something steady. And when morning comes, it doesn't need words to define what's changed. Only the silence that stays soft. And shared.
Author's Note: People really do want to die.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was well past midnight when the low, sharp chime of his private line cut through the silence of his office, the soft blue glow of the monitors illuminating the otherwise darkened space. Sicheng, hunched slightly over a digital strategy board, lifted his head slowly—amber eyes narrowing as he recognized the number.
He answered on the first ring, his voice cool, level, laced with that steel-edged calm he wore like armor.
"Report."
The voice on the other end was low, familiar, an old contact, the same man he had entrusted to watch over Yao before she'd even agreed to work for ZGDX. The one who had stopped a break-in before it became something far worse. The one he had quietly paid, generously, to stay in the background but always near. And now, after weeks of digging, he'd found the truth.
"It wasn't random," the man said quietly. "The break-in. The man who tried to force his way in… he was hired."
Sicheng's entire posture shifted—not dramatically, not violently, but with the lethal stillness of a predator about to strike. His jaw clenched, one hand curling slowly into a fist on the armrest of his chair. "By who."
The silence stretched.
Then—
"Her aunt and uncle. From the States."
The fury that coursed through his chest was immediate and consuming, but he didn't speak—not yet. He needed it all. Every detail. Every line of this betrayal that had slipped through Yao's past like poison.
"They paid the man to break in. Instructions were clear—don't kill her. Hurt her. Badly. Physically, emotionally. Make her vulnerable. Shatter her to the point that she'd have no choice but to call them. They were counting on it."
"And if she didn't?" Sicheng's voice was low now, almost a whisper. Deadly.
"They had the documents ready. Psych evaluations, witness accounts, everything falsified. If she was hurt badly enough—if she appeared mentally or emotionally unfit to care for herself—they would have filed for permanent guardianship. Had her declared incompetent."
Sicheng's other hand tightened around the edge of his desk, the wood creaking softly beneath the pressure. "Why?"
"The trust."
A beat.
Another.
And then, the man continued, his voice now laced with something that even he couldn't keep neutral—disgust.
"If guardianship had gone through, your mother would've been legally forced to release the trust fund to Yao's next of kin—those deemed fit to care for her. Her aunt. Her uncle. It would've all gone to them."
Sicheng stood. Slowly. Methodically. Every muscle in his body tight with restrained violence. But he still didn't speak. Because he wasn't done listening. "And the man?" he asked, his voice like frost on steel. "What was he instructed to do? How far?"
There was a pause.
And then the final blow.
"He was meant to rape her."
Everything in him froze.
The kind of stillness that comes before catastrophe.
Before storm.
Before war.
His vision blurred with white, his knuckles pale against the wood of the desk, his pulse pounding so loudly in his ears it nearly drowned out the rest. They had tried to destroy her. Tried to break the one thing in his world that he would raze heaven and earth to protect. All for money. For control.
Sicheng inhaled slowly—once. Then exhaled. And when he finally spoke again, it was not with fire or rage or the roar of violence. It was with ice. "Find out where they are."
"I already did."
"Good." His tone dropped, razor-sharp and lethal in its precision. "Because I'm going to burn everything they've ever touched. Legally. Financially. Publicly. And when I'm done, they won't be able to afford a lawyer, let alone a lawyer willing to defend them against the assault I'm about to bring."
A beat passed.
Then, quieter.
Darker.
"They came for my girl. They wanted her broken. And now, I will break them." He hung up. And the silence that followed was thick with the weight of war. He didn't hesitate. Not even for a second. By the time he picked up his phone again, the contact he pressed wasn't one saved under any cryptic label or coded name. It was simply marked #OneHarpy. And as the line rang only once before connecting, he knew she'd either been awake or had simply answered because it was him.
"Cheng'er?" came Lu Wang Lan's voice, smooth, cultured, and instantly alert— mother, not society queen, not powerful benefactor, but mother, in the sharpest, most instinctive sense of the word.
He didn't ease into it. Didn't soften the edges. His voice was clipped, controlled—but there was something beneath it. A current. The kind that made the skin crawl even in the calmest room. "You need to sit down." She did. And he told her. Everything. No pauses. No euphemisms. No sparing of detail. Because sugar-coating a trauma like this would be more of an insult than kindness—and because his mother was not the kind of woman who collapsed at ugly truths. She was the kind of woman who sharpened herself with them. He told her who had hired the man. Why. What they were after. What they had intended to do to Yao. And by the time the words meant to rape her left his mouth, the silence on the other end of the line was so chillingly precise, he could hear his own pulse.
