Against the Algorithm

Chapter 61: The Line Between Trust and Fire

Summary: In the quiet aftermath of triumph, a soft question leads to something deeper—carefully unwrapped, never rushed, and filled with trust so fragile it burns. Between flushed confessions and tender restraint, they learn that intimacy isn't just about touch—it's about being seen, known, and still held close.

Notes:

Author's Note: Tiny Boss Bunny Shenanigans.....restraint fraying Chessman

Chapter Sixty-One

The suite had returned to stillness. Outside, the lights of Beijing shimmered against the windows, painting the polished floor with the blurred glow of high-rise towers. The soft hum of the city below never reached the peace inside their room.

Sicheng had long since changed, comfortably reclined on the sofa in a fitted black tee and loose lounge pants, flipping idly through channels with the sound low, his mind only half on the screen.

The bathroom door clicked open with a quiet snick.

Yao, fresh from her shower, padded softly across the floor in her oversized sleep shirt—the neckline slipping gently off one shoulder, the hem brushing mid-thigh—and a pair of simple black sleep shorts. Her long platinum hair was loose and damp, curling faintly at the ends, and she'd tugged on a pair of warm socks as she moved through the room. She made a small sound in her throat—barely more than a thoughtful hum—and then changed course, walking over to the minibar fridge.

Sicheng's eyes tracked her, curious.

She opened the door, shifted a few things inside, and gently pulled out a sleek, frosted glass bottle.

The Rosa.

The deep red, expensive wine Lan had given to her over a month ago with her outfit that she wore today, tucked neatly beside her outfit, her heels, and her bracelet. A quiet gift. A meaningful one. She stared at the label for a moment, then turned toward him, cradling the bottle with both hands. Her voice was soft. Shy. Almost hesitant. "...Do you want to share a glass with me?"

Sicheng blinked once, then sat up slightly, one arm resting along the back of the couch as he looked at her with a raised brow. "You want to open that tonight?"

She nodded, fingers tightening just slightly on the neck of the bottle. "I thought... maybe just one glass. To celebrate," she murmured. "It felt like the right moment."

He didn't say no. But his expression shifted, something faintly amused behind the warning edge of his tone. "Yao," he said calmly, "that wine is strong. Really strong. And you don't really drink."

She paused, clearly considering that. Then looked up at him, her eyes wide and honest, the weight of the day finally softening into a quiet need for closeness. "...I trust you to look after me."

The words slipped out like truth, too soft to be called brave.

Sicheng stared at her for a long moment, something warm and sharp threading through his chest. Then he stood, walking toward her with that same slow, measured confidence he always carried, reaching out to take the bottle gently from her hands. "I always do." he said, brushing his fingers lightly across hers.

She flushed but didn't look away.

And together, they turned toward the small counter, where two crystal glasses waited, and the night—quiet, simple, and filled with everything that mattered—began to pour out in deep red warmth.

30 minutes later, she had only half-finished her glass.

And she was glowing. It wasn't just the flush in her cheeks or the faint glossy sheen in her eyes, it was the way she leaned against him on the couch, legs draped over his lap, hand curled beneath her chin as she laughed at everything. At nothing. Her laughter was light and breathy and loose, and she kept nudging her shoulder into his arm every time she giggled like she couldn't help it. "Shh," she whispered mid-laugh, even though he hadn't said anything. "You're looking at me funny."