( Hi guys here's an extra-long chapter just for you enjoy!).
The warmth of her in his arms did something unholy to Lou Yan's control.
Syra hadn't let go, and neither had he. In the quiet of her childhood home, wrapped in the scent of tea and toasted bread and her, Lou stood in the soft morning light with the one person who made the world make sense. Her breath was calm now, steady against his chest. Her arms were still snug around his waist, fingers clutching his sweater like she'd never quite planned to let go.
He felt her yawn against him, her voice sleep-husky and sweet. "You came all the way just for me?"
Lou didn't answer right away. Instead, he rubbed small circles against her lower back, lips brushing the top of her head. "I couldn't sleep."
Syra looked up at him. Her two ponytails were slightly askew, one bobbing more than the other. Her lips were still a little swollen from sleep, her eyes framed in long lashes that always looked dusted in soft charcoal. The innocence in her face hit him harder than any boardroom blow. She was devastating without trying—maybe because she didn't try.
"I missed you," he said simply.
Her expression softened—eyes wide, mouth trembling at the corners. "You drove all the way here because you missed me?"
He nodded, not trusting himself to elaborate.
"I don't know whether to kiss you or tease you for being a dramatic billionaire monk with attachment issues," she said, smiling.
He smirked. "You do both exceptionally well."
From the hallway, they heard Nasreen clearing her throat—soft but purposeful. A gentle signal. Lou pulled back slowly, smoothing Syra's hair down as she stepped out of his embrace. Her hand lingered in his, fingers slipping away only when absolutely necessary.
"I'll go freshen up," she said softly, tugging at the hem of her shirt. "Don't let my mom feed you all the leftovers before I'm back."
"No promises," Lou said, watching her retreat down the hall.
The moment she was out of sight, he leaned against the wall and exhaled. Hard.
He still felt her warmth against his skin, the shape of her cheek pressed against his chest etched into his bones. And that soft, sleepy pout of hers—like an imprint burned behind his eyes. His pulse hadn't slowed since she hugged him. It never did.
From the kitchen, Nasreen peeked out with a smile that was both amused and gently exasperated. "She still wears those preteen pajamas. I don't know what to do with this child, she's 24 years old but still acts like a child."
Lou, still flushed from the encounter, gave a breathless laugh. His ears red with embarrassment.
Li Wei entered with a tray of tea, shooting Lou a side glance. "You survived," he said dryly.
"Barely," Lou murmured.
They settled into the cozy dining area again, surrounded by soft chatter and the low hum of the kitchen fan. Lou sat straighter this time. Nasreen passed him another plate. The cozy chaos of this house—faint smells of spices, the quiet ring of spoons against porcelain—was a stark contrast to his own sleek, silent penthouse.
But this? This felt like life.
When Syra returned—showered and changed into something less catastrophic for his composure—she plopped down beside him, stealing a bite from his plate with a grin. He let her.
They bantered lightly over breakfast, Li Wei teasing Syra about her "celebrity artist attitude,"
Lou sat there with his calm and mildly stoic face watching them laugh, and smiled, his heart filled with peace and contentment.
He didn't even realize how naturally his hand had slipped into Syra's under the table until she squeezed his fingers gently in return.
And for a fleeting second, as he watched her argue about pomegranate seeds and heard the soft cadence of her laughter echo through the room he used to see only in stories, Lou Yan felt something dangerous flicker in his chest. He could see it now. Not just a future with her.
But this.
A life. A home. And gods help him, he wanted it all.
They left the countryside quietly, a lazy fog rolling off the hills as Lou guided the car back toward the city. Syra leaned her head against the window, her expression soft, lost somewhere between dreams and morning silence. Her knees were tucked to her chest, one socked foot resting on the edge of the seat. She hadn't spoken much since they left—her fingers absently stroking the jade pendant at her throat—but Lou didn't push. He knew that kind of quiet. It wasn't absence. It was preparation.
He glanced sideways at her once more. She was luminous in the early light, her face still bare from sleep, hair slightly tangled from the night. A part of him—one he rarely acknowledged—ached at the thought of not waking beside her tomorrow.
Back in the city, time warped again. Lou barely had time to breathe.
The medical project he'd spent two years envisioning had reached a critical breakthrough—so significant, in fact, that the government had dispatched two liaisons to monitor progress and offer financial backing. Foreign investors, once cautious, now called daily. Interviews flooded in. Stock prices soared. YanTech became a name on everyone's lips.
