Syra's studio had never felt more like home.
Lou Yan had just pulled her flush against him, pressing one last kiss to her temple before heading into the tiny bathroom for a quick shower. The space still smelled of last night—of rain-soaked clothes, the scent of persimmons, her paint, and something muskier now embedded in the air: him.
She had fallen back asleep the moment he closed the door. Her body ached in the best possible way, worn out and warm, curled beneath the tangled blankets like a cat in sun. By the time she stirred again, the light had shifted, and so had the aroma in the studio—now rich with butter and eggs and the unmistakable scent of freshly brewed jasmine tea.
Syra blinked against the brightness and sat up slowly, the sheets sliding off her bare shoulders.
And promptly forgot how to breathe.
Lou was shirtless in her kitchenette, standing in front of the portable stove, flipping something golden and delicate in the skillet. His back was to her—broad, defined, the muscles shifting with an elegance that had no business being so effortless. His hair was slightly damp, curling at the nape. The waistband of his dark slacks sat low on his hips, offering a dangerous glimpse of the line that made her throat go dry.
She was still staring when he glanced over his shoulder, caught her gaping, and gave her a slow, satisfied smile.
"Breakfast," he said simply, plating the crepe with a flick of his wrist like a culinary assassin.
She tried to speak. Failed. Tried again. "You cook?"
He poured the tea, then handed her a fork. "I learn fast."
They ate cross-legged on the floor. The food was unexpectedly perfect—light, subtly sweet, with crisp edges and a warm citrus glaze that Syra couldn't stop licking from her fingers. Every time she did, Lou's eyes darkened just slightly.
She was about to ask for a second helping when the studio door burst open.
"Boss, the reports—" Ming stopped short, froze in the doorway, briefcase in hand, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose.
Syra turned scarlet.
Lou didn't even blink. "You're early."
Ming blinked. Twice. Then cleared his throat with theatrical precision. "So sorry. I didn't realize I'd walked into a Ghibli sequel. Carry on."
"Ming," Lou said dryly, "close the door."
"Yes, sir." Ming gave Syra a knowing look as he backed out. "Ma'am."
The door clicked shut.
Syra groaned into her hands. "I can never look him in the eye again."
Lou took another bite of crepe. "He's seen worse."
"Like what?!"
"He once walked in on my grandmother beating me at chess while threatening to marry me off to her dentist's niece."
Syra paused. "That... sounds like her."
---
Lou had never once wanted to skip a full workday. Until now.
He kissed her goodbye with a tenderness that threatened to unravel his notoriously controlled mind. It was slow and deep, her fingers clutching his collar, his hand cupping the nape of her neck. When he pulled back, she was breathless, blinking like she'd forgotten where she was.
He almost stayed.
But she needed rest, and he had pressing matters to handle at the office. So, with one last look at her sleep-rumpled hair and bare shoulders wrapped in his shirt, he left.
He entered the building through the underground parking and took his private elevator straight to his office floor. Ming was already waiting, two coffees in hand, pretending not to stare at Lou's slightly rumpled appearance.
"You changed clothes, right?" Ming asked cautiously.
Lou didn't answer.
Inside his office, he walked to the adjoining private suite and changed into a fresh suit with the practiced efficiency of a man who had done this a thousand times. Still, something in him itched to return. His hands kept brushing imaginary paint flecks off his cuffs.
The boardroom presentations went well. The projections were solid. The investors pleased.
Lou remembered none of it.
Because all he could think about was Syra—curled in his sheets, her mouth murmuring his name, the way she'd trembled beneath him. The way she'd laughed at brunch. The way she'd kissed him goodnight with a kind of quiet trust that made him ache.
He smiled. Actually smiled.
Ming, who had seen Lou negotiate with international CEOs without blinking, nearly dropped his tablet.
"You're smiling."
Lou nodded.
"Sir. You don't smile."
"I'm aware."
"Is this… a phase?"
Lou's gaze was far away. "God, I hope not."
---
When the day was done, Lou told his driver one thing: "Take me to her."
No preamble. No hesitation.
He arrived at Syra's building at golden hour and took her out for dinner—somewhere cozy, somewhere quiet. She wore a loose cream sweater and no makeup, and he looked at her like she was the only thing the world had ever done right.
Afterward, he brought her to his penthouse.