Then—
A sound.
Not a gasp. Not a cry.
But something far more dangerous.
The hiss of breath through clenched teeth.
When she finally spoke, Lu Wang Lan's voice was low. Even.
But lethal.
"They sent a man to break her," she repeated, slow and deadly. "To strip her of her independence. Her mind. Her safety. So they could take what my family gave her?"
Sicheng didn't respond. He didn't need to. His silence said it all.
"I want names," she said next. "Full. Legal. I want employment history, financials, everything. And Cheng'er—"
He already knew what was coming.
"—this does not leave our hands. There will be no press. No spectacle. No noise. We do this quietly. Thoroughly. Irreversibly." She paused, her voice suddenly cold enough to freeze stone. "They will lose everything."
And just like that, he could see it happening in his mind's eye—his mother in her estate office, already pulling files, already drafting letters, already reaching out to her legal teams and private investigators. Because there was no force more terrifying than a mother protecting what she considered hers. And Lu Wang Lan had already decided—Yao was family.
"You will not speak of this to her." she added, tone sharp. "Not yet. Not until I've dismantled them so thoroughly, they'll be lucky to afford their own guilt."
"I wasn't planning to," he murmured, his jaw tight. "Not until she's safe. Completely."
"Good boy." came her reply. But there was nothing soft in it. Only pride. And war.
And then, before hanging up—
"Make sure she sleeps tonight, Cheng'er. She'll need her strength. And so will you. Because when this ends… she'll need someone to tell her how close she came. And you'll need to be strong enough to hold her through it."
The line went dead.
And Lu Sicheng leaned back in his chair, the screen before him forgotten, the shadows stretching long across the floor.
Because the war had begun.
And the Lu family?
Did not lose.
Da Bing did not move.
Not a twitch, not a shift, not even a slow blink of those sharp, glacial eyes as Lu Sicheng set the grocery bags on the marble island and started unpacking with the kind of silent efficiency that only came from someone who was used to precision—both in games and in life. The cat just watched him, perched regally from the middle tier of the tallest cat tree in the corner like some ancient deity guarding his domain, tail curled neatly, the faintest flick of disapproval twitching through the tufted tip every time a vegetable rustled too loud.
Sicheng glanced over once as he removed a carton of broth and a carefully wrapped package of thinly sliced beef.
Da Bing didn't blink.
"Don't start," he muttered, turning back toward the counter. "Your mother worked out, she's sore, and I'm not about to let her eat microwave leftovers just because she'd forget to eat while doing data projections."
Still no movement.
Just that same unsettling stillness—like Da Bing was silently evaluating him.
Again.
Sicheng let out a soft huff of air through his nose and reached into one of the bags for the enoki mushrooms, setting them beside the thinly sliced tofu and the neatly packed greens Jinyang had insisted were the kind Yao liked best.
Hotpot. But made with a homemade base. Low sodium. Balanced spice. Heavy with umami. The kind of meal that filled the space not just with flavor but comfort, the kind of thing she would never ask for but always seemed to crave when she didn't feel at her best.
And she wasn't. Not after the week they'd had. Not after the revelations that still echoed in his head like a fire alarm without an off switch. She didn't know yet—not about her aunt and uncle, not about what they'd planned, not about how close she'd come to being hurt in a way that made his hands tighten just thinking about it. And she wouldn't—not until he had personally burned every last one of those bridges into ash. He focused on the broth instead, pouring with steady hands and moving with that familiar, calculated slowness he reserved for when things mattered. Timing, he reminded himself. Heat. Balance. Behind him, the sound of the shower door sliding shut echoed softly through the space.
Good.
She'd listen to him, for once.
Banished from her own kitchen, shower-bound, wearing that faintly flustered look that she only ever got when he ordered her around with that low, authoritative tone he knew she pretended not to like.
And he?
He would make her dinner. He would feed her. He would let her curl up under one of the throw blankets and fall asleep with Da Bing on her feet and a full stomach easing the tension from her small frame. And then, maybe, just maybe, he would be able to stop picturing all the ways she could have been hurt. But only after she smiled. Really smiled. The kind that reached her eyes. That would come first.
Even if Da Bing was still staring at him like he didn't quite approve of Sicheng using his mother's best cookware.
The clink of the glass against the counter was soft, deliberate, not rushed—not much of anything aside from controlled. Just like the way he always was when he needed to burn something off but had no intention of letting it consume him.
