When I wake up, the room is quiet in the heavy way that usually means I slept far longer than I intended to.

For a few seconds I just lie there without moving, still caught somewhere between asleep and awake, my body feeling sluggish and overheated under the blanket. Then the ache in my lower back settles back into place properly and I finally reach for my phone on the nightstand.

10:17 AM.

I stare at the screen for a moment.

No wonder the house is quiet.

Normally I’m awake before eight even when I sleep badly, but after yesterday my body apparently decided it was done listening to me. The gala alone would have been exhausting enough, but adding the conversation afterward on top of everything else feels like my brain kept working long after the rest of me shut down.

I rub at my face and sit up slowly.

The movement makes the baby shift faintly and I rest a hand against my stomach automatically, waiting for the discomfort to settle before getting out of bed.

The room still feels strange sometimes.

Not because it’s unfamiliar anymore. I moved here weeks ago. But because every morning there’s still a brief moment where I forget why I’m here instead of the main bedroom.

Then I remember.

Then I remember the kiss too.

And somehow that part is worse.

Because I still don’t understand it.

I force myself up before my thoughts can start circling again, shower quickly, and change into loose clothes.

By the time I leave the room, the house is mostly settled into the slower rhythm weekends always have here.

As I walk downstairs, I’m already expecting breakfast to be finished and cleared away.

Instead, when I enter the dining room, Bael is there.

That’s the first thing I notice, not the food.

He’s sitting at the far end of the table with his laptop open beside him, sleeves rolled to his forearms, one hand resting near the keyboard while he reads something on the screen. There’s a cup of coffee near his elbow that’s already half empty.

He looks up almost immediately when I walk in.

"You’re awake."

His tone is normal.

Not awkward or distant, just normal enough that for a second I wonder if I imagined half of last night.

Then my attention shifts to the table itself.

Breakfast is still laid out.

Not leftovers sitting under covers waiting to be reheated. Fresh food. Still warm enough that steam rises faintly from the bowls.

And it’s all things I’ve been able to eat lately without feeling sick afterward.

Rice porridge with shredded chicken and scallions because heavier breakfasts have been making me nauseous recently, steamed dumplings without strong oil or spice, cut fruit arranged neatly at the side, and ginger tea instead of regular tea because apparently someone noticed weeks ago that I stopped touching it whenever it was served.

I stop walking for a second before I realize I’m staring.

Bael glances at the chair across from him.

"Sit. The porridge will get cold."

Again, completely normal.

Like this is an ordinary morning and not the day after a conversation where I basically admitted I don’t trust my own footing around him anymore.

I sit down slowly.

For a few minutes neither of us says anything.

Bael goes back to whatever he’s working on while I pick up the spoon and try the porridge carefully first.

It’s exactly right.

Not too salty, not too thick, warm without being hot enough to upset my stomach.

Which means somebody specifically told the kitchen how I’ve been eating lately.

I hate that I immediately know who probably did it.

My chest tightens in that annoying uncomfortable way that keeps happening lately whenever Bael notices things I wish he wouldn’t notice.

I focus on eating instead.

Across from me, the soft sound of keyboard typing continues steadily.

"You’re not going to the office?" I ask eventually.

Bael doesn’t look up immediately. He finishes typing something first.

"It’s Saturday."

"That’s never stopped you before."

"I already handled what needed immediate attention."

Which is not actually an answer.

But pushing further would probably only make him give another technical response that somehow says nothing useful while still being technically true.

So I let it go.

Mostly.

I keep eating quietly for another few minutes before shifting slightly in the chair because my back is starting to ache again. The movement is small, just enough to adjust pressure off one side, but Bael notices anyway.

His eyes lift briefly from the screen.

"Your back hurts?"

"It’s fine."

"You’re moving carefully."

I regret shifting immediately.

"It’s normal."

"How long?"

I look at him.

"Since when did you become a doctor?"

"I asked a question."

"And I answered it."

Bael studies me for a second with that calm unreadable expression that somehow still feels more attentive lately than it used to.

Then he closes the laptop.

Not halfway. Fully.

The sound makes me blink.

"We’re going to the hospital this afternoon."

I almost frown automatically. "For what?"

"A checkup."

"I already have one scheduled next week."

"We’re still going today."

There it is again.

That quiet certainty he says things with whenever he’s already decided something internally.

