Lou Yan hadn't slept. Not truly. Not the kind of sleep that soothed the body and quieted the mind. He had drifted in and out of half-consciousness all night on the couch in his apartment—the one that now felt too wide, too cold, too much. The sheets smelled of lavender and detergent instead of Syra's jasmine and paint. The walls felt like strangers. His own reflection, caught briefly in the glass panels as he passed, looked unfamiliar. Tired. Not from the work—he had survived worse schedules. But from the ache.
It wasn't just longing. It was the searing, invisible thread that bound him to her and was now being stretched to its thinnest.
Lou dressed with mechanical precision, his movements practiced, devoid of pause. Charcoal-gray turtleneck. Black trousers. Wristwatch, minimal. Hair slicked back with water. His phone buzzed with notifications—investor updates, board messages, a congratulatory email from a minister about the medical tech breakthrough. All of it should have thrilled him. It barely registered.
His hand lingered over the final drawer—the one where he kept her favorite teas, which he had once insisted she organize alphabetically, only for her to rearrange them chaotically the next day. He stared for a long while, then shut it gently.
---
At YanTech headquarters, everything functioned like a well-oiled machine. Staff whispered and bowed as he passed. Ming followed behind, rattling off schedule adjustments, meeting agendas, and external PR pressures with practiced cadence.
But Lou wasn't listening.
He was picturing Syra—still in bed, perhaps, curled into the sheets they had chosen together. Was she awake yet? Had she eaten? Was she smiling? Or had the silence swallowed her as it did him?
He hated that he couldn't reach out. Couldn't kiss her forehead. Couldn't brush that stubborn curl off her cheek and murmur, "You're okay."
In the privacy of his executive suite, he closed the door and locked it. Only then did he allow his mask to slip.
A groan escaped him—low, frustrated, helpless.
He paced. Checked the time. Resisted the instinct to call her.
Tried not to remember the warmth of her body against his. The way she sighed when she nuzzled his collarbone. The way she teased him, tempted him, and soothed him all at once without trying.
He remembered the way she hugged him from behind that night, her breath warm against his back, her voice a fragile balm: "You came into my life and showed me what love truly is."
He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest. The pain hadn't lessened.
---
That night, he didn't go home. Instead, he stood beneath the studio building, leaning against his parked car, watching the glow of the window he knew was hers. One light on. Faint shadows moving behind sheer curtains.
She was there. And still, she felt so far. His phone vibrated. A message from Ming:
Security flagged your location. Do you need me to come get you?
Lou ignored it. After a long time, he crossed the street, walked past her building, and continued down the block, needing the motion to quiet the war inside him. But as the wind caught his coat and the chill bit into his bones, he knew with painful certainty:
He didn't care about tradition or legacy.
He just wanted to go home. And home was wherever Syra was.
----
Lou stood at the threshold of Syra's studio, her door just inches from his fingertips. The evening wind whispered past his ears, tugging at the hem of his coat, yet he remained rooted to the spot, unmoving, consumed by the storm inside him.
His breath hitched as he stared at the familiar wood grain, his pulse pounding beneath his ribs like a war drum. She was in there. Close. Just beyond this door. And all he had to do was knock. All he had to do was reach for her, the way he'd done a hundred times before.
But this time, something was different.
He'd barely slept the night before. Had barely spoken a word all day. Everything he touched—every pen, every folder, every protocol on his desk—was done in a haze of half-thoughts and distractions, all leading to this moment. To her.
His hand lifted, knuckles poised.
Then froze.
A vivid image crashed through his mind—Syra with her hair mussed and her cheeks flushed, blinking up at him in that little pink pajama set. The way she'd looked at him with such unfiltered joy when he arrived unannounced at her parents' home. Her voice still echoed in his memory: "Lou!" like he was the entire sky.
His mouth went dry. The ache to kiss her, to press her against the door and feel her melt into him, gripped him with terrifying force. His entire body tensed, a low, primal pull at the base of his spine nearly undoing him. His hand trembled.
And just like that—He took a step back. Then another. Until he was halfway down the hall, gripping the railing to keep from caving.
What have I become? The thought sliced through him like a blade. His discipline, the control he'd once held so fiercely, was hanging by a thread. A thread named Syra.
Lou bowed his head and closed his eyes, his breath shuddering out of him in a slow exhale. He had sworn an oath. Not just to his grandmother, but to the temple that raised him, to the boy who once stood unmoving in the snow until frostbitten silence settled into his bones. He had not waited all these years only to break now.
He would honor her. All of her. Even when it hurt. Even when it fractured him. He turned away from the door with the grace of a dying man and walked to the elevator, each step a betrayal of what he wanted and a reaffirmation of what he stood for.
Once inside the car, he didn't trust himself to look back.
---
Syra received the message as she stepped out of the shower. Her heart leapt at the sight of his name, only to stutter at the content:
Lou: My driver will pick you up at 6:30 p.m. for dinner. No emojis. No sweet nothings. Just Lou, being Lou. Distant. Composed. Excruciatingly careful.
She pressed her phone to her chest and closed her eyes. Why won't you let me in, Lou? She hadn't seen him all day. She'd hoped—hoped—he might stop by, even if just to kiss her forehead and remind her they were still tethered. Still fighting the same fight.
But now she understood. He was afraid.
Afraid of her pull. Afraid of what his body wanted. Afraid of breaking.
Syra bit her lip and turned back to the mirror, the fog still clouding the reflection. She wiped it clean slowly, revealing flushed cheeks and eyes that looked a little too much like longing.
She would go. And she'd make damn sure he saw just how hard this was for her too. But for now, she whispered the words to her reflection: "Hold on. Just a little longer.