Syra rested her head against Lou's shoulder, eyes closed, letting the silence stretch between them like a lullaby. His warmth seeped into her skin, steady and solid, a quiet reminder that she wasn't alone. There was a quiet kind of reverence in how he held himself even in rest—broad shoulders firm beneath her cheek, his clean, earthy scent filling the space around them. He smelled like pine, soap, and something calming she couldn't quite place—like trust distilled into fragrance.
She hadn't realized how much she missed this kind of presence. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just… real. Her breath caught slightly. She missed her parents.
It had been nearly a month since she last visited them. After her father's retirement, they had finally moved to the countryside—just an hour away, but it might as well have been another world with how busy she'd been. The guilt pinched at her now. She should go. Tomorrow. No—first thing in the morning.
---
She arrived at the cottage before 9:00 a.m., still drowsy from poor sleep and over-caffeinated tea. The countryside air hit her like a lullaby—soft, crisp, and honest. The house stood where the road curved inward like an embrace: two stories, faded peach-colored bricks, trailing bougainvillea creeping along the fence with reckless poetry.
Their tiny garden was chaotic in a charming way—tomatoes growing beside forget-me-nots, basil poking through lavender. The front door was slightly ajar, as if the house itself expected her. Then she heard it—her mother's laughter, a clear and unmistakable sound that carried across the yard.
Syra blinked. Laughter? Her mother, laughing?
She stepped inside.
And froze.
Her mother was seated at the head of the table, her father chuckling beside her, and across from them—Lou Yan. Holding chopsticks with criminal elegance.
"What the actual—" Syra started.
All three turned to look at her.
"Oh finally," Nasreen said, beaming. "We were about to call you. Sit, sit—Lou brought groceries and insisted we have brunch together."
Brunch. Together. Brunch.
Lou looked up with polite calm, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Good morning."
"Since when do you brunch with my parents?!" Syra's voice cracked halfway through the question.
Li Wei cleared his throat. "This is his fourth visit, actually. The first time was to tell us he had intentions."
"Intentions?"
"Romantic ones," her mother added, entirely too cheerful for someone casually betraying her daughter's sense of reality.
"And the second time," Nasreen continued, rising to grab Syra a plate, "he brought me saffron from Mashhad. The real stuff. Not that weak commercial nonsense. You should've seen him—he haggled in Farsi."
Syra blinked. "You speak Farsi?"
Lou looked entirely too composed. "I studied in university. It's rusty, but serviceable."
Nasreen nudged her. "Third time he took your father for his knee checkup. Even argued with the nurse who skipped us in line."
Syra's brain stalled. "You… you argued with hospital staff?"
Li Wei patted Lou's shoulder. "It was efficient. And satisfying."
Syra slowly turned to her mother. "And what about this fourth visit? What's the special occasion?"
Nasreen lifted a delicate brow. "He brought your favorite rice. I cooked tahchin. But just for him."
"WHAT?!"
Lou, biting into the golden-crusted rice, didn't even flinch.
"I was hungry," he said mildly.
Syra stared at the dish. Then at her mother. Then at the man calmly enjoying what was supposed to be her favorite comfort food. "This is treason."
Nasreen winked. "This is matchmaking."
And for the first time that day, Syra laughed.
---
Syra sat down slowly, still stunned, staring at the plate her mother placed before her like it was a personal betrayal wrapped in fragrant saffron and crispy golden rice. Lou calmly slid over a spoonful of tahchin from his own portion—perfectly plated, of course—and offered it to her without breaking eye contact.
She narrowed her eyes. "This doesn't fix anything."
"I'm not trying to fix anything," Lou replied smoothly. "I'm just sharing."
Li Wei leaned forward conspiratorially. "He also brought homemade torshi. Spicy. Tangy. Your mother almost cried."
"I did not cry," Nasreen said, wiping invisible tears from the corner of her eye. "I wept internally."
Syra took a cautious bite. Her betrayal melted slightly. The rice was—ugh. Perfect. Moist in the middle, crunchy at the base. Of course Lou would have the audacity to be charming and good at finding Persian ingredients. She glared at him, chewing. "You've really wormed your way in, haven't you?"
Lou sipped his tea with practiced elegance. "I don't worm. I integrate."
Her parents snorted in sync, and Syra stared at them in quiet disbelief. When had her world tilted like this? When had the controlled, untouchable man she once wanted to avoid become a recurring Sunday guest in her childhood home?
Lou caught her staring and tilted his head. "You're thinking loudly again."
Syra stabbed a raisin. "I'm re-evaluating my life choices."
"Well," Nasreen interjected, stacking used plates with all the cheer of someone watching her matchmaking dreams unfold, "you made one excellent choice at least."
Syra stared at her mother. "Which was?"
"Not turning him away that first day at your studio." She patted Lou's arm. "He's the first one who didn't come in here with flashy suits and empty compliments. He came with groceries. That's how you win a Persian mother, you know."
Syra gave Lou a long look, then turned to her mother. "So he's just feeding his way into your approval?"
Nasreen beamed. "He brought saffron. He's practically family."
Lou finally let the corner of his mouth lift into a full, devastating smile. "Would now be a bad time to mention I also brought her your father's favorite goat cheese from that shop near the flower market?"
Li Wei looked delighted. "You remembered!"
Syra dropped her head into her hands. "This is a hostile takeover."
Lou's voice was a low murmur beside her ear. "It's a merger."
And just like that, Syra—who prided herself on never falling for smooth lines—bit back a laugh. Not because it was funny. But because, despite everything, she was starting to believe that maybe—just maybe—he wasn't just after her heart.
He already had a place at the table.
---
After brunch, Syra found herself alone in the kitchen with Lou, washing dishes while her parents "conveniently" disappeared into the garden. The silence between them was comfortable, punctuated only by the clink of porcelain and the rush of water.
"You didn't have to do all this," she said quietly, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on a plate.
Lou dried a teacup with methodical precision. "I know."
"Then why?"
He set the cup down and turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "Because you matter to them. And they matter to you."
Syra's hands stilled in the soapy water. It was such a simple answer, and yet it unraveled something tight in her chest.
Lou reached over, his fingers brushing hers as he took the plate from her hands. "Let me."