The accidental meeting

The Shanghai Art Museum was nearly empty at 1:37 PM on a Wednesday.

Lou stood before a Ming dynasty landscape, hands clasped behind his back, studying the delicate brushstrokes of mountains disappearing into mist. He could see why Syra loved this piece—the way the artist had captured the tension between what was shown and what was hidden.

"Funny meeting you here."

Her voice sent a current down his spine. Lou turned to find Syra standing three paces away, her posture stiff in an incongruously formal black gown that swallowed her whole—long frilly sleeves, high neckline, the fabric singed slightly at the waist as if she'd narrowly escaped a fire. The severe bun only accentuated the elegant lines of her neck, the perfect symmetry of her face that seemed carved from moonlight.

Around them, visitors stole glances—some with open admiration, others with barely concealed envy. A college student dropped his sketchpad. An elderly woman clutched her pearls. Syra appeared not to notice, her chin lifted in that defiant way Lou knew meant she was painfully aware of every staring eye but refused to acknowledge them.

"Coincidence," Lou said.

Syra arched an eyebrow, making the delicate silver necklace on her neck catch the light. "Ming texted me the exhibition dates."

Lou's jaw tightened. He'd have to have words with his assistant about operational security.

They fell into step beside each other, the heavy silk of her skirt whispering against his tailored trousers. Syra paused before a Song dynasty handscroll, her fingers—bare today, no paint stains—twitching at her sides as if physically restraining herself from touching the glass. The gown's puffed sleeves made her seem smaller somehow, more fragile, though Lou knew better than anyone the steel beneath.

"You're using cadmium red again," Lou observed.

Syra shot him a look, the movement making a loose curl escape her bun to brush against her cheekbone. "Are you spying on me now?"

"Worrying," he corrected. "There's a difference."

She huffed a laugh, the sound drawing more stares from a group of art students. Lou watched their eyes linger on the way the singed fabric at her waist hinted at curves she worked so hard to conceal. His fingers flexed at his sides.

They stood in silence before the artwork. Lou catalogued every detail—the way the high collar chafed slightly against her throat, the faint scent of turpentine still clinging to her despite the formal attire, the warmth radiating from her body in the chilly gallery.

"You know," Syra said softly, adjusting a sleeve that didn't need adjusting, "if you wanted to see me, you could just ask."

Lou studied the way her fingers plucked at the damaged fabric at her waist, the nervous flutter of her pulse above the restrictive neckline. "Would you have said yes?"

Syra turned to face him fully. The afternoon light gilded the delicate shell of her ear, the only skin visible besides her face. "I don't know," she admitted. "But you could have tried."

Somewhere in the museum, a clock chimed the hour. Lou exhaled slowly. "Next time I will."

Syra's smile was small but real. "Good."

As they walked toward the exit together, the heavy fabric of her skirt brushed against his leg—just once, fleeting as a heartbeat. Lou didn't reach for more.

The museum's central atrium echoed with their footsteps as they wandered toward the contemporary wing. Syra's voluminous skirt swayed with each step, the singed edges fluttering like wounded bird wings. Lou found himself matching his stride to hers, their movements falling into an unconscious rhythm as they passed beneath the vaulted ceilings.

"You're staring," Syra murmured without turning.

"At the art," Lou lied smoothly, though his gaze hadn't left the way sunlight caught in the loose strands of hair framing her face.

A group of French tourists parted around them like water around stones, their whispers trailing behind in a wake of admiration and speculation. Syra's fingers tightened around the museum guide, crumpling the edges slightly. Lou resisted the urge to take it from her, to shield her from their prying eyes.

In the modern sculpture gallery, they stopped before a twisted metal installation. "It's supposed to represent vulnerability," Syra said, tilting her head. The high collar of her dress stretched taut across her throat as she looked upward.

Lou studied the artwork's jagged edges. "It looks like armor."

"That's the point." Her voice dropped. "The strongest protections often look like weaknesses from certain angles."

A docent approached, her eyes widening slightly at Syra's unconventional attire. "Would you like to hear about this piece?" she asked, her gaze flickering between them.

"No, thank you," Lou said before Syra could respond. The woman retreated with a nervous nod.

"You didn't have to do that," Syra said, but her shoulders relaxed slightly.

Lou merely hummed in response, leading them toward a secluded alcove where a single Monet water lily painting hung in quiet splendor. Here, away from prying eyes, Syra seemed to breathe easier. She leaned forward to examine the brushwork, the movement causing her bun to loosen further.

"It's strange," she murmured. "I've worn this exact dress a dozen times and never gotten this much attention before."

Lou's fingers twitched at his side. "You've never worn it around me before."

Syra turned sharply, her eyes searching his face. Whatever she found there made her cheeks flush pink beneath their usual golden hue. The color spread downward, disappearing beneath the high neckline that Lou suddenly wished he could peel away layer by careful layer.

The museum's PA system announced closing time, the voice echoing through the galleries. Syra startled slightly, then smoothed her hands down her skirt in a gesture Lou recognized as self-comfort.

"Walk me home?" she asked, the question tentative.

Lou offered his arm. After a heartbeat's hesitation, Syra rested her fingers lightly in the crook of his elbow. The warmth of her touch seeped through his jacket sleeve as they made their way toward the exit, past lingering visitors who turned to watch their progress.

Outside, the autumn air carried the scent of chestnuts roasting nearby. Syra inhaled deeply, her posture easing slightly in the open space. "I have a showing next week," she said abruptly. "At the Chen Gallery."

"I know."

"Of course you do." But there was no irritation in her tone, only a quiet amusement. "Will you come?"

Lou stopped walking, forcing her to turn and face him fully. The setting sun painted her face in gold and shadow, highlighting the determined set of her jaw. "Do you want me there?"

Syra's fingers tightened slightly on his arm. "I wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise."

A breeze caught at her skirt, making the singed fabric flutter like dark flames around her legs. Lou resisted the urge to smooth it down, to touch even this small part of her. Instead, he simply nodded. "Then I'll be there."

They resumed walking, the space between them charged with all the things left unsaid.