Against the Algorithm

Chapter 34: When Want Becomes Intention

"I've had enough of you running, Xiǎo Tùzǐ," his voice came low and calm, tinged with that particular brand of dry irritation that was distinctly Lu Sicheng, and made infinitely worse by the fact that she could feel the low hum of his chest every time he spoke.

"I wasn't running—"

"You've fled five times, tried to lie twice, and nearly tripped trying to duck under Rui's desk." His hand tapped the back of her thigh lightly, almost scoldingly. "You're not stealthy. You're just small."

Yao sputtered, her hands pressing into his back as she tried to push herself up, but he was already moving—unhurried, unstoppable, striding straight toward the stairwell with the resigned air of a man carrying a particularly squirmy, slightly guilty cat who'd broken a vase and was now trying to escape the consequences.

Behind them, the hallway was still—except for Yue's faint voice drifting from the lounge.

"Yep. Definitely calling Mom."

Sicheng didn't pause. Didn't even glance back. He just tightened his hold on the flustered, red-faced girl over his shoulder and muttered, loud enough for only her to hear, "You can run all you want, Yao-er... but I'll always catch you." And with that, he pushed open the door to her apartment with his free hand and carried her inside, because if she wasn't going to face him willingly, then she was damn well going to do it where there were no exits.

The soft click of the door locking echoed like punctuation to a sentence she hadn't realized he was writing until it was too late. The moment he stepped fully inside, his hand still resting on the handle for a half-beat longer, Yao's breath caught—because she knew that sound. She knew what it meant when Lu Sicheng locked a door. It didn't mean she was trapped. It meant he wasn't letting her run.

Again.

Not from this. Not from him.

Not this time.

His steps were unhurried but deliberate, measured in that way only he ever was, and as he walked toward her, the weight of his presence made the room feel smaller, quieter. With little effort, he lowered her onto the couch, her back sinking into the cushions with a soft whuff as he eased her down—gentle, always careful with her, even when she tried to bolt. Her face, already pink from the indignity of being slung over his shoulder like a rice sack, deepened to a full flush as her head hit the armrest and he pulled back just enough to tower over her, his expression unreadable.

Then—

He raised a single eyebrow, the faintest glint of a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth, not quite smug, not quite amused. "Done running?" he asked, voice low and dangerously steady.

She stared up at him, curled slightly against the arm of the couch like a startled animal unsure whether she should play dead or pretend she belonged there. Her hands twitched toward the hem of his hoodie that she still wore—her comfort, her shield—and she clutched the fabric against her stomach like it might offer her an escape route that didn't exist. "I wasn't running." she mumbled, though her voice lacked all conviction.

He tilted his head, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared her down with that calm, unblinking intensity that always made her feel like the only person in the room. "You didn't even look me in the eye all day," he said, his voice brushing the edges of something darker—something not angry, but curious. Intrigued. "I walk by and you bolt like Da Bing spotting the vacuum."

Yao let out a soft, embarrassed groan and pressed her palms over her face, muffling her next words. "I just needed space..."

"To figure out how flexible you are?" he asked casually, that brow arching higher. "Because if that's the case, let me save you the trouble. I've already got that part committed to memory."