The Quiet Ways He Loved Her

The morning air inside Lou's penthouse was warm, scented faintly with toasted sesame and something floral—jasmine, maybe, or the bergamot from his ridiculously expensive soap. Syra stood barefoot on the threshold of the kitchen, arms folded tight across her chest, watching the man who had confessed his love without a single demand fry eggs with monk-like precision.

Lou Yan moved like he was still in the temple—quiet, deliberate, purposeful. His hair was damp from a recent shower, tousled in a way that was both irritatingly perfect and completely unfair. He wore loose gray sweats and a black long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He flipped the eggs without looking, as if his body remembered the shape of breakfast better than his mind needed to.

"I don't usually stay the night," Syra said, just to fill the silence.

Lou didn't turn around. "You can leave whenever you like." Her throat tightened at the softness of his voice. There was no accusation in it. No hidden hook. Still, it rattled her. She ran her fingers along the hem of the oversized sweater she'd borrowed from his closet. It smelled like him—clean and quiet, like rain on temple stone.

"I should go soon," she murmured. "I've got work."

Lou placed a plate on the table with an elegance that made even the act of setting cutlery feel sacred. He finally looked up, eyes warm but unreadable.

"I know," he said. "I've already packed your brushes."

Syra blinked. "What?"

He nodded toward the couch. Her satchel sat neatly by the armrest, her brushes cleaned and tucked inside. A small sketchpad rested on top. Her favorite one. The one she thought she'd lost two months ago.

"You kept this?" she whispered.

Lou shrugged, turning back to the stove. "You left it during the blackout. I meant to return it. I just... didn't."

Syra sat slowly at the table. Her knees barely touched the underside, and suddenly, the distance between them felt more intimate than all their kisses.

The eggs were perfect. The tea—unsweetened with just the right curl of lemon—already steamed beside her hand.

Too much. It was all too much.

She should be grateful. Should say thank you. Should explain why this kind of kindness carved more deeply than cruelty.

Instead, she asked, "Do you always make breakfast like this?"

Lou turned the burner off and glanced at her over his shoulder. "Only when someone's here to eat it." And damn him, he didn't smile. Didn't flirt. Just... told the truth.

---

They ate in silence. Not the awkward kind, but the sort that came after a storm—when the world holds its breath to see what's left.

Syra's eyes flicked up from her plate once, then again, as Lou read the news from his tablet across the table. He hadn't shaved. There was a shadow along his jaw, the kind that said he didn't care about appearances when he wasn't in a boardroom.

He looked ordinary like this. And that terrified her more than anything. Ordinary meant intimacy. Ordinary meant this could be real.

---

Later, when she slipped her shoes on by the door, she hesitated. Lou was stood there watching her, calm as ever.

"I'll walk you down," he said.

She shook her head. "I've got it."

He stepped aside. "Studio's two blocks away. I can drop you."

"I said I've got it," she snapped.

Lou didn't flinch. Didn't argue. She hated him a little for that. For never pressing. For never forcing. For always letting her build the distance she wasn't sure she wanted. As she opened the door, he said,

"This doesn't have to mean anything right now."

Syra turned. His face was still unreadable. Steady as always.

"But I want it to mean something," he added. "Eventually."

Syra's heart kicked. She swallowed hard. "You don't even know if I can give you what you need."

Lou's voice was barely above a whisper. "I know you'll give what you can."

---

Outside, the city greeted her with noise and light, but Syra walked in silence, her thoughts a hurricane. By the time she reached her studio, her hands were trembling. She unlocked the door with clumsy fingers and stepped into the familiar scent of paint and dust.

And stopped.

On her easel sat a new set of brushes—her favorite brand, the ones she'd been rationing for months. A small box of compressed charcoal sticks lay beside them, tied with a simple black ribbon. No note. No name. But she knew. Lou Yan had been caring for her quietly, long before she let him near. She sank onto the floor and pressed her palms to her face. She didn't cry. But the ache in her chest felt dangerously close to surrender.

---

Later That Night

Syra lay awake in her studio, staring at the ceiling. The brushes Lou had given her sat on her nightstand, their wooden handles gleaming in the dim light. She reached for her phone, hesitated, then typed:

Syra: I slept through the night.

The reply came instantly:

Lou: I know.

She stared at the screen, her heart pounding.

Syra: How?

Lou: You didn't wake up screaming.

A pause. Then:

Lou: I'm glad.

Syra pressed the phone to her chest, the warmth of his words seeping into her skin.

And that, more than anything, scared her to death.

The night air carried the scent of rain through her open studio window as Syra traced the edge of her phone screen, Lou's last message glowing in the darkness. She should sleep. Tomorrow's commission deadline loomed, and her eyes burned with exhaustion. But her mind kept circling back to the way Lou's hands had moved this morning—steady and sure as he'd made tea, the quiet concentration in his eyes when he'd packed her brushes. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard before typing:

Syra: Why do you do this?

The three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared. A full minute passed before his reply came:

Lou: Because you deserve to be cared for, even when you don't believe it.

Syra exhaled sharply, the truth of his words settling like a stone in her chest. Outside, the city lights blurred through her unshed tears. Somewhere across Shanghai, Lou was probably sitting by his window too, watching the same stars, breathing the same night air. The distance between them felt suddenly unbearable.

She curled onto her side, clutching the phone to her chest. The studio walls, usually comforting in their familiar chaos, seemed to press in around her. For years she'd built her life on independence, on the certainty that needing someone was just another kind of surrender. But Lou's quiet devotion had crept past her defenses like morning light through shutters—impossible to ignore, impossible to stop. Somewhere between his careful hands and unspoken promises, she'd started to believe him.