Against the Algorithm

Chapter 30: Where She's Held

And then—he was in front of her.

She didn't flinch. Didn't step back. Just stood there, small and pale in his oversized sweater, her arms curled around herself like she was trying to hold everything in. The moment she tilted her face up to look at him—those wide, glazed-over hazel eyes barely keeping their focus—he bent slightly, arms sliding beneath her with the same certainty he used when catching a game-winning throw. One arm behind her back, the other beneath her knees, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all. She gasped faintly in surprise, but didn't resist. Didn't protest.

Didn't want to.

He held her carefully, close to his chest, one of her arms slipping instinctively around his shoulder as he turned and carried her across the room, each step unhurried but deliberate. The door remained cracked behind them—left open just slightly, not enough for intrusion, but enough to show the others that she wasn't hiding. That she was here, and with him. He reached the couch, sank into it smoothly, adjusting her without letting her go, settling her gently into his lap as his back curved into the cushions. She curled into him without needing direction, her face pressing softly to the hollow of his collarbone, her body folding into the safety of his arms as if she belonged there—and she did.

He tugged the blanket from the side of the couch and wrapped it around her without a word, one hand threading through her hair, the other resting warm and steady along the curve of her spine. His voice never came, not yet—because he knew she didn't need words right now. She just needed to be held and for as long as she needed that, he wasn't letting her go.

Sicheng shifted slightly beneath her, his hand gliding slowly down the curve of her spine until it reached the small of her back. He paused there for a moment, his fingers mapping out the tense lines of her posture, the faint tremble in her muscles telling him more than words ever could. Then—with the kind of precision that came not from guesswork, but from paying attention, from observing her over the last few cycles of this—he pressed gently into the pressure point just above her tailbone, his thumb applying a slow, careful amount of pressure.

Yao let out a soft, shuddering breath, her arms tightening around his torso, her face pressing further into the crook of his neck. Not from pain but relief. The kind that hit deep and low, where the cramping had curled tight and sharp for hours.

He didn't say anything. Just kept his hand there, working slow, practiced circles with his thumb, easing the worst of the tension from her hips and lower back. The silence was warm. Heavy, but in a way that grounded her. Because this—this steady rhythm of his breath, the warmth of his chest against her cheek, the slow pressure of his hand against her spine—this was what comfort felt like. Not sympathy. Not words.

Just him.

Knowing exactly what she needed. And giving it without being asked.

As the first faint light of dawn began to bleed through the edges of the blinds, Sicheng stirred, his lashes parting slowly as the muted gray of morning settled over his office. For a moment, he didn't move—didn't need to—because the warmth against his chest, the soft weight curled so delicately into him, anchored him more than any alarm ever could.

Yao was nestled beneath his chin, her breathing slow and even, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, her fingers still curled lightly against the front of his shirt. Her hair spilled over his chest in soft platinum strands, tickling the edge of his jaw with each slow exhale. He shifted his gaze slightly, careful not to jostle her, and noted that at some point during the night, the lights had been turned off and a blanket had been draped gently over the both of them—likely Rui, or Ming if the Midlaner had already made it back from the hospital with his miserable younger brother in tow.