The tea had grown cold. Syra barely noticed, her fingers wrapped tightly around the delicate porcelain cup as if it could anchor her through the growing storm that was Madam Yan's voice.
Madam Yan set her teacup down with perfect precision, her eyes unwavering as they landed on Syra, then Lou.
"There is one final condition," the old woman said, her words measured, deliberate. "You will not live together before the wedding."
Lou's jaw tightened. Syra's breath caught, and she blinked. Once. Twice.
Madam Yan folded her hands in her lap, her tone didn't waver.Syra blinked, certain she'd misheard. Lou sat straighter, tension rolling off him in subtle waves. But Madam Yan wasn't finished.
"And I expect you both to take an oath that there will be no intimate physical relationship between you before the ceremony."
The silence that followed was heavy. Breathless. Lou's hand, which had been resting calmly on his knee, twitched.
Syra's heart stopped. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She looked at Lou, her eyes wide with disbelief, silently asking: Is she serious?
Lou didn't look at her. His gaze remained trained on his grandmother, every inch of him poised and unreadable. The silence between them stretched until it began to fracture something inside Syra's chest.
She managed a strangled whisper. "You want us to stop seeing each other?"
Lou, who had remained unusually quiet, spoke at last. "Nai Nai…"
She turned her gaze on him, sharp as a blade. "You've made your choice. And I've made mine. If you want my blessing—fully, publicly, without conditions—then you will honor our tradition."
"I want you to honor the sanctity of the commitment you are asking me to bless," Madam Yan said, her voice sharp as lacquered steel. "Marriage, in our family, is not a convenience. It is legacy. It is oath. It is—sacrifice."
Syra swallowed hard. Her mouth felt dry. "But we're already—"
"I don't care," Madam Yan said coldly. "If you want my public and personal blessing—if you want to be welcomed into this family, into our ancestral hall, into our name—you will abide by this."
The words struck with precision. Like a verdict. A sentence handed down by a sovereign who would not be swayed by emotion.
Syra turned her head toward Lou, desperate now. "Say something."
Lou finally looked at her. His eyes were soft, pained. But beneath that, the monk's composure remained.
Syra looked down at her lap, heart thudding wildly. No living together. No touching. No intimacy. For how long? A month? Two? She'd already endured weeks of Lou Yan's quiet restraint, his maddening self-control that made her feel like she was on fire while he walked around wrapped in cool water. And now this?
She felt Lou's hand brush hers under the table. The slightest contact. The gentlest anchor.
"I understand," he said, his voice calm but firm. "We accept."
Syra snapped her head toward him. "We what?"
His gaze met hers, steady and deep. "We accept."
The word felt like surrender and promise at once. And It was Lou Yan, standing between her and the storm again—this time not with rebellion, but with reverence.
Madam Yan gave a single, satisfied nod and rose to her feet, as if the matter had been settled by imperial decree. With the grace of a general delivering her final command. "Then it is settled. The engagement ceremony, will be next Sunday. And until then, you will conduct yourselves with restraint."she said.
"The ceremony will be held in the ancestral garden. The elders will be notified." Then, before anyone could argue, she turned and left the room, robes trailing behind her like the flick of a blade.
Syra sat frozen for a moment, her body stiff with disbelief. "She's insane."
The shoji doors slid closed behind her with a quiet click.
Syra turned back to Lou, her mouth still open in disbelief. "We accept?"
Syra groaned and flopped back onto the tatami mat. "Three months?"
"At least."
"Oh God. I'm going to die." She threw her arm over her face.
Lou leaned down and whispered against her cheek, "I'll be dying with you."
"Lou, this is going to be—"
"I know." His voice dropped to a whisper. "But I won't let her take anything else from us. Let this be the last thing we give her."
Lou exhaled, finally letting the tension drain from his shoulders. "She's traditional."
"This is psychological warfare."
He turned toward her and reached for her hand. She pulled away, then immediately regretted it.
"This isn't fair," she said, her voice cracking.
"No," he agreed quietly. "It's not."
They sat in the silence, the air between them charged, tense.
"I'm not sure I can do this," she admitted.
Lou turned toward her fully now, his knees brushing hers. "Then don't do it for her," he said softly. "Do it for us. For what comes next."
Syra looked down at her lap, then back at him.
He was watching her with that unbearable stillness again. Not pleading. Not demanding. Just… there.
She rose to her feet abruptly, pacing the length of the tea room before spinning back toward him. "Three months."
"At most," he murmured. "Depending on when the wedding's set."
She threw her hands up. "That's eternity in lust years." She wanted to shout but too embarrassed to say it outlook.
Lou actually smiled at that, as if he could read her thoughts, and she wanted to punch him. Or straddle him. Possibly both.
"I'm serious," she said.
"So am I."
She stopped. Crossed her arms. "You'll resist me? Even if I try?"
His smile faded, and something far more dangerous flickered across his face. He stood slowly, closing the space between them, his voice a whisper of temptation.
"If you try," he said, "I'll fail."
Her breath hitched.
"But I will get back up," he added. "Every time. Until I walk you to that altar."
Syra looked up at him, trembling.
And then, without thinking, she pulled him down into a kiss—brief, trembling, soft as a prayer. When she pulled back, Lou didn't chase her mouth. He simply rested his forehead against hers.
One breath.
Two.
Syra muttered.
"Don't let me seduce you."
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "Don't make it impossible.