—Present Day—
The first time Syra Alizadeh-Li met the man who would upend her carefully chaotic life, she was covered in gold leaf that clung to her like glittering regret, halfway through painting a not-so-subtle mural of her ex-boss on the back wall of her studio. The mural featured horns, a flaming keyboard, and a burning resignation letter held triumphantly aloft by a squirrel. It was cathartic.
She was sweaty, her dark curls escaping from their messy bun, sticking to the back of her neck. Uncaffeinated, her fingers twitching with the phantom need for an espresso. Mildly hangry, her stomach growling loud enough that Lin had thrown a bag of stale pretzels at her head an hour ago.
She was not, by any stretch of the imagination, expecting a six-foot-tall monk to walk into her studio carrying a kitten.
The door creaked open, sunlight spilling across the warped wooden floor, and there he stood—silhouetted against the afternoon glare like some misplaced deity.
"Um," she said, lowering her paintbrush, heart stumbling as her gaze climbed from a pair of quiet sandals—dusty at the edges, as if he'd walked a long way—to long, ink-dark robes that swayed slightly with his movement, and finally to a face that somehow managed to look both serene and exasperated. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, his mouth set in a line that suggested he was already tired of this conversation. "Are you lost?"
The man didn't blink. He held up the tiny orange cat as though offering it to the gods—or, more likely, to her. The kitten dangled from his grip, unbothered, its tail curling lazily in the air.
"Your sign says 'Lost & Found,'" he said, his voice deep and measured, like a slow exhale.
Behind Syra, Lin promptly inhaled her bubble tea the wrong way.
"Oh my god," Lin wheezed, clutching her chest, pearls of tapioca rolling off her lap. "It's Hot Bodhisattva."
Syra ignored her. She was busy trying to figure out what, exactly, she was supposed to say to a monk with the bone structure of a tragic drama lead and the emotional range of a marble statue.
The cat meowed faintly, possibly in judgment.
---
—Three Hours Earlier, Over Congee—
"You're telling me," Syra said, spoon frozen mid-air, congee dripping back into the bowl, "that our building was bought by a monk."
Jia didn't look up from her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. "Ex-monk. He left his monastery five years ago. Now he's a tech billionaire-slash-ghost investor. Very mysterious. Very off-the-grid. Apparently, he just bought up this entire block for 'personal redevelopment.'"
Lin leaned in, her chopsticks hovering over the last dumpling. "Is this the guy who punched a paparazzi drone last week?"
Jia nodded, flipped her phone screen around. A blurry photo showed a man in half-torn robes holding what looked like a cracked drone propeller and a face that didn't suffer fools lightly. His dark hair was tousled, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and resignation, like he'd been interrupted mid-meditation.
Syra stared. "He looks like someone who meditates before breakfast and files lawsuits after lunch."
"I think that's exactly what he does," Jia said, tapping the screen. "His name's Lou Yan."
Syra dropped her spoon. It clattered against the porcelain. "We're so screwed."
---
—Present—
Lou Yan said nothing as the kitten trotted confidently across Syra's paint-streaked table, tail high, paws dipping into a tray of warm ochres like it belonged there. A smudge of burnt sienna streaked across the wood as the cat shook its paw, unrepentant.
"You're the artist," he said, his tone level, his gaze unflinching. Not a question.
Syra swiped the kitten up before it could ruin her commission, tucking it against her chest. It purred instantly, vibrating against her paint-splattered shirt. "And you're the guy evicting us."
"I'm here to offer an alternative," he replied, folding his hands behind his back. His voice was low, the kind that didn't rise or waver, but somehow still filled the room, pressing against the walls like a held breath.
"Let me guess. I get to keep the studio in exchange for painting your enlightened portrait?" she said, half-joking, gesturing with her free hand.
He didn't smile. Instead, he pulled something from his sleeve—a flick of his wrist, smooth as a magician's trick.
A piece of lychee candy, wrapped in translucent red foil, catching the light like a tiny jewel.
Syra blinked. "Is this... a bribe?"
"A proposal." He glanced at the cracked ceiling above them, where rainwater was steadily dripping into a tin bucket. The plink-plink of droplets punctuated the silence. "Stay. Teach art to my grandmother's charity students. I'll cover the repairs and pay your lease in full. You won't owe me anything."
That startled her more than it should have.
"No catch?"
He unwrapped the candy with deliberate care, the crinkle of foil loud in the quiet studio. "Only one condition. You take Sundays off."
She stared at him. "That's it?"
He nodded once. "Rest is necessary."
Lin, who had somehow materialized behind her again, squinted suspiciously. "Wait... Is this a cult?"
Jia kicked her under the table.
Syra looked back at Lou Yan.
His posture hadn't changed. Still calm. Still watchful. Yet something in the way he held himself—like he was used to being misjudged and preferred it that way—made her pause.
His hands were calloused. Not the kind of hands she expected from a billionaire. And there was a small scar slicing through one eyebrow, a quiet reminder that maybe his life hadn't always been quiet.
He popped the lychee candy into his mouth, never breaking eye contact.
"Do we have a deal, Miss Alizadeh-Li?"
In the background, the kitten batted a jar of brushes off the edge of the table. It shattered.
Syra sighed and reached for the broom. "You're buying me more gold leaf."
He inclined his head. "Of course."
---
—Flashback—
"Men are like lychees," Nasreen had told her once, back when Syra was sixteen and heartbreak still sounded poetic. They'd been sitting on the floor of her aunt's kitchen, sticky-fingered and laughing, a bowl of freshly peeled lychees between them. Nasreen had flicked a piece of rind at her, grinning. "Tough skin, sweet in the middle, and always sticky afterward."
Syra had laughed then, swiping juice off her chin with a napkin.
She wasn't laughing now.