And Lou?
Lou was exhausted.
His days began at 4 a.m. and ended well past midnight, each hour carved by meetings, approvals, lab evaluations, and board assessments. Still, he refused to let any assistant deliver his final reports. He handled them himself. There was a part of him—deep, stubborn—that couldn't let go of that control. Maybe it was the monk in him. Maybe it was the son.
But no matter how frayed his nerves were, no matter how many unread messages waited for him on a blinking screen, he always came home.
To Syra.
Her tiny studio smelled like her—paint and lavender and something faintly citrusy. It was often cluttered and chaotic, half-finished canvases leaning against the wall, brushes scattered across the sink, her coat draped carelessly over his chair. And yet, to Lou, it was peace. It was the first real home he'd ever known.
Most nights he found her asleep on the couch, curled up under a ridiculous cartoon blanket, her hair a dark halo. He'd quietly sweep the paint-stained water cups into the sink, turn off her lamp, and press a kiss to her cheek before joining her on that same narrow couch, careful not to disturb her.
Sometimes she stirred and murmured his name, and he'd hold her close, whispering promises he hadn't yet learned how to say out loud.
---
Syra was busy too, though she didn't complain.
Between the children's art lessons she now taught twice a week—smudged little faces beaming up at her—and the commissioned work she juggled for both private collectors and Lou's foundation, her days blurred into a whirlwind of charcoal, deadlines, and gallery correspondence.
The foundation's project had taken off unexpectedly. What had started as a small outreach idea—a traveling art therapy exhibit—was now being piloted in three cities. Lou's name was on the masthead, but Syra was its heartbeat. And she poured herself into it like someone trying to give meaning to every bruise she'd ever carried.
Still, no matter how many canvases she stretched, her thoughts drifted to Sunday.
It hovered at the edge of her mind like a distant drumbeat steady, inevitable.
Madam Yan had summoned them both. For tea.
Syra wasn't naïve. This wouldn't be a friendly visit. It would be ritual, observation, perhaps even judgment. But for all the fear coiled in her stomach, there was something else too—resolve.
She wanted to be worthy of Lou. Not by fitting into his world, but by standing beside him in hers.
---
Late Friday night, she returned from a late lesson at the community center and found Lou already asleep at her drafting table, a report open beneath his hand. He was slumped forward, utterly still, his brow furrowed even in rest.
Syra approached quietly, her fingers brushing his hair back from his face. "You're burning out," she whispered. He didn't stir.
She padded over to the kitchenette and began to boil water for tea, methodically arranging the cups the way he liked them—left to right, symmetrical, predictable.
When she turned back around, he was awake, watching her silently.
"Sorry," she whispered. "Did I wake you?"
Lou shook his head, rising slowly, joints protesting. He came to stand behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist. "I missed you."
"You're here," she murmured.
He buried his face in her neck. "That doesn't mean I don't miss you."
And just like that, the week's exhaustion melted from her spine. They stood there for long minutes, neither speaking, just breathing together.
It wasn't always passion and drama between them. Sometimes, the deepest intimacy came from quiet. From existing in the same space and knowing the other would not leave.
---
Saturday passed in soft productivity. Lou spent most of the morning restocking Syra's fridge and pantry while she finished three new canvases in the corner of the studio.
He organized her spices alphabetically, bought her obscure Persian ingredients she hadn't seen in months, and even refilled her oat milk without being asked.
"Are you nesting?" she asked, suspicious.
"I like knowing you're eating properly," he replied without looking up. "And I'm tired of the apocalypse that is your pantry."
She smacked him with a dish towel. He kissed her on the cheek.
It had been exactly four weeks since they'd last made love.
Syra wasn't keeping count. Not consciously. But she felt it. In the way Lou touched her with aching reverence. In the way his body stiffened whenever she shifted too close. He was holding back. Still afraid.
Sometimes she tried to lure him in—soft kisses trailing down his neck, whispered words in the dark—but Lou always redirected. A joke. A distraction. A cup of tea.
And she let him.
Because when she reached for him, she wasn't just offering her body. She was offering safety. Trust. And Lou, who could face down CEOs and empires without blinking, still flinched from being needed.
But Sunday was coming.
And with it, the possibility of something more.
Something permanent.
Syra wasn't sure if she was ready for forever.
But she was sure of this: she wanted to walk into that tea room with her hand in his.
And if she had to kneel again, this time it would be together.