Against the Algorithm

Chapter 38: Meant for One

He stepped inside.

The first thing that hit him was the scent. Warm, fragrant layers of garlic and scallion, subtle wisps of jasmine rice, and the rich, unmistakable sweetness of ginger syrup lingering in the air like memory.

Sicheng blinked, a small shift flickering behind his amber eyes as he took in the sight of her. She was standing near the table—plating something, maybe adjusting it for the third time, because she was like that. Her platinum hair spilled down her back in soft waves, and the peasant skirt she wore brushed lightly against her bare ankles with every subtle movement. She wore a flowy loose top to go with it. She hadn't seen him yet. And in that moment, he didn't say a word. He watched. Watched the small, quiet ritual she had created just for him. The delicate care in the table setting. The way her brows furrowed ever so slightly as she double-checked the steam rising off the rice. The tiny smile she allowed herself when she thought no one was looking.

That's when it hit him. The ginger syrup. The glutinous black sesame rice balls. The steamed cod. She asked. She cared enough to ask and find out what his favorite meal and dessert were. His chest tightened slightly, the kind of pressure he never voiced aloud. Instead, he walked in fully, letting the quiet sound of the door closing behind him announce his presence.

She turned, eyes widening just slightly, cheeks coloring in that way they always did when she hadn't fully braced herself for his attention.

He didn't speak right away. Just shrugged off his jacket and set it over the back of her small couch, his gaze sweeping once more over the table before settling on her again—unmistakably, unreadably warm. "You made my favorite." he said at last, voice low, steady.

"Aunt Lan told me... I wasn't sure if it would turn out right." She nodded, shy and uncertain but brave enough to meet his eyes.

Sicheng stepped forward until he was close enough to reach out, close enough to touch—but didn't. Not yet. He didn't need to. Because in that moment, the weight of what she had done—quiet, thoughtful, entirely for him—settled somewhere deep in his chest like a promise. "Looks perfect," he said. And he meant it. Because anything made by her hands always would be.

Tong Yao stood across from him, silent, watching, clearly trying not to fidget.

Then he took the first bite.

The cod was soft, flaky, layered with the rich warmth of garlic and scallion oil, the flavor precise, clean, with just enough ginger to cut through the richness. The rice was perfect—just enough chew, just enough fragrance. He took another bite. And another. He didn't say anything at first. Didn't lift his head. But when he did?

His eyes were dark, unreadable—but his voice gave it away, low and sure. "This is better than any restaurant I've been to."

She blinked. "Really?"

He met her gaze fully then, his expression softening into something that wasn't quite a smile, but settled deep behind his eyes. "You made this for me."

It wasn't a question.

She nodded once, biting her lip.

He set his chopsticks down and leaned back in the chair, watching her. "Come sit. Before I change my mind and keep you standing just so I can look at you like that a little longer."

She flushed crimson but obeyed, crossing to the seat beside him and settling in quietly, tucking her hair behind one ear. And when she lifted her chopsticks and offered him a bite from her plate, murmuring that she didn't mind sharing, he didn't hesitate. He leaned in, took the bite, and let his lips brush against the tips of her fingers. Because it was Monday. Because it was her. And because, for the first time in years, he had come home to something more than food. He had come home to her.