Normally that would irritate me faster than this.

Actually, it still does irritate me, just mixed with something else now that makes it harder to react cleanly.

"I’m not sick."

"I didn’t say you were."

"Then why are we suddenly going to the hospital?"

"Because you’re uncomfortable and haven’t mentioned it."

I open my mouth.

Then close it again.

Because technically that is true.

The problem is that he noticed anyway.

And somehow that bothers me more than if he’d ignored it entirely.

"You don’t have to reorganize your day every time I look mildly uncomfortable," I say finally.

"I didn’t reorganize my day."

"You cancelled work."

"I moved meetings."

"That’s still reorganizing."

Bael looks completely unaffected by the argument.

"You’re pregnant."

"I’m aware."

"Then stop acting like the pain doesn’t matter."

I stare at him.

Talking to Bael is exhausting sometimes.

He hears the exact words you say and somehow still misses the part underneath them.

I look back down at my breakfast instead.

The silence settles again.

Neither of us says anything for a while.

After a while Bael speaks without looking at me.

"You slept almost twelve hours."

"I was tired."

"You haven’t been sleeping properly."

The statement lands too directly.

I glance up automatically.

His attention is back on the laptop now, but I can already tell from his expression that he’s not guessing. He noticed.

Probably for longer than I realized.

"That’s not new," I say carefully.

"No."

And somehow that single word carries enough meaning to make my chest feel tight again.

Because he noticed even before now.

He just... didn’t do anything about it.

Or maybe he didn’t understand he was supposed to.

I hate that both explanations feel possible.

I finish eating quietly after that.

When I reach for the tea again, Bael’s phone buzzes once against the table. He checks the screen briefly before standing.

"I need to take this."

I nod.

He pauses for a second like he wants to say something else, then apparently decides against it and leaves the dining room with the phone already raised to his ear.

The room feels strangely empty after he leaves.

Which is ridiculous because five minutes ago I was mentally complaining about his presence being too overwhelming lately.

I stare down at the remaining tea.

Then immediately get irritated with myself.

This is exactly what I meant yesterday.

He keeps doing things that pull me back in before I’ve fully stabilized again, and the worst part is that none of it even feels calculated. If it felt manipulative, maybe this would all be easier to defend against emotionally.

Instead it just feels like Bael slowly paying more and more attention to me without understanding what that does to me afterward.

Or maybe he does understand now.

I genuinely can’t tell anymore.

Mrs. Wen appears quietly a few minutes later to clear dishes, smiling faintly when she notices I finished most of the food.

"That’s good," she says approvingly. "You’ve barely been eating properly lately."

I blink.

Apparently everyone noticed except me.

Before I can answer, Bael returns.

"The appointment is at two," he says simply.

I look up. "You already booked it?"

"Yes."

"Without asking me first."

"You would’ve said no."

"That’s not the point."

"But it’s accurate."

I exhale slowly.

Across the table, Bael watches me for a moment before his expression shifts slightly.

Not amusement exactly.

Something quieter.

"You’re less angry when you’ve eaten," he says.

I stare at him.

Then, against my will, I feel the beginning of a laugh trying to happen somewhere in my chest purely from disbelief.

Because the thing is, he says it so seriously.

Like it’s an actual observation he documented internally.

"You’re impossible," I mutter.

"And yet you’re still sitting here."

The response comes immediately.

Too immediately.

For one second neither of us says anything after that.

Then Bael looks away first and picks his laptop back up like he didn’t just say something that made the entire atmosphere shift strangely again.

I hate that my heartbeat changed a little from one sentence.

I hate it even more because I’m starting to realize Bael probably didn’t even fully mean it the way my brain reacted to it.

Or maybe he did.

I don’t know anymore.

That uncertainty is becoming exhausting.

I stand up before I can keep thinking in circles again.

"I’m going upstairs."

Bael nods once without stopping his work.

"Wear something comfortable for the appointment."

There’s something so naturally authoritative about the way he says it that my first instinct is still automatic compliance before my brain catches up.

Which is deeply unfair.

I narrow my eyes slightly at him. "You know, normal people usually phrase things as requests."

Bael finally looks up again.

"You were going to do it anyway."

The annoying part is that he’s probably right.

And judging from the very faint shift at the corner of his mouth, he knows that too.