Against the Algorithm

Chapter 33: The Lines We Draw Quietly

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.