Lu Sicheng poured the scotch without looking down, the warm amber liquid catching the kitchen lights as it curled into the glass like something alive. He only poured a little. Just enough to quiet the weight in his chest, to dull the edges of the rage that had been building ever since that phone call had dropped into his lap like a live grenade. The alternative was smoking. And he wasn't going to do that—not anymore. He'd promised then, and Lu Sicheng didn't break promises. And so here he was, sipping something strong and sharp instead, seated on the edge of her kitchen stool with his elbows resting on the counter as Da Bing continued to stare down at him like an unimpressed emperor from his perch.
The broth simmered gently on the stove behind him, the low bubbles giving off the rich scent of shiitake and ginger, garlic and a touch of peppercorn. The prep was done, everything neatly set out—vegetables, tofu, beef, dipping sauces portioned out in those ceramic bowls she liked so much. He reached for the stack of cases and sleeves he had brought in earlier, sliding them across the table until they were in a neat spread near her place. Old movies, some newer ones, and a few documentaries tucked between them because he knew she liked logic just as much as emotion—liked a story that showed something real rather than performed it.
Date night.
Her turn to pick.
His turn to make everything around her settle.
The soft padding of her footsteps told him she was finishing up. He didn't look toward the stairs, didn't call out—just leaned back slightly, sipping from the glass again as the heat bloomed down his throat and reminded him of everything he hadn't said, hadn't told her. Not tonight.
Tonight wasn't about that. Tonight was about comfort and quiet and choices. And letting her have the kind of peace that didn't need to be earned.
Just given.
The moment she stepped into the soft, ambient light of the kitchen, barefoot and quiet, wrapped in those pale fuzz pajamas and his hoodie that still hung too loose around her small frame, Lu Sicheng felt his chest tighten with something sharp and immediate. The glass of scotch—just a small pour, his first in weeks—was nearly empty in his hand, the weight of it grounding and bitter as he lifted it for one last sip.
She hadn't spoken at first, just hovered a few feet away, hesitant, eyes scanning him like she could sense the shift in his posture, the silence that hummed heavier than usual. Than, "Cheng-ge…" Her voice was soft, gentle, the kind of careful that made something deep in his gut clench. She stepped closer, the sleeves of his hoodie falling past her fingertips, her bare shoulders just visible where the tank-top dipped beneath the fabric. Her gaze flickered down to the glass in his hand, then up again, meeting his eyes with that quiet, disarming directness that always undid him. "Is… everything okay?" she asked carefully, not pushing, just asking. But when he didn't answer right away, when his eyes held hers but didn't soften, she swallowed, visibly nervous. And then—braver than she likely realized, her voice even lower now, more intimate, more weighted with truth—she added, "If you don't want to talk about it… just say that. But please… don't lie to me."
His fingers curled slightly around the glass, not from anger or resistance, but from the sheer force of holding himself together. She didn't know what had happened. Not yet. She didn't know about the call. The truth he now carried in his chest like fire laced with ice. But she knew him. She knew how he got when something dug too deep.
Sicheng stared at her for a long moment, the silence between them taut and fragile, until finally, slowly, he set the empty glass down with a soft clink. He reached forward, not fast, not abrupt, just steady and gently took her wrist in his hand, thumb brushing lightly over the inside of it. His touch was grounding, tethering. And when he spoke, his voice was low and rough, but honest. "I'm not going to lie to you, Yao. Not now. Not ever."
She exhaled softly, her eyes flickering with concern, but she didn't push further, simply nodded and let his hand guide her closer, until the tension between them eased into something quieter, something shared. Because whatever it was—whatever weight he carried—he would tell her. In his own time and she would wait.
The tension still lingered, faint and quiet like smoke curling beneath the surface, but she didn't pull away from him when he kept hold of her wrist—if anything, she seemed to lean into it, just slightly, enough for him to feel the steady pulse beneath his thumb. The air was too heavy, and he needed—just for a moment—for it not to be. So, in a voice lower and rougher than usual, not because of any lingering frustration but because of the sheer weight still settled in his chest, Sicheng asked, "Do you like to dance?"
The question caught her off guard. Her head tilted faintly, brows furrowing as her gaze met his with that quiet, analytical confusion she wore whenever something unfamiliar was presented to her like a puzzle. "Dance?"
He smirked faintly at her tone. "Yeah. Dance."
Her nose wrinkled. "I don't know how."
That pulled a low rumble from his chest, half laugh, half exhale, the sound dark and warm, meant to pull her just a little further out of whatever worry still lingered behind her eyes. "You don't have to know how."
