The drive to YanTech headquarters unfolded in silence, but inside Lou Yan, the noise was deafening. He sat rigid in the passenger seat of the black sedan, staring blankly out the window as Ming maneuvered through the city's veins of traffic. His body was still, perfectly composed as always, yet inside he was a maelstrom of sensation—every nerve ending pulsing, every breath dragging painfully against the weight in his chest.
Syra's face hovered behind his eyelids, refusing to be banished. The way she had smiled at him, shy and luminous, when she invited him up for tea. That innocent excitement, like a puppy greeting its beloved master after a long absence. The way she had frisked about her small kitchen, eager to make him comfortable, offering him a cup with hands that trembled ever so slightly—not from desire, but from sweetness, from unguarded trust.
She hadn't even known what she was doing to him. That made it worse. There had been no seduction in her touch, no calculated teasing in her smile. Just Syra—pure, open-hearted, devastating without trying.
Meanwhile, he had sat on her couch stiff as a board, barely breathing, tasting agony with every inhale. Every brush of her sleeve, every glance from her wide, trusting eyes, had scorched his restraint down to ashes.
The sedan glided into the underground parking lot. Lou Yan moved mechanically, his body operating on muscle memory as he stepped out. He pressed his thumb against the scanner, leaned into the retinal reader, and the private elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss. Ming shadowed him, silent but watchful.
Inside the elevator, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly. Lou gripped the handrail, closing his eyes briefly against the heat crawling up his spine. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He had been trained to master himself—to rule over flesh and want and hunger like a king over conquered lands.
But Syra wasn't a temptation he could defeat. She was something else entirely. A tenderness he had no armor against.
By the time the elevator deposited them into his private office, Lou Yan's body was slick with sweat beneath his pristine black suit. His pulse battered wildly against his throat, out of sync with the measured stillness he presented to the world.
Ming tried to speak—something about the medical consortium meeting in an hour—but his words faltered the moment he caught sight of Lou.
Lou's face was flushed an unnatural shade of red, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. His usually pristine shirt clung damply to his chest, translucent with moisture, and his hands—those disciplined, surgeon-steady hands—trembled faintly at his sides.
Alarm flared across Ming's face. He took a cautious step forward. "Sir… are you feeling unwell?"
Lou Yan forced a nod, but his voice betrayed him, rough and raw. "I'm fine."
It was a lie. A poor one. But before Ming could argue, Lou turned on his heel and strode toward the private suite attached to his office. His movements were sharp, almost frantic, the composure he was known for crumbling with every step.
The suite door slammed shut. Ming stood frozen outside, tablet forgotten in his hand, anxiety churning low in his gut.
Inside, Lou Yan ripped at his jacket, barely managing to shrug it off before stumbling into the bathroom. He turned the shower knobs with trembling fingers, and freezing water gushed from the rainfall showerhead above. Without stripping anything else away—shirt, pants, shoes—he stepped under the punishing stream, gasping at the immediate shock.
The icy water slammed into him, soaking him to the bone. It plastered his clothes against his feverish skin, numbing the heat that had been tearing through his body since the moment Syra had brushed against him.
He braced his palms against the marble walls, hanging his head low as the water beat down mercilessly. It wasn't enough.
Nothing was enough to scrub her from his senses. The softness of her, the innocent curve of her smile, the delicate weight of her trust pressing against his soul like a brand.
Minutes dragged into an hour. An hour bled into ninety minutes. Still, he stood there, shivering violently now, his muscles locking up one by one from the cold.
Finally, when his body began to sag with exhaustion, when even the cold could no longer extinguish the fire burning through him, Lou Yan stumbled out of the shower. Water streamed from his clothes, pooling at his feet as he stripped mechanically, dropping the heavy, sodden fabrics in a heap.
He moved like a man sleepwalking, collapsing onto the edge of the bed without drying off. His limbs were rigid, trembling with fatigue. His skin was an alarming shade of pale beneath the droplets clinging stubbornly to him.
Ming found him like that a few minutes later. He paused in the doorway, heart clenching painfully at the sight. Lou Yan—the most controlled man he had ever known—lying there so still, so fragile, as if he had been hollowed out from the inside.
"I've called Dr. Lin," Ming said quietly, trying to keep his voice steady. "He's on his way. I canceled your meetings. You have no obligations until further notice."
Lou Yan made a sound low in his throat, something between acknowledgment and dismissal. He didn't even open his eyes.
Ming hesitated, reluctant to leave him alone in such a state. "I'll wait in the office," he said finally, in the same tone one might use with a wounded animal. Then he withdrew, gently shutting the door behind him.
The room plunged into silence.
Lou lay staring up at the high ceiling, his body too exhausted to move, too raw to shield himself. His mind was a blank wasteland—until a single sensation intruded.
Wetness. On his cheek.
At first, he thought it was the water still dripping from his hair. But when he blinked sluggishly, another drop slid from the corner of his eye, hot and heavy.
Tears.
For a long moment, he couldn't comprehend it.
He hadn't cried since he was a boy—since his body had been trained to choke back weakness, to swallow pain without acknowledgment.
But tonight, Syra's smile, her sweetness, her devastating innocence, had cracked something inside him beyond repair.
More tears came then, slow and soundless, streaking down his temples into the wet mess of his hair. He made no move to stop them.
This, too, he would endure.
For her.
For the life they were building, one agonizing, beautiful step at a time.
Thirty-eight more days.
He would survive them.
Even if it carved him down to the bone.
Even if he had to rebuild himself from ashes when it was done. Because Syra was worth it. She had always been worth it.