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Snow fell quietly before dawn, brushing against the studio windows like butterflies.
Syra stirred awake on the couch, her shawl slipping halfway to the floor. The sky outside was still deep blue, streaked with ash and gray. The city hadn't yet opened its eyes, but something inside her had already stirred.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her arms, blinking through the fog of sleep. Her sketchbook lay open beside her on the rug, still turned to the page of Lou's hands.
A stillness hung in the air like something had shifted quietly while she slept. She walked to the door, barefoot, pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders. When she opened it, the hallway was empty and quiet.
There, resting on the welcome mat, was a black thermos. No note. No decoration. Just the clean, familiar look of something chosen with purpose. Syra bent to pick it up, and as she did, she noticed a folded cream napkin tucked beneath it—simple, linen, with the faintest scent of lavender. She held it a moment longer than she meant to.
Her hands trembled slightly as she brought it inside and set it on the small table. She unscrewed the lid and leaned in. It was Lemon and honey tea. The sweet aroma wafting.
He hadn't asked someone else to send it. He hadn't picked it up from a café. He had made it himself. Just For her.
Syra sat on the rug and held the thermos with both hands, letting the warmth settle into her skin. Her chest tightened—not painfully, just full.
He had been there. He didn't knock or wake her. Didn't stay long enough to be seen. But he had come all the same.
She brought the cup to her lips and took a careful sip. It was too warm to have been left long. She pictured him standing just outside the door—tired, maybe struggling, but still thinking of her. Still choosing her over his own comfort.
Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper.
"I knew you would come." She leaned against the edge of the couch, cradling the thermos like a secret, the snow tapping gently at the windows behind her. And for the first time in days, she let herself breathe without holding anything back.
Syra stared at the half-empty thermos on the table, fingers still curled loosely around its smooth surface. The tea was soothing, but the warmth it left in her chest lingered. Lou had come. Even in silence, even though he is struggling, he still found his way to her.
She thought of everything he had done—his quiet gestures, the little ways he made her feel seen, safe, chosen. And what had she done in return? Aside from loving him with everything she had, not much. Not yet.
A restlessness stirred inside her. A small, urgent need to do something for him—not with grand speeches or romantic declarations, but something that would simply ease him. Something gentle. Something he couldn't refuse because it wouldn't come directly from her.
And then, a mischievous glint lit her eyes.
She picked up her phone and scrolled to her father's name. The moment he answered, she dove straight in, voice high and dramatic like she was reading lines from a stage play.
"Dad," she whined, "Lou Yan keeps saying how much he misses you and Mom. He practically begged me to ask when you're going to invite him to the hot spring sauna again. Are you really going to break his heart?"
There was a pause on the other end. Then her father, Li Wei, answered with dry amusement, "Let me call him and ask first if he's free—"
"No, no, no!" Syra cut in quickly. "Don't ask him! Just invite him. Make it sound casual."
"Syra, my dear," Li Wei said patiently, "you do realize he's a very important person, yes? He can't just idle around like us old folks with nothing better to do."
In the background, Nasreen could be heard laughing—soft, delighted laughter that grew louder with each word of the conversation. A moment later, she gently wrestled the phone from her husband's hand.
"It's fine, azizam," Nasreen said, still chuckling. "We'll invite him. It's winter, after all—the perfect time for a sauna. And weren't you the one always saying you wished you had a son, so someone could scrub your back like the other old men brag about in the bathhouse?"
Li Wei sputtered. "That's not—! I wasn't bragging—!"
But the truth was, he was secretly thrilled. His friends had all shown off their sons at one time or another—those small, quiet rituals that marked pride without ever needing to say the words aloud. And Lou, despite his title and position, had always been respectful, warm, easy to admire.
Li Wei was already imagining it—lounging beside Lou Yan, exchanging slow, measured conversation while pretending not to be bursting with pride. Hmph. Let those old goats try to outshine him now.
Syra hung up with a pleased sigh.
She couldn't walk into Lou's world uninvited. But maybe she could lead him somewhere soft. Somewhere he didn't have to carry everything alone. She smiled to herself picturing the scene.
One invitation.One warm room.
No pressure. No questions. Just a family soaking in silence. And if she just so happened to show up afterward—well, that part wasn't in the script. Atleast not yet.