Against the Algorithm

Chapter 17: Fractures and Shifts

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.

Notes:

Author's Note: The Muse would like to say that all comments, even small ones, are very much welcomed and they very much enjoy reading them!