Yao shrugged, the fabric of his hoodie shifting around her as she admitted shyly, "It was never something I was interested in. Jinyang dragged me to a few clubs back in university. I always just sat in the corner. Played the part of the socially awkward wallflower."
That earned a slow shake of his head as Sicheng pulled out his phone from the counter and scrolled through his playlists. "Of course she dragged you. That sounds exactly like her."
He tapped a song, something low and melodic, not fast, not loud, but smooth and mellow with a steady rhythm that filled the kitchen with the gentle echo of something close to jazz and R&B wrapped into one. The scent of their dinner still simmered behind them, soft and warming, but it faded into the background the moment he stepped closer again and extended his hand.
She stared at it. At him.
And he only arched a brow, saying nothing more than, "Come here."
It wasn't a command.
It wasn't a request either.
It was… an invitation.
And Yao, unsure but trusting, placed her smaller hand into his.
Sicheng's grip was steady, firm but never tight, guiding her gently as he drew her into the center of the kitchen where the floor was clear. His other hand settled lightly at her waist, fingers spreading warm and certain, anchoring her in place. She tensed for only a second before her shoulders dropped, and he began to move, slow, deliberate steps that didn't require any rhythm from her—just trust. "See?" he murmured, mouth tilted in a crooked smile as her cheeks slowly bloomed with color. "Not hard."
She didn't respond at first. Just followed. And when she did speak, it came out so soft he barely caught it. "I don't hate this."
He chuckled, low and quiet, brushing a thumb against the back of her hand. "Good. Because I plan to do this again."
And though she didn't answer, didn't nod or offer some shy, verbal confirmation—she didn't need to. Because she stayed in his arms. And she kept dancing.
Sicheng moved with a smooth, deliberate grace that belied his usual sharp, commanding presence, his palm steady at her waist as he guided her through the slow rhythm that pulsed softly in the background. She was tentative at first, her steps unsure, her fingers clutching his hoodie sleeves more for balance than style, but the longer he led, the more she started to follow without thinking. And than without warning, he spun her. Not fast, not flashy, just enough to make the hem of her fuzzy pajama pants catch the air, just enough for her hair to sway with the movement as her eyes widened in surprise.
Before she could register it, he was already drawing her back in, steadying her, and then—
He twirled her again.
Once.
Twice.
And on the third turn, her balance slightly off from laughing breathlessly, he caught her mid-step and dipped her, his arm strong behind her back, his other hand catching hers with that same maddening confidence he wore in-game.
Yao gasped.
Not from fear.
Not from discomfort.
But because for the first time all evening, the shy tension melted from her expression, and in its place bloomed a full, unrestrained laugh—soft, musical, surprised—rising from somewhere deep and real.
And Sicheng stilled.
His grip never faltered, but something in his chest clenched at the sound of her laughter—the kind of laugh that didn't belong to the girl who always second-guessed how much space she was allowed to take up. It belonged to someone safe. Someone cherished. Someone his. He straightened slowly, letting her settle upright once more, his arms still wrapped loosely around her as he looked down at her flushed, glowing face. "I like that sound." he said simply.
Yao blinked up at him, still breathless, the laughter caught behind her lips like it didn't know where else to go. He didn't ask her to say anything else. He didn't need her to. Because she was still holding onto him. And she was still smiling.
An hour later, the cozy apartment smelled like warmth and spice, the faint traces of garlic and soy lingering in the air as Sicheng carefully balanced the trays in one arm, his movements unhurried but precise as always. With the lights dimmed to a soft golden hue and a movie queued up on the screen—left unplayed, waiting for her to decide—he made his way to the couch where she was curled up with Da Bing now flopped half across her lap like a fluffy monarch.
He set the tray down in front of her, then slid onto the couch beside her, long legs folding easily as he reached for his own plate. But he wasn't watching the movie, and he wasn't focused on his food.
He was watching her. Because the moment her eyes dropped to the dish he had placed in front of her—steamed rice perfectly fluffed, grilled chicken glazed with a familiar homemade sauce, lightly stir-fried greens on the side with the exact spice level she always requested—he saw it.
That slow, quiet shift.
Her eyes widened slightly, her lashes fluttering once in surprise before lowering again as a soft, unmistakable expression spread across her face. Delight. Recognition. That tender, blinking kind of joy that didn't demand words because it lived entirely in the little things—the way her lips parted slightly, the subtle way she reached out without thinking, fingertips brushing over the edge of the plate as if to confirm it was real.
"You made my favorite," she said softly, her voice just above a whisper.
