Against the Algorithm

Chapter 17: Fractures and Shifts

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.

Notes:

Author's Note: Friendships can fracture without them even meaning to and sometimes things needs to happen before a strong friendship is formed.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

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.