For the first time in weeks, I don’t open my laptop immediately after waking up.

The realization comes slowly sometime around eleven while I’m still lying diagonally across the bed with rain tapping softly against the windows and half a packet of ginger biscuits beside my pillow.

My phone has been vibrating every twenty minutes since eight.

Elliot sent over the revised structural notes earlier this morning along with three comments about the western tolerance cluster and one message telling me to stop pretending corridor compression ratios are an artistic choice.

I read it.

I simply chose not to answer yet.

The estate is unusually quiet today. Maybe because it’s raining. Maybe because my brain still feels strange after last night.

Probably both.

I stare at the ceiling for another minute before reaching blindly for another biscuit.

The ginger settles my stomach almost immediately. At this point I should probably stop acting surprised about it. Three months ago I wouldn’t have touched ginger biscuits voluntarily. Now apparently I’m consuming them like a woman recovering from war.

Pregnancy is humiliating.

My thoughts drift anyway despite my best efforts.

Bael’s hand around my waist.

His mouth against my neck.

The low warmth of his voice near my ear right before I nearly committed assault with a shoe.

Then afterward—

*Don’t touch me again unless I say you can.*

I honestly expected an argument after that. Or at least irritation.

Instead he’d gone still for a second before answering quietly and stepping back like the boundary had always belonged there.

Which somehow bothered me more.

I turn another biscuit slowly between my fingers.

The knock at the door comes just before I bite into it.

"Young master?"

Mrs. Wen.

"Come in."

The door opens and she steps inside carrying folded laundry against one arm.

Her eyes move briefly across the room before settling on me still sprawled across the bed in sleep clothes at nearly eleven-thirty in the morning.

For a moment she says nothing.

Then:

"So you finally decided to rest."

"I’ve been resting."

Mrs. Wen sets the folded clothes down neatly near the chair before glancing toward the biscuit packet beside me.

"You ate all of them?"

"There were not that many."

"...There were two full rows."

I look away because the numbers are suddenly irrelevant.

She notices immediately, obviously.

Nothing escapes this woman. I genuinely think she could detect emotional instability through walls at this point.

"Young master Bael asked me to check if you were awake."

Something tightens faintly underneath my ribs.

"Oh?"

"He wants you downstairs."

I frown slightly. "That sounds threatening."

"He is in his office."

"That does not improve things."

Mrs. Wen ignores that entirely and smooths one hand absently over the blanket near my leg before looking back at me properly.

"You fought badly this time."

Not a question.

I stare at the ceiling again.

"We’ve fought before."

"Not like this... It’s been a month since you started sleeping here."

The rain outside grows slightly heavier, soft against the windows.

Mrs. Wen sits beside me after a moment, careful not to disturb the scattered papers near the edge of the bed.

The mattress dips lightly beneath her weight.

"I don’t know what happened," she says quietly, "and I will not ask. But I can see he is trying."

I don’t answer immediately, because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

I can see it too.

Mrs. Wen folds her hands together loosely in her lap.

"When he was younger, he was not easy to understand either." A small pause. "If he cared about something, he watched over it silently instead of saying so... His father disliked emotional behavior."

...That explains more than it should.

I chew the inside of my cheek lightly. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

"He still doesn’t know how to communicate like a normal person."

Mrs. Wen almost smiles at that.

"No. But these days, when he looks at you..." She pauses briefly. "It is obvious enough even to me."

Heat crawls uncomfortably up my neck immediately.

...No.

Surely it cannot possibly be that obvious.

Also, she’s probably wrong.

Mrs. Wen brushes invisible lint from the blanket beside her before continuing more softly:

"Grandmother Wuchen also stopped joining dinner because she dislikes seeing the two of you unhappy with each other."

Guilt stirs unpleasantly somewhere in my chest, which feels deeply unfair considering I am not solely responsible for the emotional atmosphere of this entire estate.

"The house was livelier before when you two were getting along," Mrs. Wen says. "Lately everyone walks carefully around both of you."

That image alone makes me tired.

I rub one hand slowly over my face before exhaling quietly.

Before I can say anything, Mrs. Wen stands, smoothing the front of her clothes lightly.

"He has been waiting for you for almost half an hour already," she says. "Go downstairs before he pretends he was not."

Then she leaves, and the room falls quiet again.

Rain mutters softly against the windows while I stare down at the biscuit still in my hand.

Then eventually I drag myself upright.

I don’t bother changing properly.

The oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder is decent enough for surviving a short conversation, and I refuse to expend emotional energy dressing formally just to enter Bael’s office like I’m attending a business meeting.

My hair is probably a disaster too.

Unfortunate for everyone involved.

The hallway downstairs is quiet.

I stop outside Bael’s office briefly before knocking once against the door.

"Come in."

His voice sounds steady.

Normal.

For some reason that settles something restless in my chest before I can stop it.

The office smells faintly like coffee and paper when I step inside.

Bael is standing near the desk with several files open beside him, sleeves rolled once past his wrists while rain-dark light filters softly through the windows behind him.

He looks up immediately when I enter.

Then his gaze catches for one brief second.

Not on my face.

Lower.

The open collar of the sleep shirt, probably.

His eyes shift away almost immediately afterward.

I close the door quietly behind me.

"You wanted something?"

Bael clears his throat once before reaching for a folder near the edge of the desk.

"Yes."

He hands it to me carefully without letting our fingers touch.

That registers immediately too.

The folder is dark blue with an old university seal pressed neatly into the corner.

My heartbeat stumbles once.

I open it slowly.

Architecture department. Academic qualification review. Final examination approval.

For several seconds I genuinely stop processing properly.

I stare at the page again.

Then again.

My name sits across the documents in clean black print.

Old enrollment records. Project review authorization. Graduation eligibility.

Somewhere near the middle—

Professor Liang.

The sight of the name hits harder than expected.

I know that signature.

I remember late nights in studio classrooms and presentation reviews and the original Runze sitting half-dead over drafting tables trying to prove himself to people who already expected him to fail.

I flip another page carefully.

Exam schedule, portfolio review approval, faculty authorization signatures.

Not a backdoor registration, not a favor hidden quietly through connections, a real qualification path.

My throat tightens unexpectedly.

"...What is this?"

Bael leans one hand lightly against the desk beside him.

"Professor Liang finally convinced the review board last week."

I look up sharply.

"You’ve been working on this for weeks?"

"It took longer than expected."

Meaning yes. Meaning he started this long before the argument about Xue Lian.

I lower my eyes back toward the documents.

The schedule has already been adjusted around my current work commitments. Even the final review period was moved.

Not rushed through because of Bael’s name either.

Every signature was where it should be.

Professor Liang’s approval note sits clipped near the back pages.

I read through half of it before stopping.

My chest feels strangely tight now.

"You contacted him personally?"

"He remembered you immediately."

Something twists unpleasantly underneath my ribs.

Of course he did.

Professor Liang used to keep the studio open past midnight during review weeks.

I still remember getting chased out twice.

Bael finally looks at me directly again then, and for one brief second neither of us says anything.

The office suddenly feels very quiet.

Rain against the windows, paper beneath my fingers, his attention on me, restrained carefully enough now that I notice the restraint itself.

Last night really changed something between us.

Or maybe it simply forced it into the open.

"You can sit for the qualification exam now," Bael says evenly. "Once you pass, the department will issue the certification formally."

Real qualification.

No more workaround approvals.

No more depending on personal connections every time licensing paperwork becomes complicated.

The realization settles slowly.

I stare down at the pages again.

Then quietly:

"...Why would you even do this?"

Bael is silent for a moment.

Then:

"Because you should have it properly."

Simple.

Matter-of-fact.

Like this wasn’t months of effort happening quietly behind my back.

Something warm and painful presses unexpectedly beneath my ribs.

I focus harder on the documents instead.

Silence stretches between us.

Bael reaches for another file on the desk, attention lowering toward paperwork instead of me.

And suddenly I understand.

He’s avoiding looking at me directly now.

Not because he wants to.

Because I asked him not to touch me again unless I said he could, and apparently Bael interpreted that boundary with terrifying seriousness.

No unnecessary closeness, no casual contact, not even lingering eye contact for too long.

The realization unsettles me far more than it should.

My fingers tighten slightly against the folder.

Finally Bael says without looking up:

"You should go rest."

Dismissal.

Gentle, deliberate dismissal. Because he is giving me space again. I hate how much that affects me.

I look back down at the qualification papers one last time before turning toward the door.

Halfway there, I stop briefly.

"...Thank you."

The words come out quieter than intended.

Behind me, Bael finally lifts his eyes again.

Then calmly:

"You don’t have to thank me for this."

Which, unfortunately, only makes my chest feel worse.

I leave the office a second later with the folder still clutched tightly against my chest.

And halfway back upstairs, I realize I’ve been holding the ginger biscuit in my other hand this entire time.