The countryside always softened Syra's edges, but this time, something inside her refused to settle.
Lou Yan was drying dishes beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world—as if he belonged there, in her childhood kitchen, with the scent of sumac and soap in the air, and her mother's laughter echoing faintly from the garden. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, revealing lean muscles and veins that moved like river paths. Even in domestic stillness, there was nothing ordinary about him.
He was grace. He was structure. He was presence distilled into bone and breath.
Syra reached for another plate but found her hand drifting toward the small window above the sink instead. Beyond the glass, her parents walked the narrow path between rose bushes and pomegranate trees, their fingers still linked after thirty years of marriage. Her chest ached—not with envy, but something more fragile.
Longing.
She had spent most of her life protecting herself from the idea of forever. She'd memorized its cracks, named every fault line. But watching her parents—still soft, still steady—and Lou standing beside her, quiet and unflinching, she felt the first bruise of forever bloom in her heart.
"You're too good at this," she said finally, unable to stop the wobble in her voice. Lou glanced at her, eyes gentle. "Washing dishes?"
"Fitting in."
He paused, towel still in hand, then leaned closer. "I'm not trying to fit in, Syra."
She looked up, breath caught. He was too close now—his clean, warm scent wrapping around her like the memory of safety.
"I'm just trying to show up."
The words hit her harder than she expected. No grand declarations. No flawless rehearsals. Just truth, unvarnished and terrifying.
"I don't know how to let that in," she whispered.
"I'm not asking you to," he said quietly. "Not all at once. Just don't shut me out when it starts to hurt."
Her fingers curled around the edge of the sink. "It already does."
He didn't reach for her or try to fix it. But he stood there. With her. In the silence. And it was enough.
---
They left after lunch. Her mother insisted Lou take the leftover tahchin. Her father sent him off with a bottle of homemade pomegranate syrup and a warning to take care of his back.
"I still exercise," Lou assured him, already loading the trunk.
"Stretch more," Li Wei grunted. "She gets her temper from her mother. Tension collects in the shoulders."
"Hey!" Nasreen called from the doorway, waving a wooden spoon. "We're delightful people!"
Lou smiled as he shut the trunk. "She's delightful. The temper is...selective."
Syra rolled her eyes. "I'm standing right here."
As they pulled away, she looked back at the little peach-colored house. The windows glowed in the fading light. Her mother's garden swayed in the breeze. And somewhere inside, her childhood still lived in the corners.
But it wasn't what made her heart feel full.
It was the hand resting quietly on her knee. The man who didn't look at her like a prize or a project—but as a person he chose. Again. And again. Her fingers closed over his. Not tightly. But enough.
---
Halfway home, Lou pulled over at a roadside stall selling fresh persimmons.
"Wait here," he said, unbuckling his seatbelt.
Syra watched him go—his easy stride, the way he nodded to the elderly vendor, the careful way he selected each fruit. When he returned, he handed her one, already peeled.
"You remembered," she said softly.
Lou's thumb brushed hers as he passed it over. "You only like them when they're firm. Not too sweet."
Syra took a bite, the crisp flesh bursting with just the right amount of tartness. "Why do you notice things like that?"
Lou studied her for a long moment before answering. "Because you matter."
Simple. Direct. Undeniable.
Syra's throat tightened. She looked down at the persimmon, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. "I'm not used to being seen like this."
"I know."
"It's terrifying."
Lou's hand covered hers, warm and steady. "So is letting someone see you."
And just like that, Syra understood—this wasn't one-sided. He was just as exposed as she was.
---
Back at her apartment, Syra hesitated at the door. Lou waited, giving her space. Always giving her space. She turned to face him. "Do you want to come in?" His eyes darkened, but his voice was calm. "Do you want me to?"
Syra took a breath. Then another. And then, for the first time, she didn't overthink it.
"Yes."
Lou stepped forward, his hand brushing hers as he followed her inside. The door clicked shut behind them.
The silence in her apartment felt different now - charged with the unspoken understanding that lingered between them like the last notes of a familiar song. Syra moved to the window, drawing back the sheer curtains to let the amber glow of streetlights paint patterns across the hardwood floor. Behind her, she heard Lou set down his keys with deliberate quietness, the metallic clink somehow intimate in the stillness.
She turned to find him watching her with that unbearable patience of his, his dark eyes reflecting the city lights beyond the glass. There were a hundred things she wanted to say - about the way her chest ached when he looked at her like that, about how terrifying it was to realize she'd memorized the exact way his shirt wrinkled at the elbows - but all that came out was, "I don't know what we're doing."
Lou didn't move closer. He simply tilted his head, considering her with that quiet intensity that always made her feel both seen and sheltered. "We're learning," he said finally. "That's all this has to be."
The simplicity of it undid her. Syra pressed her palms against the cool windowpane, letting the chill ground her as she watched a taxi speed by five stories below. "What if I'm bad at this?" The admission slipped out before she could stop it, raw and childlike in its honesty.
She felt rather than saw him cross the room, his presence warming the space behind her before his hands ever touched her shoulders. When his fingers finally made contact, they were careful, giving her every opportunity to pull away. "Then we'll be bad at it together," he murmured into her hair, his breath stirring the loose strands at her temple.
Outside, the city hummed with its usual restless energy, but here, in this moment, Syra let herself lean back - just slightly - into the solid reassurance of his chest. His arms came around her, not trapping but simply holding, his heartbeat steady against her spine. It wasn't a promise of forever, but something more precious - the quiet certainty of now.
And when she turned in his arms to face him at last, the kiss they shared tasted like persimmons and possibility, like something fragile taking root between them despite all her careful defenses. Lou's hands framed her face with unbearable tenderness, his thumbs brushing away tears she hadn't realized had fallen. In that moment, Syra understood - this wasn't about being ready or perfect. It was simply about being here, in this bruised and beautiful almost, and letting that be enough.