Madam Yan stood beneath the lantern-strung arbor, the breeze catching at her sleeves as she stared into the koi pond. The fish darted beneath the surface like secrets too old to rise. Everything about this place had been cultivated to exude peace—the quiet elegance of tradition, the permanence of lineage, the hush of time carefully curated.
And yet, she felt none of it now.
Only the echo of her own heartbeat and the memory of Lou Yan's voice saying: "We accept."
She had expected resistance. A cold silence. A flinch, perhaps. She had even prepared for Syra's dramatics, her tears, that fire always simmering behind those uncommonly pretty eyes. But she had not expected the quiet steadiness. The bowed heads. The way they took her terms and bore them like a shared burden.
That... rattled her.
Madam Yan inhaled deeply, letting the scent of pine and incense settle her nerves. She had survived revolutions, betrayals, the fall of dynasties, the slow erosion of tradition. She had never been afraid of being hated. But something about Syra's trembling hands and the way Lou had reached for them as if grounding her to this earth—that had struck somewhere deeper than she cared to admit.
The sketchbook still sat on her writing desk. She had meant to return it and forget it. Instead, she had flipped to that final page again and again. The younger version of herself captured with such sincerity it made her throat ache. Not beautiful. Not regal. Just a woman trying to raise a boy who wouldn't break.
Syra had seen that.
It angered her—how much the girl saw. How little she asked for. How she offered everything except her pride.
Madam Yan turned away from the pond. Her cane tapped softly against the stones as she walked, but her mind remained elsewhere.
She had placed the final condition not out of cruelty, but necessity.
She had to know if this woman—this outsider with fire in her bones and art in her blood—could honor something larger than herself. Could resist the heat long enough to walk beside Lou, not burn ahead of him.
And Lou. Her Lou Yan. Born into silence. Raised to still storms.
For all his poise, she had seen it in his eyes—that he was already hers. The way he looked at Syra as if she was both prayer and answer.
And so she had drawn the line. Not to punish. To test.
If they could bear this, they might just survive the weight of legacy.
She stopped at the edge of the veranda, staring toward the compound gate.
Next Sunday, she would host them again.
Not as adversaries.
But perhaps—perhaps—as family.
Madam Yan did not smile. But the corner of her mouth twitched. Slightly.
She would speak to the elders.
And she would ensure the garden was swept in time for the engagement.
Even jade must bend. But only if it does not break.
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The car ride back to Syra's studio was nearly silent, thick with the kind of stillness that didn't comfort, only ached. The city blurred past in drowsy gold and gray, the late afternoon sun casting long, uneven shadows across Lou Yan's face. His expression was composed—perfect, still, devastatingly calm. But Syra could see it in the way his hands flexed on his lap, in the slight crease between his brows.
He hadn't spoken since they left Madam Yan's estate.
Not even when Ming met them at the studio door, the assistant's face red and unsure as he mumbled a greeting, shifting awkwardly beside the suitcase he'd brought to pack up Lou's things.
Syra hovered by the door, arms crossed, watching as Lou walked inside without a word—his steps familiar, automatic. He moved like a man trying not to feel, like someone who knew if he paused for too long, he'd never be able to leave.
He didn't start packing.
Instead, he lingered around the studio.
He cleaned the kettle. Rearranged the paintbrushes. Reorganized her drying rack. Straightened the little rug by the door that was always slightly askew. At one point, he knelt beside her open tool drawers and quietly replaced the caps on her scattered tubes of paint—ochre, sap green, cadmium red.
Ming cleared his throat. "Sir, do you need—?"
Lou silenced him with the gentlest lift of his hand.
Syra watched him move through the studio like he belonged to it. Like he was it. And yet… he was here to leave.
Her chest tightened painfully.
She wanted to scream. To demand why he hadn't fought harder against that ridiculous condition. Why he was going along with something so cruel, so unnecessary. But the moment she saw his face, the tension etched deep beneath the calm, the war behind his quiet, something inside her cracked.
He was hurting.
He was suffering.
She could see it in the way he kept himself busy, as though cleaning her space might ease the chaos inside him. As though folding her blanket and tucking away her coat might count for presence. As though by leaving it in perfect order, she'd somehow feel less alone.
The suitcase remained untouched.
Syra walked toward him slowly. Lou was kneeling again, sorting through the bottom of her bookshelf, eyes focused on her sketchbooks.
She didn't say a word. She simply lowered herself behind him and wrapped her arms gently around his waist.
Lou froze.
His entire body stilled in that monk-like way he had when trying to hold something dangerous at bay. Syra laid her cheek against his back, breathing him in—earth and sandalwood and the clean scent of his soap. He didn't speak. Didn't move. But the tremor beneath her hands betrayed him.
"I just needed a moment," she whispered against his spine, her voice raw. "Just to feel you."
She stayed like that for a while—anchored to him, steadying herself.
When she finally let go, Lou turned slowly, rising to face her.
His eyes were calm, yes—but too calm. Like the surface of a river hiding a whirlpool.
Syra reached up and touched his face. "Lou…" Her voice cracked, but she didn't let it falter. "Everything will be alright."
His brow furrowed just slightly.
"You came into my life and showed me what love truly is," she continued, her voice shaking now, but her eyes locked on his. "You have my heart. My soul. And if walking through fire is what it takes to stand beside you—I will."
Lou's breath caught. He looked at her like he didn't deserve her. Like she'd just handed him the sun when he'd only asked for the matchlight of her touch.
Syra stepped forward and rested her palm over his heart. "Let this be our vow," she said softly. "I'm not giving up on us. No matter how long I have to wait."
Lou didn't answer right away. He simply pulled her to him, not fiercely, not desperately—just… close. As though by holding her, he might remember how to breathe.
"I'll come back every day," he murmured. "Even if I can't stay. Even if I'm not allowed to touch you. I'll show up."
Syra nodded against his chest. "Then I'll leave the door open."
They stayed like that for a long time—two souls standing in the ruins of comfort, holding the only thing they could: each other.
When Lou finally turned to go, he took only his laptop, his charger, and a fresh white shirt.
The suitcase stayed behind. Unopened. Like a promise.