Lou Yan immersed himself in work the way some men sought redemption—quietly, with hunger no one could name. He didn't consider himself a workaholic. That term sounded flippant, indulgent. Like someone who chose obsession. Lou didn't choose—he simply was. He did what had to be done, when it had to be done, with a level of discipline that didn't bend to convenience or fatigue.
The office lights stayed on well past dusk, a steady hum in the quiet corridors of YanTech's top floor. His desk was a spread of reports, contracts, and algorithm projections. Screens glowed, blinking with streams of code and investor graphs. He worked without pause, his thoughts sharp, his hands calm, his posture immaculate. His body moved like a clock wound perfectly—efficient, tireless, silent.
Ming entered the room without knocking, as he always did when Lou forgot the passage of time. He carried no files this time, just a small thermal flask of green tea and that faint, unreadable smile of his.
"Sir," Ming said, placing the tea down. "Tomorrow is Sunday."
Lou didn't look up. "And?"
"Your weekly visit to Madam Yan."
Lou paused, eyes blinking once. "Ah."
"And…" Ming added, with the subtle flair of a man who knew timing like an art form, "Mei is back. Her parents' trip concluded early." That made Lou stop completely. His fingers stilled over the trackpad. For the first time that evening, the focus in his gaze softened. "Mei?"
"She called ten minutes ago," Ming said mildly. "Said she tried your number three times already." As if summoned by the mention, Lou's phone began to buzz where it sat beside his elbow. The screen lit up with her name—Mei-Mei. His lips twitched. He picked up.
The moment he answered, the shrill, joyous voice of a twelve-year-old girl exploded through the speaker.
"Lou Yan-gege! Why didn't you pick earlier! I told Mama you'd be working like a robot again, and guess what? I was right! Did you miss me? Are you still bald from thinking too much? I got you socks—sparkly ones—well, Mama said no sparkles for boys but I think that's just nonsense, and—"
He chuckled. Actually chuckled, the sound rare and real. "I missed you too, mei-mei," he said softly. "And I don't recall ever agreeing to glitter socks."
"You didn't not agree either!"
He laughed again, leaned back in his chair. "What time is it Mei, you should be in bed by now?"
"Almost ten. Don't worry, I brushed my teeth! Twice! I'm in bed now. Are you coming tomorrow?"
"Of course," he said gently. "But you should be sleeping. No more phone calls."
She groaned. "Fineee."
"I'll see you tomorrow. Sleep well."
"Love you, Lou Yan-gege."
The line went silent after that. He stared at the phone a moment longer before setting it down. His smile lingered, just barely. Ming, already halfway to the door, paused.
"I'll confirm the driver for 9 a.m.?"
Lou nodded once. "Yes. Make sure Mei has that banana bread she likes."
"Yes, sir." Then the door shut quietly, and Lou returned to his work—but the edges of his focus had softened. There was warmth now—quiet and steady—like a candle in a room of steel.
The Yan ancestral mansion was warm with life. The scent of fresh pinewood lingered in the hallways, faint incense burning somewhere in the background. Laughter spilled down from the west wing—Mei had returned, and with her came a kind of chaos only a precocious twelve-year-old could create.
In the lounge, Mei sat cross-legged on a cushion, phone in hand, chatting animatedly with Syra. Lou Yan leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching them with quiet amusement. Syra's laughter crackled from the speaker, her tone patient and indulgent, but also teasing.
"You sound more and more like your uncle with each passing day," Syra said through the phone.
Mei grinned. "Hey, I have more facial expressions than him," Syra laughed again. Her laughter soothing like a windchime.
"Then I'll start wearing black and giving people scary stares."
Lou Yan raised a brow. "I don't stare."
"You do!" both voices chimed at once—one from the room, the other from the phone.
He chuckled quietly and walked in. "Hand me the phone."
Mei offered it up with dramatic flair. "Don't stay up too late. You're old."
"Goodnight, Mei," he said, and she giggled all the way out of the room.
Lou took the phone and made his way to his old room, which his childhood room, which is more of a suite than a room. Lou Yan's childhood room was a contradiction made whole—a suite fit for a prince, restrained by the modesty of a monk.
The architecture whispered of wealth: high, vaulted ceilings with ancient timber beams, floors paved in cool Carrara marble, and tall arched windows that opened toward a quiet stone courtyard veiled by bamboo. Yet the luxury was understated, deliberate, almost reluctant to reveal itself.
