That night, Bael comes home late.

I am still in the study, half-buried under sketches and notes, the desk lamp casting sharp yellow light over papers spread across every available surface.

Residential zoning, traffic flow, green corridors connecting the community center to the outer housing clusters.

I have been staring at the same intersection layout for twenty minutes, adjusting one pathway by half a centimeter, then changing it back.

My eyes burn, my shoulders ache, but stopping feels worse than continuing, because when I stop, my mind wanders, and when my mind wanders, it goes places I don’t want it to go.

The study door opens.

I don’t look up immediately. "Mrs. Wen, I said I’m not hungry—"

"It’s past eleven."

Bael.

I glance up.

He stands in the doorway with his suit jacket folded over one arm, tie loosened, expression unreadable in that calm, frustrating way of his.

"You should be asleep," he says.

"I’m working."

"I can see that."

I look back down at my sketch. "Then I assume this conversation is over."

Silence.

Then footsteps.

He walks into the room, stopping beside the desk, looking over the scattered plans.

His gaze moves over the layouts, the handwritten notes, the calculations.

"You’ve been here all evening."

Not a question.

"Yes."

"You skipped dinner."

Mrs. Wen, traitor.

"I wasn’t hungry."

"You’re pregnant, not a machine."

I set my pencil down harder than necessary.

"And you’re my husband, not my manager."

Another silence, heavy and controlled.

Bael crosses his arms, looking down at me like he is trying to decide whether I’m being deliberately difficult or just naturally impossible.

Probably both.

"It’s late," he says finally. "Come to bed."

"I’ll sleep when I’m done."

"No. You’ll sleep now."

I let out a short laugh without humor. "You do realize saying things like that makes people want to do the exact opposite."

"And yet," he says evenly, "you’re still getting up."

I stare at him.

He stares back.

The worst part is that he knows I will.

Not because he is forcing me, but because arguing for another twenty minutes would waste more time than just going upstairs.

I hate that he knows that.

I hate that he is right.

With a sharp exhale, I push back my chair.

"Fine."

I start stacking papers, setting my laptop aside, capping pens with more force than necessary.

Bael says nothing, he just stands there watching, which somehow makes it worse.

By the time I follow him upstairs, I am annoyed enough to be angry again.

The bedroom is quiet.

Soft lighting, cool sheets, the kind of expensive, polished calm that makes everything feel too neat for real emotions.

Bael sets his jacket aside and starts undoing the rest of his shirt buttons.

I stand near the bed, waiting for him to finish because apparently this is my life now.

He glances at me once, then pauses.

A slow, familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"If you’re standing there waiting for me," he says, "should I assume you want to bathe together?"

I stare at him.

Absolutely not.

"No."

The smirk deepens slightly.

"Pity."

Then he disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the water start running.

I grab my things and head straight for my old bedroom.

If he wants the main bathroom, fine.

I have options.

The shower helps.

Hot water, silence, no Bael.

By the time I change into the soft light pajamas Grandmother has sent through Mrs Wen a few days ago...clearly chosen with the assumption that I need "something softer for pregnancy comfort"...I feel marginally more like a human.

Marginally.

When I walk back into our bedroom, Bael is already there, dressed for sleep, leaning against the headboard with one arm propped behind him, looking entirely too comfortable.

And looking directly at me.

I can feel it immediately, that attention, that steady, unreadable gaze.

I ignore it with the kind of dedication that deserves an award.

I walk to my side of the bed, pull back the covers and get in.

Focused very hard on the practical reality of needing to wake up early tomorrow because four weeks is not enough time and if the revised traffic integration doesn’t work, I will have to redo half the western residential—

"Do you want to go to the office with me tomorrow?"

I freeze.

That is not what I expect, I turn my head slightly.

Bael is still watching me.

Calm and casual, like he hasn’t just asked something weird.

Three seconds pass.

"No," I say.

A beat.

"Really?"

The skepticism in his tone makes my jaw tighten.

"Really."

"Alright then."

I settle back against the pillows, determinedly not looking at him, when I feel the bed shift.

Bael moves closer.

His hand catches my wrist, pulling me toward him before I can process what’s happening.

"What—"

He draws me against his chest, one arm wrapping around my waist exactly like that night weeks ago when I asked him to hold me so I wouldn’t move in my sleep.

His voice is low, almost soft. "Do you want me to hold you like this?"

