—Monday Morning, Syra's Studio—
The crash of shattering ceramic startled Syra mid-brushstroke, sending a streak of vermilion paint slashing across Lou Yan's half-finished portrait like a wound.
"Oops," Lin said, not sounding sorry at all as she stepped over the remains of Syra's favorite tea cup - the one with the delicate blue Persian pattern her aunt had gifted her last Noruz. The shards glittered accusingly on the sunlit floorboards. "So. You're avoiding us."
Jia followed more carefully, her Valentino heels avoiding the debris with practiced precision as she set down two iced coffees beaded with condensation and a paper bag that smelled dangerously of cardamom and browned butter. "She's not avoiding," she corrected, her voice smooth as the pearls at her throat. "She's indulging in self-sabotage." A pause as she took in the mural - Lou's face painted over three times now, each layer more violently expressive than the last. "With art therapy."
Syra set down her brush, the bristles still quivering. "I've been busy." The lie tasted like turpentine on her tongue.
Lin snorted, flopping onto the paint-splattered couch with enough force to send a drift of charcoal sketches fluttering to the floor. "Busy staring at your phone like it personally offended you? Because Jia's security guy says you've read Lou's last text approximately forty-two times since Sunday night." She plucked a half-dried lychee wrapper from between the cushions, twirling it between her fingers. "That's, like, stalker-level obsession. I'm impressed."
Syra's head whipped toward Jia, whose manicured fingers were now tracing the rim of her coffee cup with infuriating calm. "You had me tracked?" The words came out sharper than intended, laced with the same metallic tang of panic she'd felt when she first noticed Lou watching her from the courtyard all those weeks ago.
"Not you," Jia corrected smoothly. "Just your digital footprint. And only because Lin bet me fifty dollars you'd cave and reply by Sunday night." She arched a perfectly groomed brow, the morning light catching the gold flecks in her dark eyes. "You didn't. I'm impressed."
Lin launched a throw pillow at Syra's head. "Also, we know about the dinner. Every detail. My insider texted me a play-by-play." She wiggled her phone triumphantly. "Spill."
—Flashback, Sunday Night—
Syra stared at the fruit Lou had left on her plate - peeled with surgical precision, the translucent flesh glistening under the lantern light like something too intimate to be displayed so casually. Across the table, his grandmother watched with those all-seeing eyes while Mei chattered about her latest art project, her small hands gesturing wildly enough to threaten the delicate arrangement of dishes.
Lou hadn't looked at her once since placing it there.
Syra reached for her tea instead, the porcelain burning her fingertips as she gripped it too tightly. The scent of jasmine and something earthier - maybe ginseng - curled into the space between her rapid heartbeats.
"Tell me, child," Lou's grandmother said suddenly, her voice like dry leaves scattering across stone, "why does someone who paints with such fire choose to live in shadows?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. Syra's cup clattered against the saucer, the sound obscenely loud in the hushed dining room. Tea sloshed over the rim, pooling dark as ink on the pristine linen. "I'm not afraid." The words came out brittle, cracking under the weight of the old woman's gaze.
"Liar," the grandmother said pleasantly, dabbing at the spill with a silk napkin. "My grandson has been standing at your studio window every Sunday morning like a fool for months. Watching you paint." Her eyes gleamed with something perilously close to amusement. "And you've never once looked up."
Syra's breath caught, her pulse stuttering. Her eyes flew to Lou - but he was meticulously arranging more food on Mei's plate, his long fingers moving with deliberate calm. Only the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed any reaction.
The realization hit like cold water trickling down her spine: he'd seen her. Seen her in her rattiest paint-stained overalls, hair piled into a disastrous bun secured with brushes. Seen her dancing badly to old Persian songs when she thought no one was watching. Seen the way she sometimes pressed her forehead against the wall after a failed piece, her shoulders shaking with frustrated tears.
And still, he'd kept coming back.
---
—Present—
Lin gasped loud enough to startle the studio cat, who abandoned its sunspot with an indignant flick of its tail. "HE'S BEEN STALKING YOU?" The words echoed off the high ceilings, mingling with the distant hum of traffic outside.
Jia smacked her arm, the bangles on her wrist clinking like wind chimes. "Romantically observing."
Syra buried her face in her hands, the lingering scent of cobalt blue and linseed oil grounding her. "It's not romantic. It's—"
"Pathetic?" Lin offered through a mouthful of pastry, flakes of golden crust catching in the sunlight.
"Fascinating," Jia corrected, tapping her manicured nails against her iced coffee cup. The condensation left damp rings on Syra's drafting table. "A man who could buy any gallery in the city chooses to watch you paint through a window like some tragic Romantic-era poet." Her lips curved into something dangerously close to admiration. "I approve."
Syra groaned, pressing her forehead against the cool wood of her workstation. The grain pressed familiar patterns into her skin. "You're supposed to be on my side."
"We are," Lin said, stealing another bite of Syra's abandoned pastry. Cinnamon sugar dusted her lower lip. "That's why we're staging an intervention before you ruin this with your hilarious trust issues." She gestured wildly with the half-eaten confection. "Remember the architect? The musician? The—"
Jia held up a hand, her diamond tennis bracelet flashing. "Enough." She turned to Syra with that terrifying focus usually reserved for hostile takeovers. "You like him. He's clearly obsessed with you. The only thing standing in the way is your spectacular self-destructive streak."
Syra opened her mouth to argue when her phone buzzed against the table, the vibration making her abandoned brushes tremble.
Unknown Number (Lou): The children asked when you're returning. Mei threatened to paint the walls herself if you don't come tomorrow.
Lin peeked over her shoulder, her citrusy perfume mixing with the studio's earthy scents. "Ooooh, he's using kids as bait. That's dirty."
Jia hummed approvingly, examining her flawless manicure. "Strategic."
Syra typed quickly, her fingers leaving smudges of cadmium red on the screen:
Syra: Tell Mei she's welcome to try. I'll bring the cleaning supplies.
The reply came instantly:
Lou: She says you're avoiding her too now. She's crying. (Attached: a photo of Mei grinning smugly, clearly not crying, her cheeks dusted with what looked like powdered sugar)
Lin cackled, nearly choking on her coffee. "I LOVE this kid!"
Jia plucked the phone from Syra's hands with the effortless grace of someone used to getting her way. "Enough." She typed rapidly before Syra could stop her, her French tip nails clicking against the glass.
Syra (via Jia): Fine. Tomorrow. But only because I miss the kids.
Lou: Liar.
Syra (via Jia): You first.
A pause. The studio clock ticked loudly in the silence. Then:
Lou: I never stopped watching.
The air left Syra's lungs in a rush. Even Lin stopped chewing, her eyes comically wide. That simple admission - raw and unguarded in its honesty - changed everything. The sunlight streaming through the windows seemed brighter suddenly, the colors in the studio more vivid, as if someone had turned up the saturation on the world.
Jia handed back the phone with a satisfied smile, her jewelry glinting. "You're welcome."
Outside, the first summer rain began to fall, pattering against the windows like a thousand whispered secrets finally set free. The studio cat slinked back to its sunspot, tail flicking contentedly.
The lychee candy wrapper on Syra's desk fluttered in the sudden breeze from the open window - a translucent red flag of surrender, waiting to be claimed.