Against the Algorithm

Chapter 61: The Line Between Trust and Fire

The morning light filtered in through the tall hotel suite windows, soft and golden, spilling gently across the edge of the bed in quiet contrast to the chaos now stirring beneath the covers.

Yao's breath hitched.

Her lashes fluttered once.

Then twice.

And she groaned softly, a low, miserable whine slipping from her throat as she shifted in the sheets. Her head throbbed, not violently, but with that slow, bloated pressure that came from warmth, sleep, and a single, unholy glass of wine that had been far too strong for someone who barely even sipped during toasts. She stretched under the blanket, yawned, and slowly sat up. Her hair was a mess—platinum silver strands haloed around her face, a few curling against her cheek.

She blinked.

Squinted toward the muted light, the delicate hum of city traffic brushing faintly against the glass. And then the door opened. She turned lazily toward the sound, her vision still fogged, only to freeze the moment her eyes landed on him.

Lu Sicheng.

Tall.

Put together.

Walking into the room shirtless in a pair of soft black sleep pants that hung too low on his hips, holding a tray with one hand—water, juice, and a neatly folded tissue beneath two tablets of Advil.

She blinked again. Her mind began catching up. One memory. Then another. The flush of wine.

His voice. "You're going to kill me."

Her soft, drunk little whisper.

"I want you... I trust you..."

Her entire face went up in flames. And the moment her sleep-fogged brain fully connected the dots, her eyes flew wide, a high-pitched squeak burst out of her, and she launched herself backward into the blankets like a reverse exorcism.

"Oh no—!"

The tray clinked as Sicheng halted mid-step, one brow lifting slowly as he watched her vanish beneath the sea of pillows and blankets, her limbs thrashing briefly before stillness took over, a muffled groan of existential shame echoing from deep within the cocoon she'd just buried herself in.

He stood there. Completely unimpressed. Then, voice calm, low, and far too amused, he asked, "Headache or humiliation?"

"Both!" came the muffled squeal from under the duvet. "Mostly humiliation! I said things!"

Sicheng chuckled, quiet, deep, and laced with the lazy smugness of a man who had survived the night and then some. "Yes," he said. "Yes, you did."

A muffled, horrified whine erupted from under the pile.

He walked over, set the tray neatly on the nightstand, and crouched beside the bed, resting one arm casually on the edge as he glanced down at the quivering heap of cotton, blankets, and heartbreak. "Want a rundown?" he offered far too pleasantly.

"No!" came the shrieked protest. "Erase it! Take it back! I want a do-over! I can never show my face again!"

"Yao," he said, voice entirely too fond now, "you literally bit my neck and told me you watched educational videos after the first time I touched you and that you've been practicing."

Another shriek. Another dive deeper into the abyss of shame.

Sicheng just laughed and with all the patience in the world, he reached out, tugged a pillow gently off her head, and muttered, "Drink your water, beautiful. You're going to need it. Because we will be talking about last night."