Against the Algorithm

Chapter 61: The Line Between Trust and Fire

"I'm not." he murmured.

"You are. Like..." Her nose wrinkled. "Like you're judging."

"I'm admiring."

She flushed even more and waved her hand through the air. "You're biased."

"I am. And I'm right."

Her lips puckered into a pout, her fingers lazily circling the rim of the glass. "This wine is sneaky."

He chuckled low in his throat. "You haven't even finished a full glass yet."

"I feel warm," she whispered, sliding lower into his chest. "And floaty."

"You're tipsy," he replied, setting his own glass down before gently pulling hers away as well. "That's enough.."

She blinked up at him, bright-eyed, flushed, and utterly disarmed.

And that was the moment it hit him. This side of her, soft, open, and completely unfiltered, was his. Not the team's. Not the public's. Not even Da Bing's or Xiao Cong's. His. The adorable, warm-limbed, slightly giddy Yao who giggled against his shoulder and whispered nonsense and trusted him enough to fall into him, this easily. She was fucking irresistible. And no one else would ever see her like this. Not even on pain of death. He leaned down, brushing his mouth against the curve of her cheek as she murmured his name, soft and barely formed and smiled against her skin like a man who had just uncovered something he was never going to share.

She giggled again, breathless and loose-limbed, her fingers absently toying with the seam of his shirt near his waist like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room. Her head tipped back against his shoulder, cheeks glowing, eyes hazy and content. "Sicheng..."

He glanced down, the barest smile still curled at the corner of his mouth. "Hm?"

She twisted slightly, enough to look up at him with wide, unguarded eyes, eyes that sparkled like she'd forgotten every ounce of self-preservation or embarrassment she usually wore like a second skin. "You smell really good." That wasn't new. She told him that sometimes, usually shyly, usually when he was holding her or brushing past her too close in the hallway. But this time? She didn't stop there. Her fingers dragged slowly across his chest, a faint hum rising in her throat, and her voice dropped into something softer, unintentionally sultry, breathy and so very unaware of what she was doing to him. "You always smell like something expensive and warm and sharp. Like... like winter at night and leather and something dark and clean and a little dangerous..."

Sicheng stilled. Not because he didn't like it. But because her voice, dripping with the kind of soft, honest intoxication only half a glass of wine and a whole world of trust could unlock, was making his blood heat dangerously low in his body. His cock twitched once, hard, a pulse of sharp pressure that made his jaw tighten. He didn't move, didn't breathe, just clenched his hand into the couch cushion behind her back and forced himself to focus on not reacting.

Yao's voice dipped again, her fingers now tracing along the edge of his collarbone where the shirt opened slightly. "It makes me want to just crawl into your shirt," she murmured, lips brushing the sound more than shaping it. "Like... curl up inside it and just breathe."

His cock twitched again.

Harder.

His groan caught sharp in his throat, teeth grinding silently behind a clenched jaw as he locked down the surge that tried to rise, because god, she had no idea. Absolutely none. "Yao," he said, low and rough, warning and desperate all at once.

She blinked up at him. The pout was instant. So was the gentle scrunch of her brow, like she genuinely couldn't understand why he sounded so strained. "Did I say something wrong?" she asked softly, lips parting slightly as her voice dipped into that airy, breathy tone again. "I just... I really want to wear your clothes more. Like, all of them. Maybe... maybe nothing underneath."