Two towering porcelain vases flanked the entrance—deep blue dragons coiled across their glazed surfaces, imperial in presence, yet untouched by dust. They were heirlooms from his great-grandfather's time, positioned like sentinels to mark the transition between past and present. Lou had once hidden behind them as a boy, now they stood like silent monks keeping vigil.
The furniture was minimal. A low, carved bed with clean white linen, a single slate-gray throw folded with surgical precision. A wooden writing desk by the window, its surface bare except for a calligraphy brush and a small brass bell. A meditation mat rested in the far corner, bordered by shelves lined with worn Buddhist texts, his childhood scribbles still tucked between their pages.
And then, there was the alcove. Tucked beside the wall opposite the bed—recessed and subtly lit by a warm overhead glow—stood a shrine-like space no one dared disturb. At its center hung a portrait of his father: proud, stern, and silent. The man who had ruled empires but died with his hands folded, never having spoken a word of approval. Below the portrait sat a wooden altar with a single lotus-shaped incense holder and a small, jade-carved guardian lion. Lou lit incense there once a year—on the day he left the monastery. The room, like its occupant, held its breath. Opulence restrained by reverence. Silence layered with memory.
Dimming the lights to a warm glow. The silence settled like a familiar coat as he sat on the floor beside the low table, cross-legged. His voice lowered to something softer—more intimate.
"Still awake?" he asked.
"Obviously," Syra replied, her voice thick with affection. "You've stolen your niece's energy. She talks like you now. Pauses before every sentence like it's about to be a sermon."
Lou smirked, voice warm. "I learned from the best."
"Who, your grandmother?"
"No. You."
She laughed. A bright, surprised sound. It made something in his chest relax. They spoke about small things—how the tea tasted better today, how Mei had insisted on matching outfits for everyone, how Lou had accidentally knocked over a bonsai tree while dodging Mei's foam sword. It was unlike him. He was playful. Teasing.
"You're different tonight," Syra said after a pause.
"Am I?"
"Mm-hmm. Almost like a boyfriend."
He lay back on the tatami mat, smiling into the phone. "Do you like it?"
Syra's voice was a whisper. "Too much."
There was a long, quiet stretch where neither of them said anything—only breath, only presence.
"Tell me what you're wearing," he said suddenly, quietly.
"Excuse me?" she replied, caught off guard.
"Nothing improper," he added, his voice dipping into a velvet-soft timbre. "I just want to imagine where your voice is coming from."
She smiled despite herself. "Just my linen nightgown. It has little buttons. My hair's still damp, I guess. I couldn't sleep, so I sort of wandered barefoot for a bit."
Lou Yan stilled.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. The image she conjured—soft linen clinging to her frame, damp hair trailing over bare shoulders, the quiet rhythm of her steps. He pressed his thumb to the edge of his phone, grounding himself. This wasn't the first time she undid him without even knowing—but it was the first time he almost let it show.
"Syra," he said, his voice lower than he intended, "you can't say things like that to me." Not when she sounded like a dream he wasn't allowed to have.
She blinked, then grinned softly. "Why not? I'm just telling the truth." A pause, then her voice dropped to a whisper, feigning innocence so poorly it made him want to drag his hands over his face.
"Unless you've been imagining things you shouldn't, Mr. Yan."
There was silence on his end. Then—
"I have imagined things," he said, low and raw. "Things I shouldn't."
His voice wasn't teasing. It trembled on the edge of something heavier.
"I think about you more than I should. Want you more than I have any right to."
Lou Yan exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate.
"You make it very hard to be a good man, Syra."
His voice was calm, but tight—like a thread pulled taut, on the verge of snapping.
Then, a quiet chuckle—dry, almost self-mocking.
"I'll pray harder tonight."
"You sound like someone who's not going to sleep tonight."
"I wasn't planning to," he murmured.
Their conversation stretched on for hours. Time slipped away unnoticed. They shared stories, little nothings, and long silences that held more meaning than words. The world narrowed to the sound of their breathing—hers light and fluttery, his deep and steady.
By the time Syra's voice drifted into a soft yawn, Lou looked at the clock and blinked. It was past 2 a.m.
"I should let you sleep," he said, reluctant.
"No," she whispered. "Just... stay. Like this."
And so he did. The phone still against his ear, his eyes closed, her breath the last thing he heard before sleep took him.
That night, in the quiet heart of the Yan family mansion, Lou Yan didn't meditate, didn't review code, didn't read. He just lay still, listening to the sound of someone he loved sleeping on the other end of the line.