---
They were still laughing about Syra's disastrous attempt to pick up a dumpling with chopsticks—how it had shot across the table and landed in her lap—when the elevator glided to a stop with a soft ding.
The doors parted with elegant precision.
And there she stood.
Madam Yan.
Nai Nai.
Dressed in a midnight black qipao with silver embroidery that shimmered like moonlight on steel, her posture regal, her expression colder than the marble floors beneath her. Her arms were crossed neatly, but there was no mistaking the stance—it was the bearing of a woman who had commanded empires in silence and won every war without ever raising her voice.
Lou froze mid-laugh, the sound dying in his throat. "Nai Nai," he said, voice low with practiced reverence and a hint of alarm.
Syra blinked. Her brain hadn't yet caught up to what her eyes were seeing. "Oh... God."
Madam Yan's gaze swept over Syra in a slow, deliberate arc—from her flushed cheeks to the slightly wrinkled hem of her dress to the half-tied cardigan she'd thrown on before leaving his car. Her eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. It wasn't disdain—oh no. It was assessment.
"You brought her here again," she said, cool as iced jasmine.
Lou stepped forward instinctively, not blocking her view but making a quiet statement with his presence. "I didn't know you'd be here tonight," he said gently.
"Good," she replied crisply, and then turned to Syra with the kind of smile that had surely convinced governments to surrender politely.
"You're very pretty," she said in Mandarin. Her voice dripped with civility. "Too pretty. I don't approve."
Syra's breath caught in her throat. "I—excuse me?"
"Trouble," Madam Yan declared, tapping one manicured nail against her arm. "Too much beauty is always trouble."
"Nai Nai," Lou warned, his jaw tightening.
"She's an artist," Madam Yan continued, as if that explained everything. "Emotional. Unstable. Likely to run off and paint heartbreak into murals instead of doing something sensible like making tea or checking on the family shrine."
"She's also incredibly talented," Lou said, steel entering his voice.
"Exactly," Madam Yan replied, as if he'd proven her point.
Syra was trying to keep up, she really was, but this was a verbal ping-pong match played on an emotional cliff and she hadn't had time to warm up. Her fingers curled slightly into the hem of her cardigan.
"Should I... go?" she asked finally, voice quiet but firm. It wasn't submission. It was restraint.
Madam Yan's deceptively sweet smile returned, a masterstroke of passive aggression. "Yes, you should. But you won't. Will you?"
Lou exhaled hard, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Nai Nai, please—"
"Don't 'Nai Nai, please' me, Lou Yan. I've lived through dynasties. I know a storm when I see one coming through my doors wearing blush and a crooked smile."
Syra straightened, the blush still high on her cheeks—but her eyes had flared to life now, gleaming with the fire she rarely showed unless provoked. "With all due respect, Madam Yan, I didn't come here to cause trouble."
"That's the thing about trouble, Miss Alizadeh," she said, sharp and sugar-sweet. "It rarely asks permission."
The silence that followed was brittle enough to crack.
Lou let it hang there just long enough before stepping forward, placing one hand gently on Syra's back. "This is my home," he said, his voice low but impenetrable. "And she's here because I want her here."
Madam Yan didn't flinch—but she did narrow her eyes.
Syra blinked, heat rising up her neck again, not from embarrassment this time, but from something a little closer to awe.
Madam Yan looked at Lou, long and hard. And then—to everyone's surprise—she turned on her heel.
"I'll be in the tea room," she said, voice imperious. "Bring the Persian girl if you want. Let's see if she knows how to pour without spilling."
The soft clack of her heels echoed down the hall.
Syra stared after her, eyes wide. "Was that an invitation?"
"That," Lou said, brushing a stray strand of hair from Syra's face, "was a ceasefire."
Syra blew out a breath, one hand pressed to her chest. "Okay, wow. She's... scary."
"She raised three generals and a CEO," Lou muttered. "You have no idea."
"And what exactly did I just survive?"
Lou glanced down at her, and though the situation had his nerves coiled, there was a flicker of humor behind his eyes. "A test. The first of many."
Syra squared her shoulders. "Well... I didn't throw anything or cry. That's a win, right?"
Lou chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. "That's a miracle."
And with that, he slipped his hand into hers and led her down the hallway, toward the tea room—and the next battle.