0Syra didn't move for a long time after the door closed. Her fingers remained wrapped around the sketchbook, as if loosening her grip would somehow undo the moment that had just happened.
She stared at the character again—改. Not just a correction, but an acknowledgment. A dialogue.
Behind her, Lou remained silent. Watching. Waiting.
She turned to face him. "Did she really…?"
"She corrected your drawing," he said, voice soft. "It's how she shows respect."
Syra's knees buckled slightly and she sank onto the couch, the sketchbook still pressed to her chest. "I thought she hated me."
Lou knelt in front of her, hands gently resting on her thighs. "She did."
"Lou!"
"I'm being honest." His smile curved, faint but real. "She did. But now she's confused. And curious. And…" His eyes searched hers. "Maybe not finished with you yet."
Syra exhaled shakily. "She's terrifying."
Lou pressed his forehead to her knee. "She made me."
That made her laugh—croaky, surprised, real. She reached out and threaded her fingers through his hair, letting her palm rest on the crown of his head like a benediction. "I can't believe I survived her."
He looked up, dark eyes serious. "You did more than survive."
Syra leaned back into the cushions, letting the tension slowly bleed from her spine. "She saw my drawings of you," she said after a beat. "All of them."
Lou shrugged, utterly unconcerned. "I'm beautiful. You did me justice."
She threw a cushion at his head.
He caught it mid-air and tossed it aside with absurd grace, then climbed onto the couch beside her, one arm hooking around her waist as if he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
The sketchbook lay between them. Heavy. Sacred.
"I want to draw you again," she whispered.
Lou tilted his head. "Now?"
She nodded, suddenly shy. "But not how I usually do. Not with charcoal. Not with shadows. I want to paint you in color. In light."
His smile faltered, then softened into something deeper. "Then show me what you see."
She fetched her watercolors in silence. When she returned, Lou had already unbuttoned his shirt and was sitting with his back to the golden afternoon light streaming in through the tall studio windows. The warm glow kissed his skin, turning the lines of his shoulders and spine into poetry.
Syra paused. Just to look. Just to remember.
This man, who had knelt beside her. Who had stood between her and the world. Who now sat, silent and sure, offering himself not as a symbol—but as truth.
She dipped the brush.
And she began.
The room smelled of wet pigment and soft linen. Afternoon sun filtered through the windows in gentle swaths, gilding Lou's skin as he sat motionless on the worn chaise. His shirt was off, the muscles along his back relaxed but unmistakably defined, the curve of his shoulder tapering down into his spine with the precision of architecture.
Syra's brush hovered midair, caught between reverence and impulse.
She had painted him many times before—asleep, frowning, lost in thought. But never like this. Never with him fully present and watching her in return. Never while she felt so exposed, even with the distance of the canvas between them.
He turned slightly, just enough for the light to catch the edge of his jaw.
"Don't move," she breathed, the words barely audible.
Lou froze. Then smiled.
Syra swallowed hard and dipped the brush again, letting crimson and ochre dance together in her palette before laying them gently along the curve of his neck. The color bled into the paper like a secret revealed.
She painted the quiet strength in his collarbones, the shadow beneath his ribs, the subtle tension in the cords of his neck. There was no need to exaggerate. He was already unreal—an illusion made flesh.
But it wasn't just the beauty of his body that stilled her.
It was the peace.
He watched her without flinching, without needing to speak. His gaze didn't demand or possess. It simply remained—soft, open, and certain. She realized then what he was offering her wasn't just time or patience. It was devotion.
And she'd never been looked at like that.
Her breath caught as she painted the scar across his collarbone—the one he rarely spoke of. A childhood fall, he'd once told her. She had kissed it once in the dark, and he had flinched. Not from pain, but memory.
"Do you ever get tired of being still?" she asked, not looking up.
"No," Lou said simply. "Not with you."
Syra bit her lip. Her strokes slowed.
The final lines came easier than she'd expected—the shape of his hand resting against his thigh, the slight tilt of his head. She signed her name in the corner with a quick flick of the brush.
Then, she sat back and exhaled.
Lou rose and crossed the room in three quiet steps. The light caught the copper undertones in his skin, the shadow of his lashes against his cheekbones. He came to stand behind her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder as he studied the portrait.
He didn't speak for a long time.
When he did, his voice was soft. "You see me better than I see myself."
Syra leaned into his touch. "I only paint what you show me."
Lou bent and kissed the top of her head. "Then maybe it's time I show you everything."
Her heart stuttered.
Outside, the city began to blur into gold and shadow. But inside the studio, in that quiet moment between brushstroke and breath, they existed suspended—like paint waiting to dry. Together. And unafraid.
-----
Lou Yan stood at the window of Syra's studio, one hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, the other loosely holding a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. The winter light washed the city in shades of pearl and slate, but he barely noticed the skyline. His gaze remained fixed on the reflection in the glass—Syra, curled up on the couch behind him, sketchbook in her lap, lower lip caught between her teeth as she frowned at the lines she was drawing.
She had corrected the sketch on page forty-seven. He'd watched her do it in silence, her fingers trembling only slightly as she adjusted the slope of his grandmother's wrist. Madam Yan hadn't commented further, but she'd left a second note behind the sketchbook this morning: a simple brush stroke of the word "Continue."
He took a sip of the cold tea. The taste was bitter. Grounding.
Lou had expected resistance. He had braced himself for sabotage. But not this. Not a quiet concession from the woman who had once shaped every hour of his childhood with steel precision. And yet here they were, in a reality that felt foreign and fragile.
The door creaked slightly as Syra shifted her weight. She yawned, pressing her forehead against the pages, then let the sketchbook drop to the floor with a soft thud.
"It's terrible," she muttered.
Lou turned. "It's honest."
"Honest and terrible."
He crossed the room and sat beside her, picking up the sketchbook and flipping to the newest page—a loose interpretation of him half-turned, shirt sleeves rolled up, face caught somewhere between exhaustion and clarity. The lines were messy. Raw. Real.
"It looks like a man in mourning," she said quietly.
Lou glanced at her. "Maybe he is."
Her brow furrowed. "Mourning what?"
He closed the book. "What he thought he had to be."
Silence bloomed between them.
She leaned against him, her head resting just under his chin. "You okay?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I'm not alone. That makes it bearable."
Her hand found his.
Outside, the snow continued to fall.
---
By noon, Ming had texted three times. Lou silenced his phone.
He wasn't ready to return yet. Not to the boardrooms, the endless strategy meetings, the looming tension of a company watching its king bleed. Not when he was still learning how to simply be with someone—no armor, no roles, no legacy pressing against his back.
Syra cooked something small for lunch. A humble egg sandwich, sliced neatly in half, the yolk still slightly soft. He watched her hands as she worked, her movements clumsy but focused. It wasn't perfection. It was presence.
And Lou, who had once dined with heads of state and memorized entire sutras by candlelight, found himself reverent before the offering.
They ate in silence, knees touching beneath the table. And when she leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth—a smear of yolk still there—he felt something ease inside him.
Not peace. Not yet. But the beginning of it.