Against the Algorithm

Chapter 21: Lines No Longer Imagined

Summary: A quiet morning becomes anything but when one unspoken shift changes the rhythm between them, and a single word spoken with quiet finality changes the air in the room. As chaos brews downstairs and judgment descends with heels and silence, Yao finds herself both overwhelmed and anchored—by unexpected kindness, by certainty, and by the knowledge that some moments don't need to be explained. They just need to happen.

Notes:

Author's Note: Oh Boy! Here comes a Lesson!

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-One

The next morning arrived with a kind of hushed softness that clung to the air like the remnants of a dream not quite faded, the sunlight barely filtering through the curtains, warm and muted, and Sicheng, already seated at the dining table, one arm resting lazily across the wood while the other scrolled absentmindedly through something on his phone, barely paid attention to the low hum of conversation surrounding him. The team's usual early morning banter floated around the room in fragments, Pang grumbling about someone finishing the good yogurt, Yue throwing out half-hearted threats about changing the team group chat name again, Lao Mao mumbling something sarcastic in response but none of it truly registered.

Not until the air shifted. Not until something subtle changed, something only he would notice, something that wasn't sound or motion, but presence.

And than, she walked in. Quietly, as she always did, soft steps barely making a sound, her posture small but not closed, careful but not shrinking, and as she moved further into the room, her long platinum hair slightly mussed from sleep, her hazel eyes still heavy-lidded with lingering drowsiness, her sleeves swallowed her hands completely, oversized, familiar, worn at the cuffs and Da Bing, large and loyal, kept pace behind her like a silent shadow, a sentry with no intent of leaving her side.

But Sicheng didn't look at the cat. His eyes were on her. Because even though nothing outwardly had changed—not her appearance, not the quiet way she entered the room, not the way her hands fidgeted lightly at the ends of her sleeves—something was different. There was something about the way she moved, the way she didn't pause in the doorway or glance around to see where everyone was sitting, the way her steps were less hesitant, less guarded, the way her feet moved almost instinctively toward the same place she always sat.

Except—this time—that place was closer.

Because he had pulled the chair out. Toward him. Not dramatically, not overtly, not with any kind of declaration or announcement, but simply, naturally, without thinking, without bothering to explain himself, because there was no part of him that saw this as anything unusual.

And Yao, as she approached the table, noticed. Her steps faltered just slightly, just enough to register the shift, her gaze flickering toward the chair that sat just a few inches closer to him than usual, her eyes lifting toward his, reading something there that neither of them acknowledged aloud—but she said nothing.

No questioning.

No protest.

No flustered attempt to retreat.

She simply sat.

Quietly.

As if the space had always belonged to her. As if she had finally stopped waiting for permission to exist there. And even though she didn't look directly at him, even though her eyes remained trained on the plate in front of her and her fingers tugged nervously at the sleeves of her hoodie, even though the faintest hint of pink dusted across her cheeks, Sicheng saw it all.