Syra practically floated up the stairs, her boots thudding softly against the polished wood. Her heart was still drumming in her chest from the way Lou Yan had held her. Tight. Like she was the last solid thing in a world made of mist. She hadn't expected him. Hadn't prepared for that look in his eyes. That way his arms had swallowed her whole like he'd been starved for the sight of her.
As soon as she shut her bedroom door behind her, she collapsed against it with a silent squeal. "Oh god, oh god, I'm going to combust."
She peeled off her coat, hat, scarf, mittens—each layer flung with the dramatics of someone barely containing a sugar-high of joy. Her long hair tumbled down in a silky river, still faintly static from the wool cap, strands clinging to her cheeks. She paused in front of the mirror, breath still light with laughter, and reapplied her lip balm, just for something to do.
And that's when the memory hit her.
The dream.
The dream she thought was real until she woke up in a cold sweat, clutching her pillow like a lifeline. Lou Yan in that dream had been… not gentle. Not modest. Definitely not monk-like. He had been fire and shadow, hand at her throat, breath at her ear, lips at every place she shouldn't name before noon. And she, oh heaven help her, had begged for it.
She slapped both hands over her flushed cheeks, nearly dropping the balm. "What is wrong with me?!"
Shame prickled down her spine like static. She, the daughter of an esteemed couple. A teacher. A respectable artist. A future bride to a monk. And yet here she was, fantasizing about pinning said monk to a door and—
"Nope. No. Absolutely not," she muttered, scrubbing at her face with her sleeves. "Today I shall be chaste. Pure. The image of restraint."
She straightened her back, clasped her hands gently in front of her like a delicate porcelain vase, and lowered her eyes in what she assumed was demure grace. Her expression, however, was closer to a guilty rabbit than a serene empress.
Still, resolved to embody modesty and decorum, she descended the stairs in soft, composed steps.
She turned the corner into the living room.
And then it happened.
Lou Yan looked up.
Their eyes met.
And in one breath—everything stopped.
His gaze hit her like a strike. Not soft, not gentle. It was dark, intense, hungry—so sharply focused on her it felt like it cut through her layers like silk. His eyes dragged down, lingering with such heat that she instinctively raised a hand to her collar and tugged her shirt tighter, as if to shield herself from being seen.
But then—just as fast—it was gone.
Lou blinked, his posture now composed, hands folded, expression unreadable. As if nothing had happened.
Had she imagined it?
She stood frozen, brain short-circuiting. Was she going insane? Was she suddenly boy-crazy? Had that damned dream broken her beyond repair?
Li Wei turned toward her, adjusting his glasses. "Are you alright, child?"
Syra snapped her attention to him blinking her googly eyes, with a tight little sound. "Hmm? Oh—yes! Fine! Completely fine!" Her voice cracked on the second fine. She dared another glance at Lou Yan. But when she did. He was smirking.
Smirking.
The monk. The man of discipline. The serene one. He was smirking at her.
Humiliated, flustered, and with every thought now turning into a stew of "blessed be, why did he look like that," Syra spun on her heel and darted into the kitchen like a fugitive.
"Mom!" she hissed. "I need tea." And maybe divine intervention. Maybe both. She thought to herself.
Nasreen just smiled, stirring her soup without turning. "Ah. So you've seen the way he looks at you now."
Syra groaned into her scarf. She was going to combust—and this time, not from joy.
---
Back in the living room, Lou Yan sat with a spine too straight and hands too perfectly still on his knees. The moment Syra had fled, her energy trailing like perfume in her wake, the room settled into a silence that wasn't quite awkward—but it crackled with something just beneath the surface.
Li Wei watched him over the rim of his porcelain teacup.
"She always runs when she's overwhelmed," he said lightly. "Did it as a toddler. Still does it now."
Lou blinked once. "She was overwhelmed?"
Li Wei's brow rose. "You didn't notice?"
Lou lowered his gaze slightly, the edges of his ears betraying a faint pink. "I noticed… her lips were chapped. She must have been outside too long."
Li Wei nearly choked on his tea.
The older man set his cup down with a sigh, folding his hands over his knee. "Son, let me give you some advice. Not as her father. Just as a man who's been married nearly three decades."
Lou turned attentively, posture immaculate. "Yes, sir."
"There are moments," Li Wei said, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen, "when a woman doesn't need you to be polite, or still, or rational. Sometimes she wants you to see her. Really see her."
"I do see her," Lou said softly.
"That, I believe," Li Wei replied. "But judging by the way she ran in here like a deer about to burst into flames, I'd say she also feels a little too seen."
Lou's brows knit with guilt. "I made her uncomfortable."
Li Wei gave him a sideways look. "No. You made her flustered. It's different. If a woman runs for her life, it's fear. If she runs while blushing, covering her chest, and grabbing tea in the kitchen? It's because she's melting on the inside."
Lou looked away, clearly struggling to suppress a quiet smile.
Li Wei continued, more gently now. "She's young. Emotional. A little dramatic sometimes, but that's what makes her alive. Don't cage her with your control. Let her be soft around you. Let yourself be soft with her."
Lou nodded once. "I'm… trying."
"I know you are." Li Wei stood with a soft grunt and patted his shoulder. "She's worth the effort. But don't forget—you are too."
Lou sat still for a moment after Li Wei left, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen doorway.
The light from the stove flickered faintly against the wall. He could hear Syra's quiet murmur, her mother's laughter, the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic. Something about the ordinary domesticity of it nearly undid him.
He exhaled slowly, unclenching the tension in his jaw.
He didn't need her to see that he was unraveling again. But god, did he want to hold her and never let go.