With the Chen Gallery show mere days away, Syra had neglected basic needs—meals went uneaten, sleep came in restless fragments. Her hands were stiff from overuse, her eyes sore from scrutinizing the versions of herself she'd laid bare on canvas.
This time, the masks were off. Every piece was a confession.
Lin had stood silent for nearly ten minutes in front of one painting before whispering, "They'll either worship you or riot."
Jia had simply crossed her arms and said, "Good."
They had left with firm instructions—rest, eat, breathe. Syra had done none of those things. Her fingers hovered over a canvas that felt too raw to finish. Her body was still, but her mind was a battlefield of what-ifs and nearlys.
The elevator's ding broke the silence.
Her stomach dropped.
She didn't need to check the monitor.
Only one person would come up unannounced.
The knock was soft. Intentional.
She opened the door. And there he was.
Lou Yan stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame. The black sweater he wore clung to his form, highlighting a physique both powerful and poised. His hair, usually immaculate, was slightly tousled, as if he'd run his hands through it in contemplation. The clean, calming scent of cedarwood and something inherently him wafted into the studio, grounding her amidst the chaos.
In his arms—bags. Unassuming paper bags, their contents carefully chosen. One held an assortment of food; the other, supplies—new paint tubes, stretchers, brushes, gloves, a heat pad. A bottle of Korean soju balanced between two containers of soup.
"Hi," he said, his voice a steady anchor.
Syra blinked, momentarily disoriented by his unexpected presence. "What are you doing here?"
Lou stepped inside with the quiet confidence that was his hallmark. "You're falling apart."
"I'm fine," she countered, though the waver in her voice betrayed her.
"You haven't eaten since yesterday."
"You don't know that."
"You skipped lunch. You forgot breakfast. You lied about dinner."
She narrowed her eyes. "You hacked my fridge again?"
"I read your silences."
He moved with purpose, each action deliberate yet unhurried. Setting the bags on the counter, he began unpacking—laying out comfort and care with each item. The rhythmic movements, the certainty in his demeanor, created a sanctuary within the studio's tumult.
Pouring soup into a bowl, he handed it to her without a word. The warmth seeped into her palms, a tangible reminder of her own neglect. She took a tentative sip, the rich flavors grounding her further.
Lou leaned against the worktable, arms crossed over his chest, the muscles subtly flexing beneath the fabric. His gaze, steady and penetrating, rested on her. "You're scared."
"I'm working," she deflected, focusing on the bowl in her hands.
"You're terrified."
She looked up, meeting his eyes—those eyes that seemed to see through every facade. The intensity there was unwavering, yet devoid of judgment.
"They're going to look at me," she whispered. "They're going to see it all."
"I know."
"And what if—what if they don't understand?"
"Then they weren't meant to."
Her lip trembled. "And what if I can't handle being seen?"
Lou's voice softened, a gentle murmur that wrapped around her like a protective cloak. "Then I'll hold the mirror with you."
The space between them—the space she had meticulously constructed—felt unbearable now. Her studio had been her fortress, but suddenly, she didn't want to be alone inside it.
Her breath hitched.
"I don't know how to need people," she admitted, vulnerability threading her words.
Lou's expression remained serene, his confidence unwavering. "You don't have to need me. Just let me stay."
"I might break."
"I won't flinch."
She glanced down at his hand, strong and steady, resting on the table. The same hand that had offered support without demand, presence without pressure.
And for once—just once—she reached first.
Lou exhaled, a breath he seemed to have been holding since he arrived. He enveloped her gently in his arms, his embrace both firm and tender. The clean scent of him surrounded her, a blend of cedarwood and something uniquely Lou. She rested her forehead against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the soft fabric.
He didn't speak. Didn't rush her. Just held her, offering solace in the quiet.
Later, as he sat on the floor beside her while she painted the final frame—the one he'd brought with no instructions—he remained silent. His presence was a grounding force, his confidence in her unspoken but deeply felt.
And that, more than anything, was why she let him stay.
Not because she needed saving.
But because, finally, someone had come who didn't ask her to be strong. He simply showed up.
Syra didn't remember when the silence between them stopped feeling awkward. Somewhere between the moment Lou poured her a second bowl of soup and the subtle way he swept stray sketches off the floor without asking, something shifted. The studio had always been a sacred space—hers and hers alone—but his quiet movements didn't disrupt it. He moved like a man who knew how to exist inside someone else's world without trying to own it. His presence wasn't intrusive. It was anchoring.
As she worked, Syra felt his gaze on her, not heavy but constant. He didn't watch her hands or her hips the way so many others had. Lou watched her brush strokes, the flex of her wrist, the way her shoulders loosened once the first lines took form. It was maddening, how deeply he observed her, how effortlessly he picked up on shifts she barely noticed in herself. When she paused too long at one canvas, biting her lip in hesitation, he didn't ask what was wrong. He simply uncapped a fresh tube of crimson and set it beside her.
"I never meant for you to see this version of me," she said quietly, still facing the canvas. The truth slipped out like paint from an overfilled brush. "This messy, insecure, exhausted version."
"You mean the real version?" he replied, not missing a beat. "That's the one I came for."
That stopped her. She turned toward him, brush still in hand. Lou met her gaze with the kind of calm that only came from deep certainty—not of himself, but of her. There was no doubt in his expression, no flicker of discomfort in the face of her rawness. He didn't flinch from her truth. He welcomed it. And in that moment, something settled in her chest. Not surrender, but peace. Not because everything was solved, but because, for once, she wasn't solving it alone.
As the hours slipped by, they worked in tandem—Syra painting, Lou quietly organizing, occasionally stepping outside to take a call but always returning, always watching. When she finally leaned back and sighed, exhausted but proud, he was already there with a clean cloth, gently wiping the specks of red from her cheek. His touch was featherlight. Reverent. Like she was something precious, not because of how she looked, but because she existed. And Syra, who had once sworn to never need anyone, let her head fall against his shoulder—just for a moment—before whispering, "Don't go yet." Lou didn't answer with words. He didn't need to. He simply stayed.