Lou Yan stood barefoot on the stone floor of his apartment, the city stretched wide and glinting behind him like a mirage he couldn't touch. The silk blinds fluttered, the incense had long since burned out, but the scent still clung to the air—sandalwood and something sharper, like the memory of restraint.
He had meditated for two hours. Recited the Heart Sutra three times. Taken a cold shower that made his bones ring. None of it had worked.
Syra's voice lingered in his ears like smoke. "Do you think I'll break you?"
No. That wasn't it. She wouldn't break him. He would. He paced the length of the room, heart thudding like it was trying to outrun itself. Images rose unbidden—her sitting at that restaurant table, graceful and vulnerable, her eyes quietly begging him to stop disappearing behind discipline. Her voice, soft as velvet but heavy with hurt: "I miss you, even when you're right in front of me."
He had wanted to reach across that table and pull her into him, to kiss the loneliness off her lips, to confess with his body what he dared not say aloud: That he wanted her. Madly. Deeply. And it terrified him.
Lou pressed his palm to the wall like it could hold him up, then laughed—low and bitter. What kind of man meditates himself into numbness just to survive dinner with the woman he loves?
He walked into his room and stood in front of the mirror. The reflection stared back with too much truth. His shoulders were tense, his jaw set like stone.
He wasn't afraid of sex or what came with it.
The surrender. The unraveling. The hunger he had kept hidden for too long. There had been a night, not long before his grandmother's vow, when they had nearly crossed the line.
They were in Syra's studio. It was past midnight, the world soft and half-asleep. She was curled on the floor beside him, laughter still echoing from some stupid joke he'd told. Her hair spilled across her collarbone like ink.
She looked up at him and said, "Sometimes I think you're not real."
He had leaned down before he could think. Their mouths were a breath apart. Her fingers slid into his hair. And then he pulled away Fast Like he'd touched flame.
She hadn't asked why.The answer was in his silence.
---
Now, he stared into the mirror and whispered, "You're going to lose her if you keep turning her into something sacred."
Because Syra wasn't meant to be worshipped. She was meant to be loved.
His phone buzzed. A message from Ming:
Foundation gala at 10 tomorrow. Final briefing at 8. He glanced briefly at the phone but he didn't touch it Instead, he walked to his writing desk and pulled out the small wooden box where he kept his prayer beads and old letters. But tonight, he didn't open it to pray. He opened it to write.
He wrote a letter—handwritten, honest, and trembling at the edges.
Syra,
I don't know how to want you without undoing myself.
But I'm learning that maybe loving you means being undone.
And I would rather fall apart in your arms than keep building temples out of my fear.
I don't want to be a monk in your life.
I want to be your man.
He folded the paper, sealed it in an envelope, and placed it beneath the candle on her windowsill later that night—without knocking, without a word. Then he left. To pray. Not just for strength this time. But for softness.
----
The next day, the sun hovered low, painting the city in soft gold as Syra stood outside YanTech's sleek glass doors, gripping the letter Lou had left the night before. She hadn't read it yet. Not really. She had unfolded it. Glanced at the first line. Folded it again.
Because some words, when they finally arrive, are too heavy to carry without trembling.
The receptionist recognized her, stood, and gave a polite nod. "He's expecting you."
Syra nodded, her throat dry, and made her way past mirrored halls and quiet executive offices, her heels a soft echo in the emptiness.
She stepped into Lou Yan's office. It smelled of green tea and lemonwood polish. The windows stretched floor-to-ceiling, a panorama of the world he ruled. But he wasn't behind the desk.
He was seated on the couch, looking deathly handsome, barefoot, hair clean and sleek not a single strand out place, sleeves rolled up showing his strong veined arm ( which he got from daily routine of martial art practice), a tea set spread before him like an offering. He looked up when she entered—and for once, he didn't hide the weariness in his eyes.
She softly closed the door and looked at him with her big doe eyes,"I didn't come to talk," she said quietly, still standing. "I just wanted to see you."
Lou rose without a word and gestured to the cushion across from him. She sat. The silence between them had changed—it wasn't cold now. Just… careful.
He poured her a delicately roasted genmaicha tea. The aroma soothing her chest. The scent carried her back to a morning months ago when they had sat under the sakura trees outside his grandmother's estate, not touching, just smiling contently at each other.
"You didn't read it, did you?" he asked, not unkindly.
"I did," she said. "But only the first line."
He nodded. "That's enough. For now."
They sat in silence, sipping tea. His fingers hovered near hers but didn't touch. It was maddening. And beautiful. And so, so fragile.
"I brought something," she said, digging into her coat pocket.
She handed him a slim box wrapped in raw canvas string. Inside was a bracelet—wooden beads interlaced with ceramic ones, hand-painted in watercolor hues. The center bead was shaped like a wave. Her mother's.
Lou stared at it, stunned.
"My mother used to say waves only look wild on the surface," Syra murmured. "Underneath, they're calm. Constant. That's you."
Lou swallowed hard and reached out—this time, not hesitant. He took her wrist, his touch reverent, and slid the bracelet onto her skin instead.
"But it's for you," she whispered.
"I know," he said. "But you carry me better than I carry myself."
That made her breath catch.
She let her fingers rest on his for a second too long. He didn't move nor pull away.
Then—his phone buzzed. "Ming," he said apologetically, standing. "I need to be at the foundation. There's a press brief before the gala tomorrow."
Syra nodded, smile brittle. "Of course. Go save the world."
He hesitated, then bent slightly and kissed her forehead. The same spot he always chose. Safe. Platonic. Sacred.
As he pulled away, she whispered, "You're allowed to miss me too, Lou. Not just from afar. You're allowed."
He didn't answer. Just looked at her with those storm-soft eyes—and left.
---
She stayed on the couch a while longer, blankly holding her teacup with shaking fingers. Her heart was a song stuck in the throat.
She looked down at her wrist—the bracelet still there, even though he had left her again.
And she thought, maybe love isn't always grand gestures and vows whispered under moonlight. Maybe it's just staying. Even when leaving is easier.