Sicheng, settled into the cushions beside her with his own food in hand, lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug—casual, but the heat behind his eyes betrayed how closely he was watching every flicker of emotion on her face. "You've cooked for me," he rumbled. "Figured it was my turn."
Yao ducked her head, that ever-present blush warming her cheeks again as she picked up her chopsticks and took the first bite. Her expression shifted instantly—eyes closing, shoulders relaxing, the kind of reaction that made him bite back a smirk of smug satisfaction.
Da Bing, unimpressed at being ignored, gave a small flick of his tail and nestled deeper into her lap, but even he seemed content.
And Sicheng?
He didn't say another word. He didn't have to. Because watching her eat what he'd made, seeing the soft glow in her eyes, feeling the calm settle around them like a blanket—it was more than enough.
Hours later—closer to early morning than night, the sky outside their windows stained with the faintest hue of pale blue that came just before sunrise—Sicheng stirred with a quiet groan, the muscles in his back and neck protesting the way he'd somehow managed to fold his tall frame along the too-small length of Yao's couch. One arm was draped behind his head, propped awkwardly on the narrow armrest, a dull ache settling into his shoulder, but none of that really mattered.
Because his attention wasn't on himself.
It was on her.
Tong Yao, curled into him like she belonged there, her head tucked snugly beneath his chin, her breathing slow and even, one hand loosely fisted into the fabric of his hoodie. The soft throw blanket that normally lived on the back of her couch was pulled up over both of them, draped lazily across her shoulders and tangled slightly around his legs, and though his memory of pulling it into place was fuzzy, he was willing to bet it had been her. Or maybe him. He didn't know. Didn't care.
All that mattered was that she was warm, she was safe, and she hadn't moved away.
Her hair, wild and slightly damp still from her shower, tickled against the underside of his jaw, and though he knew he should shift, adjust, do something to ease the crick forming in his neck—he didn't.
Because this?
This quiet, unguarded moment in the soft stillness of her apartment, the feel of her breath against his chest, the weight of her body pressed into his side like she trusted him completely? He wouldn't trade that for a thousand nights of perfect sleep. So instead, he tilted his head slightly, pressed the faintest kiss to the crown of her head, and let his eyes drift shut again. Not because he was tired. But because he wasn't ready to let go just yet.
It was nearing ten when Sicheng stirred again, the light slanting in through the window far too bright for anything remotely close to dawn, and the quiet hum of the apartment now carried the subtle scent of brewed coffee instead of sleep and warmth. His eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the soft golden haze of morning—only to freeze as he found himself staring directly into a pair of wide, blinking hazel eyes.
Hazel eyes that were far too awake.
Far too close.
And very much watching him.
Tong Yao stood beside the couch, barefoot, hair mussed slightly from sleep, wearing her oversized fuzzy pajamas and his hoodie still half zipped over her tank top, sleeves tugged down past her wrists. She looked equal parts nervous and shyly determined, her expression flustered and her cheeks blooming a very familiar shade of pink.
But her hand?
Her hand was steady.
Holding out a ceramic mug.
His mug.
Filled with black coffee—exactly how he liked it.
He blinked once, then again, his gaze flicking from the mug to her face and back, taking in the sight of her, the blush still dusting her cheeks, the way she wouldn't quite meet his eyes even as she held the coffee out to him like it was a peace offering—or perhaps a morning ritual neither of them had realized was forming. "…You made this?" he murmured, his voice still rough from sleep.
She nodded quickly, eyes darting away for a second before flicking back, and she gave a tiny, nervous shrug. "You… looked like you needed it."
Sicheng slowly sat up, the blanket falling from his shoulders as he took the cup from her hand, their fingers brushing for the briefest moment. He watched her flinch—just barely—from the accidental contact before she covered it by tugging one of her sleeves further down, retreating a half-step back.
She didn't say anything else.
She didn't need to.
Because her blush told him everything. That she remembered waking up in his arms. That she hadn't moved for hours because she hadn't wanted to. That she'd made him coffee because something about this—about them—felt real enough to start doing those kinds of things, the quiet, tender gestures that didn't need explanations or grand declarations.
He took a sip.
Strong. Hot. Just the right bitterness.
Perfect.
"You did good," he said softly, voice smoother now, lips tilting into a slow, appreciative curve.
And Yao?
She ducked her head, turning away quickly under the pretense of grabbing something from the kitchen counter—but not before he caught the small, shy smile tugging at her mouth.
He didn't say anything else.
Not yet.
Because some mornings didn't need anything more than the girl you loved handing you a cup of coffee with flushed cheeks and quiet affection still wrapped around her shoulders like sleep.