Syra woke to the quiet rhythm of breath against her neck and the weight of a steady hand splayed across her stomach.
For a moment, she didn't move. Her eyelids remained heavy, her limbs tangled with his beneath the sheets. The sheets that still smelled like jasmine, pine, and something distinctly Lou—clean, warm, and anchoring.
She should've been panicking. Overthinking. Retreating.
Instead, she felt… full.
Her body ached in the most tender, satisfying ways. Her mouth still buzzed from the memory of his kisses—fevered and reverent, as if he was memorizing the taste of her with every stroke of his tongue. The way he'd said her name in the dark like a vow—raspy, broken, sacred—made her shiver now just remembering it.
She rolled onto her side slowly. Lou didn't stir.
His lashes were dark against his cheekbones, mouth soft in sleep. His hair was slightly tousled from her hands—she had gripped it tightly last night when he'd whispered "tell me what you need" against the hollow of her throat. She had told him. And he'd listened like no one ever had before.
She reached out, hesitating, then gently touched the scar above his brow—the one she had drawn so many times before she ever knew what it felt like.
"I should be terrified," she whispered to no one.
"You are," Lou murmured without opening his eyes.
Her breath caught.
He reached for her hand, finding it under the covers, and laced their fingers together. "But you're still here."
Syra pressed her forehead to his chest. "Is it always this intense?" she asked, voice muffled by skin and sheets and something dangerously close to affection.
"No." Lou exhaled slowly. "You're my first, Syra."
She froze. Pulled back.
His eyes were open now—calm, clear, unwavering. "First everything. First want. First ruin. First choice."
Her lips parted. "But you've dated. Ming said—"
"I've been on dates." He didn't flinch. "Twice. In high school. They were… polite. I didn't feel anything. Not like this. Not like you." His thumb brushed her knuckles. "When I first saw you, I forgot how to breathe."
Syra stared at him, heart stumbling in her chest.
Lou's gaze softened. "I didn't just want you, Syra. I felt you. In my bones. In every quiet space I thought I'd already filled."
The silence after that felt holy.
She didn't know what to say. So she did the only thing that made sense—leaned forward and kissed him.
Not hungrily. Not desperately.
Just slowly. Sweetly.
And somewhere in the stillness, something shifted. Something that had nothing to do with skin or heat. Something soft. Terrifying. Real.
They lay together in a silence neither heavy nor awkward, a pause full of presence. Syra's fingertips traced the line of his jaw, memorizing him all over again in daylight. Lou's eyes remained on her, heavy-lidded but alert, like he was waiting for her to vanish if he blinked. She didn't. She stayed.
"I keep waiting for the version of you that disappears," she said quietly, brushing a thumb beneath his eye. "The one who takes and leaves."
Lou reached for her hand and placed it over his heart. "He doesn't exist. Not for you."
She felt the slow, steady rhythm under her palm—anchoring, alive. She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until it came out in a shaky exhale. Her head dropped to his chest again, listening. Trust was a language she was still learning. But here, with him, she could almost speak it.
Time slowed as the sun crept higher, casting golden stripes across the sheets. Lou stroked her hair with one hand, his other arm still cradling her body like something precious. Syra blinked up at him, sleep-heavy and vulnerable. "So what happens now?"
He smiled, small and sure. "Now, we make breakfast. You like sweet things after difficult nights."
A soft laugh escaped her. "You're annoyingly observant."
"And hopelessly devoted," he added, brushing a kiss to her temple. "Now come on, before Ming shows up and ruins the sacred post-coital peace with spreadsheets."
She groaned into his chest. "God. Can't we just stay here forever?"
Lou tugged the covers around her and leaned in. "If you say the word, I'll cancel the world for you."
She smiled, eyes fluttering shut again, letting herself believe—just for a little while—that maybe she didn't have to be alone in the world she built anymore.
____
Syra must've dozed off again, lulled back into sleep by the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat and the soft weight of his hand resting protectively on her hip. When she stirred hours later, the bed beside her was empty, but the lingering scent of him—clean, piney warmth—still clung to the sheets. A low hum drifted in from the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sizzle of something on a hot pan.
She slipped out from under the duvet, legs still a little shaky from the night before, and padded quietly toward the source of the sound. The sight that greeted her in the kitchen doorway nearly stole the last remnants of air from her lungs. Lou stood shirtless by the stove, wearing only a pair of grey drawstring pants slung low on his hips, his back to her as he flipped something in a pan. The morning light cut sharp across his frame, highlighting every sculpted plane—broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, the elegant movement of muscle as he reached for a plate. He moved like a man born in stillness, confident and sure, and Syra's mouth went dry.
"You're going to burn it if you keep flexing," she said hoarsely, voice rough with sleep.
He turned slightly, a knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "I wasn't flexing," he said mildly. "But good morning." His voice was gentler than the teasing glint in his eyes, like he was still speaking in the hush of last night. "You looked tired. I figured you needed the rest." He plated the eggs, then gestured toward the small table already set for two—tea steaming, cutlery perfectly placed, and a bowl of sliced persimmons in the center.
They ate quietly, laughing softly in between bites, their knees brushing under the table. It felt… domestic. Intimate in a way that settled into Syra's bones. Lou watched her with the same intensity he always did, but this time there was a softness behind it—like he'd already memorized her expressions and was now simply basking in the reality of having her here, across from him, eating toast from his plate without asking.
Then the elevator chimed.
Syra froze mid-chew. Lou didn't even blink. "It's Ming," he said, already rising to retrieve a file from the countertop. "I forgot I rescheduled a briefing."
Syra blinked. "You forgot?"
Lou glanced back with a crooked smile. "Forgive me. I was… preoccupied."