Against the Algorithm

Chapter 34: When Want Becomes Intention

The hallway was quiet, the low hum of distant voices and the faint buzz of overhead lights the only sounds as Lu Sicheng made his way back from Rui's office, the ever-present clipboard in his hand now forgotten as he approached the corridor that cut past the base's private gym.

He hadn't meant to stop.

But he did.

The moment his eyes landed on the figure inside, he froze mid-step—breath caught, muscles locked, every coherent thought in his head scattering like the remnants of a dropped deck of cards.

Yao.

She was alone in the center of the mat, barefoot, clad in black leggings and a fitted tank that curved with every inch of her small frame, her platinum braid coiled in a perfect French twist that left her neck exposed. But it wasn't the outfit, or even her presence in the gym, that stole his ability to breathe. It was what she was doing. Arched backward into a perfect bridge—hands and feet grounded, stomach lifted toward the ceiling, throat bared and head tipped back in the kind of controlled release that only came from deep familiarity. Her eyes were closed, expression peaceful, and her entire body moved like it had been sculpted to exist in that pose.

Effortless.

Disciplined.

And utterly, absolutely breathtaking.

Sicheng's grip tightened slightly on the edge of the clipboard, forgotten in his hand, as the sight pulled at something sharp and visceral inside him. The stretch pushed her chest up with every deep breath, the long line of her throat exposed in the soft light filtering through the tinted glass, and then—before he could blink—she moved. Without opening her eyes. Her body coiled, legs sweeping up and over in one seamless motion, hands lifting as she balanced on them for a suspended heartbeat—

A perfect handstand.

And then, she flipped again—graceful, deliberate—landing with a soft thud in a crouch, hands braced lightly on the mat in front of her, her head bowed, breath slow and measured.

Still with her eyes closed.

Sicheng stared, pulse thudding somewhere deep and unsteady in his chest, a heat curling low in his spine. Because he had seen her calm. He had seen her sharp, focused, brilliant. But this? This side of her—centered, grounded, so entirely at ease in her own skin that she could move like instinct itself—this was new. And it wrecked him in a way he hadn't expected. He didn't say a word. Didn't move. Just stood there in the silence, watching her like she was the calm at the center of every storm he'd ever known. He blinked—once, sharply—as if grounding himself back into his own body, but it did nothing to ease the coiled tension humming low in his spine. Because she wasn't done. Yao rose from her crouch with the fluid grace of someone who'd moved like this her entire life, her posture precise, spine straight, shoulders relaxed. She shifted her weight to one leg with such steady, controlled ease that Sicheng could practically hear the sound of his own sanity fraying—especially when she lifted her opposite leg slowly into the air.

Higher.

Higher.

And then, with the quiet, terrifying certainty of a woman who had absolutely no idea the damage she was inflicting, she caught her foot in her hand—held it there, perfectly balanced, her leg extended in a line so sharp and defined it should have been illegal. Her body didn't sway. Her shoulders didn't even twitch. She just stood there, calm and centered, eyes still closed like she was somewhere else entirely, lost in the feel of movement and silence and muscle memory.

And Sicheng?

The clipboard in his hand very nearly cracked. Because this was not fair. It was not fair that she could look like that. Move like that. Stretch like that—like some sinfully composed creature sculpted from moonlight and fire, all soft grace and quiet power, utterly unaware of the kind of restraint she was dragging out of him just by existing. He swore under his breath, low and sharp, in a tone that only Da Bing—if the furry menace had been nearby—might have recognized as warning-level danger. Because he was barely hanging on. And if she didn't open her damn eyes soon and give him something else to look at— Or maybe if she did open them and looked straight at him with that sleepy softness she sometimes carried when she was tired and curled into his side—he wasn't sure which option would be worse.