LOU YAN'S LONGING.
The weight of restraint had begun to erode the edges of Lou Yan's control.
Each morning he rose before Syra stirred, her curls spilling across his pillow, her breath warm against his chest, her body curled instinctively toward him. He memorized her anew each day—the curve of her spine beneath the sheets, the smudge of charcoal on her knuckles even in sleep, the small scar just beneath her lower lip that only revealed itself when she pouted in sleep.
It had been exactly two weeks since he last made love to her.
Not for lack of desire. The ache lived in him now, a constant undercurrent, gnawing at his discipline. There were moments—God, there were moments. When she leaned against the sink brushing her teeth in his oversized shirt, the hem barely covering her thighs. When she laughed with her whole body, head thrown back, exposing the pale column of her throat. When she kissed his jaw, slow and lazy, murmuring his name like it was a spell.
He wanted her. All the time. In every room.
But he didn't touch her. Not like that. Not since she fainted in his arms.
She still joked about it. Laughed it off with a dramatic groan and rolled eyes. But Lou remembered the exact moment her body went limp, the way her eyes rolled back, the cold sweat on her brow. He had been inside her only seconds before, his world narrowed to the rhythm of their bodies—and then, just as suddenly, it shattered.
That memory haunted him. Every time her fingers skimmed too low, every time her lips traced the line of his throat, his muscles tensed with restraint. He found ways to deviate. Gentle excuses. A kiss to her temple, a whispered deflection. And each time, the look in her eyes pierced him deeper.
He was losing her. Slowly. Not in love, but in trust.
She didn't say it. She would never make him feel like less of a man. But he saw it—in the way her gaze lingered on him when she thought he wasn't looking. In the hesitation that crept into her touch. In the quiet sighs she exhaled at night when she thought he was asleep.
Lou Yan had spent his life mastering the art of stillness, of withholding. But with Syra, it felt like starving.
And beneath it all, a truth coiled in his chest, quiet and merciless:
He wanted to marry her.
Not out of obligation. Not even to prove a point to his grandmother or the board or the society that still whispered about bloodlines and obedience. But because the thought of Syra being anyone else's made his blood go cold. Because he wanted to sign her name beside his in every possible way—on documents, on property, in permanence.
He wanted her name to be the last thing on his lips and the first on every form he signed.
He wanted her to wear his ring. His name.
He wanted to be her family.
But she wanted Madam Yan's approval. And he... he couldn't give her that. Not yet.
So he poured all his devotion into acts of service. He stocked her pantry with nutritious meals, filling every shelf with alkaline water, fresh greens, and the specific honey she only liked from that tiny stall near the old temple. He did her laundry with the precision of a soldier—folded her socks into perfect pairs, ironed her painting smocks, repaired the strap on her favorite bra without saying a word.
He cleaned the studio until it gleamed, organized her brushes by size and use, and left sticky notes in the margins of her journals with gentle reminders to eat, to breathe, to rest.
Still, it wasn't enough.
Lou Yan returned to work finally, stepping back into the glass fortress of YanTech with his usual poise. But behind the closed doors of his office, the pressure mounted. His board still murmured of legacy, his grandmother still refused to lift the restrictions, and Meilin's name still lingered in the whispers of investors.
He ignored them all.
Because at the end of every day, he returned to Syra.
And each night he watched her sleep, the ache in his chest bloomed wider. Wanting her. Needing her. But waiting, always waiting.
For her body to trust him again.
For her to say yes.
For the moment he could fall to his knees without fear.
And finally ask the question he'd carried in his bones for what felt like lifetimes.
Marry me.
-----
Ming had always thought himself unshakable. He'd survived hostile takeovers, near-arrests in Jakarta, a three-day silence from Madam Yan that had left even their legal team praying. But watching Lou Yan walk into YanTech that morning, perfectly pressed in a storm-gray suit with his tie knotted sharp and his jaw set even sharper—Ming exhaled for the first time in weeks.
Lou was back.
And not just physically. The man who crossed the marble lobby that morning radiated the quiet, ruthless precision Ming remembered from the early days—when YanTech had been clawing its way out of scandal, when Lou barely slept, barely ate, and still made miracles happen before breakfast.
"Cancel the 11:00 board review," Lou said as he stepped into the elevator, not looking up from his tablet. "Move it to 5:00. I need time with the research team."
Ming followed, already texting three assistants at once. "You got it. Should I also clear your lunch with the investors?"
Lou looked up. His eyes, cold and clear. "No. Let them wait."
Ming grinned. "There he is."
The elevator hummed upward. And for the first time in days, the tension in Ming's spine melted. The board had been circling like sharks since the last vote. Investors whispered about instability, about passion projects derailing YanTech's legacy. But Ming had stayed. Because he'd known this day would come.
Because Lou Yan never stayed down for long.
---
The medical division was buzzing.
Lab techs scrambled to clear space on the demonstration table as Lou stepped into the sterile white wing of YanTech's R&D floor. Screens flickered with test results, models of neural maps rotated slowly in midair, and in the center of it all, a silver-glass prototype blinked softly like a living pulse.
Dr. Wu nearly tripped over her own feet getting to Lou. "It's working," she said breathlessly. "The neural feedback loop—we've stabilized it across all simulated environments. We can reverse engineer seizures before they even start."
Lou's gaze narrowed. "How accurate?"
"Ninety-nine point four percent." Wu's hands shook. "We've run it twenty-seven times, twenty-seven passes."
Ming let out a low whistle behind him. "That's Nobel Prize territory."
Lou didn't smile. He stepped forward and touched the device, his fingers feather-light against the cool shell. In that moment, the lines in his face softened, just a fraction.
This was why he built YanTech.
Not for profit. Not for power.
For this. For change. For good.
---
The press conference was arranged within forty-eight hours.
International media flooded the hall. Industry giants flew in from Zurich, Seoul, New York. Even the Chinese Ministry of Health sent a delegation.
Lou stood at the podium like a carved statue, his voice steady as he explained the implications of their breakthrough.
"Early-stage epilepsy. Stroke recovery. Autism-spectrum regulation. Even advanced Alzheimer's management. This technology isn't just preventative. It's restorative."
The applause was thunderous.
---
Somewhere in the back of the room, hidden among VIPs and dignitaries, Madam Yan watched. She wore navy today, the color of restrained authority. Her eyes betrayed nothing as the crowd rose to its feet.
But her hands—always still, always folded—tightened briefly around her cane.
Beside her, a junior executive leaned over. "Madam Yan, would you like to say a few words?"
She shook her head. "No."
Her voice held no tremor. "This is his moment."
But as she turned to leave, her gaze lingered on her grandson—taller than his father had been, steadier than she ever dared to hope.
And when she stepped into her waiting car, she allowed herself a single indulgence:
"He was born to do this," she whispered.
Her driver, seasoned and silent, pretended not to hear.
---
Later that night, Ming stood beside Lou in the private lounge, toasting with a rare bottle they'd been saving for years. The air was still electric with victory, but Lou's gaze drifted once—toward the window, toward the skyline beyond.
"Thinking of her?" Ming asked gently.
Lou didn't answer. But the way his fingers brushed over the jade ring on his right hand was all the answer Ming needed.
Some victories came on stage. Others were fought in silence, in kneeling, in love.
And Ming, who had seen empires built and burned, knew this one was far from over. But for now, Lou Yan had returned. And that was enough.