Against the Algorithm

Chapter 61: The Line Between Trust and Fire

She didn't move, still curled against him, barely breathing now.

And he, his restraint breaking down at the edges, heart thundering in his chest like a war drum, slowly pulled her tighter, his voice low and shaking with every ounce of reverent control he had left. "You don't know what that does to me," he whispered against her neck, each word shaking with heat. "You don't know what you're saying. You don't know what I see when you say that."

"I think I do," she murmured, even softer, her voice trembling. "But I don't want to forget telling you. Even if I'm tipsy. I want you to know."

He swallowed hard, his throat working as his voice dropped further, into something deep, something dangerous, something full of love tangled with raw, aching hunger. "I know now," he said. "And I swear to you, Yao... when you're sober—when you're sure—I'm going to make you feel things you never knew your body could survive."

She whimpered once. He tightened his arms around her. And neither of them moved. Not because the heat had faded. But because the promise had been made. And it was only a matter of time.

She didn't last long after that. One minute she was curled against his chest, her fingers tangled in his shirt, murmuring soft, sleepy words that still echoed in his ears like the most potent kind of torture—and the next, she was out. Completely. Her breath evened, her lashes fluttered once, and then she melted fully into his lap with the kind of boneless trust that made his chest ache even more than his cock.

Lu Sicheng sat there for a long moment, eyes closed, one hand curved around her back and the other clenched against his thigh like he was physically restraining himself from doing something stupid. When her soft snore finally slipped out, innocent, sweet, the absolute goddamn cherry on top of his slow descent into madness, he exhaled hard, leaned forward, and brushed a kiss against her temple.

"All right," he muttered, half to her, half to himself, "you little menace." He shifted, cradling her carefully in his arms, standing with the practiced ease of a man who had done this many times before, except this time, she wasn't sick, wasn't crying, wasn't emotionally wrecked.

No.

She was tipsy.

Gorgeous.

Still warm and flushed from wine and affection.

And he was the one wrecked.

He carried her to the bed like she weighed nothing, laying her down gently, careful not to jostle her too much. She mumbled something unintelligible as he adjusted the blanket over her legs, her hand curling instinctively into the pillow beside her. One knee bent, sleep shirt tugged slightly askew from how she had shifted, revealing the soft curve of her thigh. He looked away immediately. Cursed under his breath.

Then grabbed the water he'd poured earlier and the Advil he'd prepped like a damn nurse and crouched beside her. "Yao," he whispered, tapping her gently. "Beautiful, come on. Just a sip. You'll thank me in the morning."

She stirred, eyes barely cracking open, lips parting in a sleepy pout.

"Water," he coaxed, sliding an arm beneath her shoulders and guiding the glass to her mouth.

She sipped. Twice.

Swallowed the pills.

Then flopped back with a content sigh and immediately began to drift again.

Sicheng stayed crouched for another long second, brushing her hair back behind her ear. "You," he muttered, voice low and half-cursed under his breath, "are going to be the end of me." He stood. Stared down at her. And then very calmly turned toward the bathroom, stripping his shirt off as he walked.The second the door clicked shut, he flipped the water on and muttered under his breath with a sharp, strained exhale, "Blue balls forever. I'm going to die with blue balls."