Against the Algorithm

Chapter 34: When Want Becomes Intention

She blinked, lips parting slightly, her eyes suddenly shimmering with something unspoken.

"I'll go slow," he said, his voice barely a whisper now. "I'll go as slow as you need. You tell me where the line is, and I'll never cross it." Then, with a faint smile—gentle and deeply real—he leaned forward, resting his forehead to hers. "I just want you to stop running, Wǔ xiān. Because I've already chosen you."

And there, in the quiet space of her apartment, wrapped in warmth and words and something so painfully honest it made the world tilt a little. Yao didn't run. She didn't hide. She simply nodded, her fingers slowly uncurling, resting lightly over the hand he still had against her cheek and whispered, "Okay."

Her fingers, still resting over his, twitched slightly before curling again—not to pull away, but to hold tighter, as if grounding herself against the low hum of emotion that was still catching in her chest. She blinked, long lashes fluttering as she swallowed, her voice barely audible, laced with guilt and the soft kind of ache that only came from feeling like she had disappointed someone she cared about. "I'm sorry," she whispered, the words cracking faintly at the edges. "I didn't mean to run. I just... I didn't know how to process it. The way you looked at me." She lifted her eyes to his, hazel shimmering with conflicted vulnerability. "You looked at me like you were going to devour me."

There was no accusation in it. Just raw truth. The kind of honesty that burned a little coming out because it felt so much bigger than she knew how to contain. And maybe that was what scared her the most—not him, not even the want—but the fact that she wanted and had never been taught how to handle something so unfamiliar.

But Sicheng didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He didn't even smirk, though the corner of his mouth threatened to twitch at the way she said it like she was still trying to make sense of the wildfire she'd seen behind his eyes. Instead, his fingers lifted, brushing a few strands of her hair away from her face before settling again at the curve of her jaw, anchoring her in place with a touch that was steady and certain. "Yao," he said, his voice firm but never harsh—just layered in that grounding weight only he could deliver, low and unwavering. "You never have to apologize for that."

Her breath caught.

"You never have to apologize for needing space. For feeling overwhelmed. For running when your mind needs time to catch up with your heart." He leaned in just a little more, not enough to press, but enough for her to feel the quiet intensity in every word. "All I ask," he murmured, "is that you tell me. If you need space? Say it. If you're scared? Say it. I'll back off, I'll wait, I'll sit on the floor outside your door if I have to—but don't carry that guilt. You don't owe me perfect reactions. You owe me honesty."

She blinked again, lips parted slightly, as if the weight of his reassurance had cracked something open in her chest. The shield of uncertainty she'd been hiding behind trembled, and her gaze softened—like the fear was still there, but it no longer felt like it had to win. And when she finally nodded, slow and small, her voice came with it—quiet, but steadier. "Okay."

Sicheng's thumb brushed across her cheek once more. "Good," he said simply. Then he leaned forward, brushing a light kiss to her temple—not rushed, not hungry, just a gentle press of lips to skin, a silent promise that he wasn't going anywhere.

And this time—she didn't flinch. She didn't hide. She just let herself lean into him, slowly, carefully, her face pressed against the line of his shoulder as her breath steadied and the guilt started to ease.

The room was quiet save for the soft clink of teacups and the low hum of the city outside her apartment window. Sicheng, stretched out comfortably on her couch with his tea in one hand and a small bowl of reheated hotpot in the other, watched with quiet amusement as Yao squirmed beside him, clearly trying to work herself up to something. Her cheeks were already pink, her fingers twitching slightly against the edge of her teacup, and he didn't need to look to know she was internally combusting from whatever thought had taken root. She shifted again, her voice coming out in a soft, almost strangled whisper. "Can I... ask you something?"