Every muscle in my body goes rigid.

What the hell is this?

What is he doing?

I try to pull away but his arm tightens, keeping me in place, and suddenly I’m furious.

Furious at the casual presumption, at the confusing signals, at the way he acts like he can just pull me close whenever it’s convenient and push me away when it’s not.

I shove harder against his chest.

He doesn’t let go immediately, but I don’t give in like I always did before, don’t let myself melt into the warmth, don’t let the anger dissolve into want.

I push until he finally releases me and I scramble to sit up, putting distance between us.

"What the hell are you doing?" I snap.

His expression shifts immediately.

The almost-softness disappears, replaced by something darker.

Anger, maybe.

Or frustration.

His eyes have gone cold in that way they do when he’s displeased.

"What do you want, Bael? What is this?"

The words come out sharper than I intend, but I don’t care.

Actually, no, I do care.

Because I am angry.

Because I am tired.

Because I am sick of pretending this strange careful distance between us doesn’t mean anything.

He has made himself clear.

His priorities are clear.

I understand that.

So why is he doing this?

Why won’t he just let things stay simple?

Why won’t he let me keep whatever distance I need to keep my own head straight?

Bael sits up too, his expression darker now.

"I should ask you exactly that."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means," he says, voice flat, "what exactly are you doing?"

I let out a sharp breath.

"I have no idea what you’re talking about."

"Yes, you do."

He leans forward slightly.

"Hasn’t this gone on long enough?"

I stare at him.

"Gone on long enough? What?"

"This." He gestures once between us, irritation finally showing through the control. "Whatever this is. The avoidance, the attitude, sleeping as far away from me as possible like I’m going to—what? Attack you in your sleep?"

"That’s not—"

"Then what is it?"

His voice doesn’t rise, it doesn’t need to.

That makes it worse somehow.

I open my mouth.

Close it.

Because what am I supposed to say?

You hurt me?

I thought you cared and I was stupid enough to let that matter?

I got used to your attention and now every small kindness feels like a trap because I can’t tell what’s real?

Absolutely not.

I would rather die.

So instead, I glare.

Very maturely.

Bael stares back for a long moment, then exhales and drags a hand through his hair.

For him, that is practically emotional chaos.

"Look," he says, and stops.

Like he has reached for one sentence and rejected it halfway through.

Then he recalibrates.

"Things do not need to be this complicated."

I stare at him.

"They’re not complicated."

"Then stop making them complicated."

I blink at him.

The circular logic is so maddening I almost admire it.

"Fine," I snap. "You want things back to normal? Fine. We’re normal."

I lie back down, rigid, facing the opposite direction.

A corpse probably looks more approachable.

Behind me, silence.

Then Bael’s voice, dry and unimpressed:

"That’s not normal. That’s you being difficult."

I stare at the wall.

"Well," I say, "this is what you’re getting."

Another silence.

Long enough that I think maybe that is it.

Maybe he will give up and go to sleep and tomorrow we will continue pretending none of this has happened.

Then the light clicks off.

Darkness settles over the room, the mattress shifts as he lies down on his side.

Distance between us again.

Good.

Better.

Safer.

I close my eyes and tell myself that is the end of it, that I am fine.

I tell myself a lot of things.

A few quiet minutes pass.

Then, under the blankets, something warm brushes against my hand.

I still.

Bael’s hand.

Not grabbing, not pulling... just there resting lightly against mine, barely touching, like a question he refuses to ask out loud.

I should pull away, I know I should.

This means nothing.

It is probably exactly what I think it is, control, habit, management, some practical instinct wrapped in the shape of intimacy. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

Not love or romance, certainly not whatever stupid thing my heart wants to imagine.

This means nothing.

Just Bael wanting things orderly.

Just Bael deciding distance is inconvenient.

Just Bael being Bael.

That is all.

And yet...

I don’t move or pull away, I don’t move closer either.

I just lie there in the dark, staring at nothing, letting the small point of contact exist between us like it isn’t enough to make my chest feel too tight.

Too warm, too aware.

Beside me, his breathing evens out slowly, steady and calm, as if he hasn’t just dismantled my entire emotional stability with one touch.

Ridiculous man.

I keep my hand exactly where it is.

My heart is beating far too fast.

And in the darkness, with no one there to see it, I hate how much I want to believe that maybe... maybe this means something after all.