Against the Algorithm

Chapter 61: The Line Between Trust and Fire

A rustle beneath the blanket. Then stillness.

He smiled faintly. "Option one," he continued, fingers drumming lightly against her very fabric-wrapped shoulder. "You come out on your own. We sit up like adults. We talk about it. I remind you that you didn't do anything wrong, and then we move on with the rest of our day like you didn't threaten to kill me with a wine-soaked whisper and a lap dance."

The burrito let out the softest, most wounded whimper.

Sicheng ignored it. "Option two..." He shifted onto the bed fully now, the mattress dipping under his weight as his hand slid across the rise of the covers—slow, precise, threatening. "I'll make you come out."

A beat of silence.

Then a faint, horrified squeak. "You wouldn't."

He leaned closer, his mouth near where he suspected her ear might be under the fortress of cotton and denial. "Yao." The warning in his voice was gentle. But absolute. "Do not test me. You will lose."

Her reply came in a frantic whisper, muffled and scandalized. "You'll traumatize me!"

"Not nearly as much as you traumatized me last night when you climbed into my lap and tried to convince me we should start your first time tipsy and riding my thigh."

"Lu Sicheng!"

"Choose," he said, voice deepening with amusement now, dangerous affection curling into each syllable. "Come out on your own, or I start pulling off covers until I find your face."

Another pause.

Then a low, miserable groan. "You're cruel."

"I'm patient," he corrected, sliding one hand beneath the edge of the blanket like he meant it. "But I am running out of patience, lovely little burrito."

A faint shuffle.

A tense moment.

And then, a tiny, reluctant hand emerged, followed by a slow, trembling lift of the blanket just high enough for a pair of mortified hazel eyes to peek out, glaring in helpless defeat. "...Option one." she muttered, cheeks already burning again.

Sicheng grinned—slow, smug, utterly delighted. "Good girl."

And the blanket immediately dropped over her face again with a scandalized, "Don't say that right now!"

He laughed. But he didn't push. Not yet. She'd come the rest of the way out on her own. He had no doubt. Eventually. Because now? He'd made it clear. Option two was still very much on the table. The silence that followed her retreat back under the blanket was thick with flustered horror—and Sicheng's slow, drawn-out amusement. He didn't move. Didn't poke. Didn't tease further. He just sat there, one leg bent up on the bed, elbow braced against his knee, head tilted slightly to the side as he watched the blanket rise and fall with every mortified breath she took.

She'd already chosen.

Option one.

Voluntary emergence.

But clearly?

Her brain and her dignity were still in negotiations. After a long beat, a single hand emerged again, fingers dainty, shaking, like she was checking if the coast was clear. She poked the edge of the blanket just enough to peek her eyes out, narrowed and suspicious. "You're still here," she accused.

Sicheng blinked. "Where else would I be?"

"Anywhere but here."

"Mm," he mused. "And miss this? Not a chance, Xiǎo tùzǐ."

Her eyes narrowed further. "I hate you."

"False," he replied smoothly, reaching out to tug the edge of the blanket back just enough to uncover her face. "You love me."

Yao made the softest growling noise of protest—something between a whimper and a whine—and attempted to roll further into the pillows, but he caught her. One hand planted firmly against the bed on the opposite side of her body, blocking her escape. The other curved gently around her cheek, thumb brushing over the flushed heat there as he tilted her head toward him. She didn't resist. Not really. She just stared up at him, cheeks burning, lips pursed, eyes wide with vulnerable defiance.

Sicheng smiled, quiet and warm this time. "Yao."

Her eyes darted away. "Don't."

He waited.

Then gently, "Look at me."

She hesitated.

Then slowly turned her gaze back toward his.

Hazel and amber met in the quiet morning light.

"You didn't ruin anything," he said softly. "Not last night. Not now. Not ever."

"But I said—" she began, already flushing again.

"And I heard everything," he murmured. "And I still want you. But I want you, Yao. Not tipsy-you. Not half-drunk with flushed cheeks and a shy smile you'll regret in the morning. I want the version that comes to me because she's sure. Because she means it."

She swallowed.

Hard.

"I do," she whispered. "I meant it. Even if I was..."

"Floaty?"

"...Yeah."

"I know." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, the kind that wasn't rushed, wasn't teasing. Just grounded. "And when you're ready—really ready—I'm not going to stop you. I'm just not going to be your first when you're swaying on your feet from half a glass of wine."

Yao exhaled shakily, her face buried under the weight of emotions far more intense than she could name. "You're too good," she mumbled.

"I'm not," he said softly. "I'm just yours. And you deserve better than waking up wondering if you pushed too far."

Her heart cracked open at that. The covers fell fully away. And she sat up—still a mess, still blushing, still trying not to die from shame—but upright. Here. Awake. Present. Then, very softly, she said, "Thank you... for taking care of me."

Sicheng's smile was slow, warm, and real. "You make it easy." he murmured.

She huffed and buried her face in her hands again with a tiny, "Shut up."

Author's Note: The Muse would like to say that all comments, even small ones, are very much welcomed and they very much enjoy reading them!