Against the Algorithm

Chapter 34: When Want Becomes Intention

Either way?

He was done for.

And she still hadn't even realized he was watching.

Her eyes opened slowly, lashes parting with a blink as she exhaled through her nose, the meditative rhythm still wrapped around her limbs. It wasn't until her foot touched the mat and her balance shifted to neutral that she felt the shift—like the atmosphere in the room had subtly tilted.

And then her gaze lifted.

And she saw him.

Lu Sicheng.

Standing in the open doorway of the gym, tall and still and composed in that devastating way that made it impossible to tell if he was thinking about the latest scrim schedule—or, as now, if his mind had gone completely blank at the sight of her balancing like some damn goddess sculpted out of patience, strength, and barely-there Lycra.

Her breath caught.

A single, visible hitch of realization as her entire face flushed with immediate, unmistakable horror. The pink bloomed across her cheeks so quickly it nearly matched the burn crawling up the back of her neck. Her hands dropped to her sides, rigid and too formal, her body stiffening like she'd been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to—except she hadn't, and that somehow made it worse.

"S-Sicheng—"

It came out like a squeak. More air than voice. Her wide hazel eyes locked onto his, caught somewhere between panic and mortification as she stood frozen in place, still dressed in those damn leggings and that tight-fitted top that had seemed perfectly normal when she was alone, but now—

Now she might as well have been wearing nothing.

He hadn't said a word. Not a single sound. But his amber gaze was dark. Heavy. Focused.

Dangerously so.

"Hi," she managed, her voice small and unsure, the syllable breaking awkwardly at the end.

The corner of his mouth tugged—just slightly. Not a smile. Not even close. But something that looked like restraint carved into bone. And then, still watching her with that same unreadable expression, his voice came quiet and low, threaded with something that made her toes curl against the mat without her permission. "Wǒ de tiān..." he muttered, voice almost reverent. My god.

Yao's knees nearly gave out. Because that wasn't fair. None of this was fair. And the worst part? He still hadn't looked away. Her breath caught tight in her throat, and before her brain could offer a proper thought—let alone a graceful recovery—her feet had already moved. A full retreat. She bolted. A blur of platinum hair and bare feet on gym flooring, she ducked her head and darted toward the opposite exit like a startled deer catching scent of a predator. Her fingers fumbled briefly against the handle, and then the door swung open and closed with a soft thud behind her, leaving only the faint echo of her rapid steps down the corridor.

Sicheng blinked.

Once.

Slow.

The other door still swayed gently in her wake, the last ghost of her presence lingering in the air—her scent, light and familiar, clinging to the space like an imprint. His gaze, dark and molten with all the things he hadn't said, stayed fixed on that door a moment longer, and then—

He exhaled.

Quiet.

Drawn out.

The sound low enough to be dangerous.