Lou Yan returned to the studio just after nine. It was quiet. Not in the peaceful way it usually was when Syra was lost in a painting, or when she fell asleep mid-sketch, her pencils scattered like fallen soldiers across the table. No, this was the kind of silence that echoed. That sank into the walls and tugged at the seams of the room.
Her absence was too loud.
He stood in the doorway for a long time, unwilling to switch on the lights. Her scent still lingered faintly—lavender oil, acrylic, the sweetness of fruit tea she always forgot halfway through.
He tried to work. Tried to open his laptop, sort through memos, answer the fifty-three emails Ming had gently nudged toward him. But by the third unread subject line, he gave up. His body sat at the desk, but his mind had long since traveled elsewhere.
His hand hovered over his phone.
He wanted to call her. Gods, he wanted to.
But he didn't.
She needed this. She'd said so herself, with her head resting on her mother's shoulder and her fingers still tangled loosely with his, as if apologizing even as she pulled away. Just one night, she said. Just a little space. He had smiled. Nodded. Let her go.
But that was before he realized how unbearable it would feel.
The studio no longer felt like a sanctuary. It felt like a museum exhibit. Every inch of it spoke of her, but none of it held her warmth. Her shoes were still by the door. Her robe still draped over the back of the couch. Her latest sketch—unfinished, urgent, beautiful—waited on the easel.
He wandered through the space like a ghost, touching things he shouldn't. Her scarf. Her brush. The ceramic cup she used to hold her paint water.
When the ache became too much, he did something he hadn't done in weeks: he left.
His apartment greeted him like a stranger. Polished floors, high ceilings, nothing out of place. It used to be the one place where he felt in control. Now it felt sterile. Hollow. Every inch of it too tidy, too cold.
He changed clothes. Poured himself a glass of water. Tried again to answer a message from Ming.
And then he found himself at the glass wall.
From this height, Syra's studio was a warm rectangle of light. Her parents' place wasn't visible from here, but his eyes still searched for her as if she might suddenly reappear. As if he could summon her with sheer will.
The quiet pressed in on him. The hours dragged. Eventually, something inside him cracked.
He grabbed his jacket.
The drive to the countryside was long, but the hum of the engine steadied him. The darkness stretched on, broken only by headlights and the whisper of wind against the windows. The road curved gently like memory, like longing.
When he reached the familiar peach-colored house, he cut the headlights and parked a little farther down the road than usual. Just enough distance to preserve the illusion that he hadn't completely lost his mind.
From the car, he could see the glow of lights in the windows. Movement behind the sheer curtains. Laughter, faint but unmistakable. Syra's silhouette appeared briefly in the living room, her hair in a loose bun, one hand on her father's shoulder.
Lou's throat tightened.
She looked happy. Content. And that made him ache in ways he didn't have names for.
He didn't approach. Didn't knock. He just sat in his car, wrapped in his coat, watching her world from the outside.
He told himself it was enough.
That seeing her safe and surrounded by warmth should be enough.
But it wasn't.
He stayed there until sleep claimed him, slow and reluctant, his body curled slightly toward the house like it might offer shelter from the cold.
And outside, in the soft hush of country night, Lou Yan—the man who had never waited for anything in his life—waited for the one thing he didn't know how to live without.
---
The knock came softly—three raps, hesitant but certain. Lou stirred, the stiffness in his neck reminding him he'd fallen asleep in the driver's seat, limbs folded awkwardly in the confines of his sleek black car.
For a moment, he blinked against the gray wash of morning. The countryside was still cloaked in fog, the windows of Syra's childhood home glowing warm and golden through the mist.
Then he saw him.
Li Wei.
Bundled in a heavy coat, a woolen cap slightly askew, Syra's father stood beside the car, hands tucked into his pockets. His breath curled visibly in the cold.
Lou scrambled upright, hastily rolling down the window. The cold air bit at his skin, and he instinctively brushed a hand over his hair, embarrassed and vaguely disheveled. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
Li Wei stared at him for a long, unreadable moment. Then, without preamble, he said, "Thank God you're here. These women—your girl and my wife—sent me out to buy milk in this ungodly cold."
Lou blinked. "Milk?"
Li Wei gestured over his shoulder. "Apparently, the tea can't be had without it. And God forbid anyone but me gets it. Come on. Drive me to the convenience store, hmm?"
Lou stared at him for another breath, still half-dreaming, half-stunned—until realization clicked. "Yes! Of course." Too quickly, too eager. He fumbled with the ignition. "I'll take you."
Li Wei climbed into the passenger seat with a low groan, adjusting the seat like he'd done it a hundred times. Lou drove slowly through the morning hush, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
---
At the convenience store, the lights were harsh and fluorescent. The aisles smelled faintly of instant noodles and floor polish.
Lou followed Li Wei in, keeping pace as the older man ambled toward the back fridges.
Li Wei picked a bottle of full cream milk and turned it over in his hand. "Syra have been painting like she's chasing demons again."
Lou felt his chest tighten. "Has she said anything?"
Li Wei glanced at him, amused. "She doesn't have to. Syra's the kind of girl paints what she's afraid to say."
Lou didn't answer. He was afraid of what that meant.
They headed to the register, but Li Wei paused beside the tea shelf and grabbed a tin of green tea. He turned to Lou, eyes sharp behind his sleepy façade. "You know," he said, placing the tea in the basket, "I used to think no man would be good enough for my daughter."
Lou tensed.
Li Wei looked him square in the face. "Then you showed up with groceries. You didn't talk too much, or make grand promises. You saw beyondthesuperficial."
Lou's mouth parted slightly, but still he said nothing.
At the counter, he paid before Li Wei could protest. The older man eyed him but said nothing, only grunted his approval.
---
On the drive back, Li Wei leaned back, warming his hands on the milk bottle like it was a precious artifact.
"She loves you, you know," he said, his voice low, watching the road with a calm that belied the weight of his words.
Lou gripped the steering wheel tighter. "I know."
"More than she can admit even to herself..... Don't waste it."
"I won't Uncle." Lou Yan replied as if making a promise. Then Li Wei smiled with contentment.
They pulled into the driveway. Li Wei didn't move for a moment. He stared up at the warm windows and gave a quiet sigh. "It's strange, seeing my little girl like this. Grown. Fighting her own battles."
Lou didn't reply. He couldn't. His throat was too tight.
Li Wei turned to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Come in. Before they accuse me of stalling."
Lou nodded, his heart thudding somewhere beneath his ribs like a reverent drum.
He followed Syra's father up the path toward the front door, the milk cold in his hands, the morning light pale and forgiving around them.
For the first time since he arrived, Lou Yan felt just a little less lost.