The earth was still wet from morning dew as Lou Yan stepped out of his sleek car, carrying a small bundle of white lotus flowers and a box of mooncakes wrapped in silk. The countryside air was cool and clean, threaded with the scent of firewood and old citrus trees. It reminded him of peace. Of beginnings.
Syra's parents lived in a modest house nestled between orchards and low stone walls. The last time he visited, Nasreen had teased him about his stiff posture and too-polished shoes. This time, he wore canvas slippers and a loose jacket—simple, like the man he hoped to remain before them.
The door opened almost immediately after he knocked.
"Lou!" Nasreen's eyes lit up, her smile warm and immediate. "Come in, come in. You don't need to bring gifts every time, you know."
"I can't help it," he said with a soft bow. "You once told me food is the way into a mother's heart."
She laughed, already reaching for the box. "Well, you listened. That's more than I can say for Li Wei."
Inside, the house smelled of cardamom and rice. Nasreen poured him tea while he set the flowers in a shallow bowl by the window. The house was quiet, but not empty. It carried the hush of a place where love had settled into the bones of the walls.
Li Wei entered moments later, leaning lightly on his cane, a faint smile beneath his trimmed beard. "Lou," he said, nodding. "You've lost weight. Are they overworking you at that tech empire of yours?"
"Only a little," Lou replied. "But I still come home to Syra's voice. That makes the rest easy."
That made Li Wei chuckle. "Spoken like a man in love."
Lou's expression softened. "That's why I came."
Nasreen raised a brow, already sensing something more.
"I wanted to formally tell you," Lou said, reaching into his coat pocket and placing a scroll-sized invitation on the table. It was embroidered with plum blossoms and stamped with the Lou family's seal.
"The engagement will take place next Sunday in the ancestral garden," he said. "I know Syra already told you, and Madam Yan's aide came by yesterday, but it was important to me—to ask you in person."
The room fell still for a moment.
Then Nasreen smiled. Not just with her lips, but her eyes—tender, proud, deeply moved. "You've always had our blessing, Lou. Not because you brought mooncakes or bows, but it helps though. But because you make our daughter feel safe. And happy."
Li Wei nodded.
Lou bowed deeply. "Thank you—for raising someone I could spend a lifetime learning to love."
Nasreen waved him off, but her voice was thick with emotion. "Enough of that. Come eat. You'll need strength if you want to survive our side of the family."
Lou smiled. "With pleasure."
That evening, Syra received a photo from her mother: Lou sitting at their table, head bowed as Nasreen served him second helpings of stew. The caption read: Your father says he's finally found someone who listens when he talks.
And for the first time in days, Syra smiled until her chest ached.
----
The studio was silent except for the low hum of the heater and the occasional rustle of paper as Syra flipped through her sketchbook. Outside, dusk had crept in like a slow tide, washing the city in plum and steel. Inside, she sat cross-legged beneath the massive mural Lou Yan had painted months ago—her body casting a faint shadow on the brushstrokes of reds and golds that curled across the wall like fire caught mid-breath.
She hadn't painted all day. Although she had tried. But her hands felt too heavy. Her thoughts too loud, to allow her focus.
The bracelet he'd worn on her wrist yesterday still hung there, its center bead warm from her skin. She hadn't taken it off.
She missed him.
But it wasn't the loud kind of missing—the crying, dramatic, operatic sort.
It was worse.
It was quiet. Lingering. The ache of a presence that once filled the room now replaced by stillness that felt almost like peace, except it wasn't.
She reached for a pencil, began sketching in slow, unsure lines. Not Lou or herself. Just hands. Reaching for one another, but never touching.
She didn't hear the door until it opened. Without knock or any form of announcement. Just the soft creak of hinges and the smell of incense and rain.
She turned. And there, Lou Yan stood in the doorway, a small paper bag in one hand and shadows clinging to the folds of his coat.
"Baozi," he said, holding the bag up like an apology.
She blinked. "Again?"
"I didn't know how else to say I needed to see you."
He stepped inside slowly, his movements careful, measured—as if her silence might send him running. But she didn't move nor rise from her position. She just watched him come closer.
He didn't speak again. Just lowered himself onto the floor beside her, leaving a small space between them. He set the baozi between them and waited.
The quiet stretched.
"You look tired," she said finally.
He nodded. "So do you."
"I haven't slept well."
"I haven't either."
Stillness again. Their breathing was soft and in sync, the kind of silence that didn't demand to be filled.
He glanced at the mural. "You painted this while I slept on that couch," he said. "I remember thinking your hands were more faithful than mine."
Syra looked down at her own hands, smudged with charcoal. "My hands are tired now."
"I know," he said. "So are mine."
And then—he reached out.
Not for her waist, not for her hand. He reached for the pencil that had rolled near her foot. Held it for a second. Then gently placed it beside her sketchbook.
Their fingers brushed.
Her breath caught. He pulled back like she'd singed him.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice hoarse. "I promised I'd wait."
She turned toward him, her expression unreadable. "Lou."
He looked up.
"I never asked you to stop wanting me. I only asked that we wait. Together."
Something in him cracked at that—something ancient and tightly wound. He leaned forward just slightly, not to kiss her, not even to touch her, but just to be closer.
"I'm still here," he said. "I just… I'm afraid."
"Of me?"
"No." His voice dropped. "Of wanting you so much I lose the part of myself that promised to protect you."
She reached out then—not with passion, but with steady tenderness—and placed her hand over his heart.
"You're not losing anything," she said. "You're learning how to hold it differently."
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, she was still there. And for now, that was enough.
They sat like that—shoulder to shoulder beneath the mural, shadows flickering on their skin, desire softened into something warmer, deeper. Something they didn't yet have a name for.