Chapter 122: Chapter 122: Boundaries
By the time I get back to the estate, it’s raining properly.
Not heavily. Just steady enough that the windows blur silver while Liang Feng pulls the car through the gates and up the driveway.
I grab my bag and head inside already thinking about the western tolerance model.
The board presentation timeline is becoming uncomfortably real now, and Elliot wants the updated calculations before nine so he can build the structural check around them tonight. Which means I need at least three uninterrupted hours.
Possibly four if the load redistribution numbers keep fighting me.
Mrs. Wen intercepts me halfway through the foyer.
"You’re home early."
"It’s barely six."
"Exactly." She takes my coat before I can object. "Dinner will be ready soon."
"I’ll eat later."
Her eyes narrow immediately because apparently everyone in this house has collectively decided my basic survival requires supervision now.
"You said that yesterday too."
"I have work."
"You always have work."
"That sounds judgmental."
"It is judgmental."
I sigh quietly.
"Please just send tea upstairs."
Mrs. Wen studies my face for another second before waving me away with obvious disapproval.
"At least eat the fruit I left earlier."
I promise nothing and escape upstairs before she can escalate this into a lecture.
Thankfully, the estate feels quieter than usual tonight.
Bael went to the office this morning and apparently still isn’t back yet, which means I can work in peace without accidentally making eye contact with someone capable of destabilizing my entire nervous system by standing too close.
An excellent development for everyone involved.
I head into the study instead of my bedroom because the larger desk gives me space to spread out the revised drafts properly.
Three hours disappear almost immediately.
The western cluster tolerances are worse than I expected.
Not catastrophically wrong, just annoyingly delicate. Every adjustment affects something else, circulation pressure, structural load, pedestrian flow efficiency. I rerun the same projection twice before finally getting numbers that stop irritating me enough to accept them.
By the time I finish compiling the updated model, my neck hurts and my eyes feel slightly unfocused from staring at calculations too long.
I check the time.
8:17 PM.
Good enough.
I export the files and send them to Elliot with a brief summary attached.
His reply comes less than two minutes later.
*Looks good. I’ll run the structural check tonight.*
A second message follows after a short pause.
*I’ll send you the results tomorrow morning.*
I stare at the screen briefly before typing back.
*Alright.*
The typing indicator appears almost immediately again.
*Get some sleep first.*
I look at that message for a second longer than necessary, then I set the phone facedown beside the laptop.
A soft knock interrupts the thought.
The study door opens before I answer.
Mrs. Wen steps inside carrying a tray.
"I knew you weren’t going downstairs," she says flatly.
The tray smells good enough that I immediately realize how hungry I actually are.
Soup. Rice. Something steamed.
And a small paper bag sitting beside the plate.
I frown slightly. "What’s that?"
"Young master brought it home."
My stomach does something deeply unhelpful.
I look away from the tray toward the rain-dark windows instead.
"...He’s back?"
"He came home around twenty minutes ago." Mrs. Wen sets everything down on the side table beside the desk. "He said you skipped lunch."
I absolutely did not skip lunch.
Mrs. Wen clearly reads the denial somewhere on my face anyway because her expression turns unimpressed.
"He also said if you keep working without eating properly, your headaches will come back."
I go very still for one brief second, because I don’t remember mentioning the headaches recently.
Then memory catches up.
Two weeks ago.
One conversation after dinner where I’d rubbed my temples once too long while reviewing site revisions.
Bael noticed.
Of course he did.
Annoyingly, unfairly, infuriatingly observant.
Mrs. Wen nudges the paper bag toward me.
"Open it."
I do, mostly because resistance is pointless at this stage.
Inside are ginger biscuits from that small bakery near the south district.
The expensive ones, the ones I bought once months ago because they were the only thing that stopped the nausea properly during the first trimester.
Something uncomfortable shifts underneath my ribs.
I close the bag again too quickly.
Mrs. Wen watches me carefully for a moment before sighing quietly.
"Eat while it’s warm."
Then she leaves.
The study falls silent again.
Rain taps softly against the windows.
I stare at the bag for several long seconds before finally pulling the tray closer.
The soup is still hot.
I eat slowly while rereading the finalized tolerance report, forcing my attention back toward work instead of the increasingly dangerous realization that Bael has apparently started remembering small things about me too.
First the tea, now this. I don’t know what to do with that.
Halfway through the meal, footsteps pause outside the study.
My shoulders tense automatically.
A second later, the door opens.
Bael walks in without speaking.
He’s still dressed from work, dark coat gone, sleeves rolled once past his wrists while faint rain dampness clings to the edges of his hair. One glance is enough to make my heartbeat start misbehaving immediately, which feels deeply unfair considering I’ve been successfully avoiding him for almost two days now.
His eyes move briefly over the desk. The papers, the laptop, the half-finished soup, then settle on me.
"You ate."
I hate that this sounds vaguely approving.
"I usually do."
"Lately?" His gaze flicks toward the untouched biscuits. "Debatable."
I look back at the screen instead of him.
"I’m working."
"I noticed."
Silence stretches briefly afterward.
Normally Bael fills silence very easily. Not with talking, just presence. Calm, steady, entirely too comfortable occupying space around me.
Tonight it feels heavier.
More aware.
I hear him move closer.
Then the quiet sound of him leaning lightly against the edge of the desk beside me.
My pulse immediately gets worse.
I continue staring at the laptop like the structural calculations have suddenly become emotionally fascinating.
Beside me, Bael says quietly:
"You’ve been avoiding me."
Straight to the point.
Of course.
I keep my eyes on the screen.
"I’ve been busy."
"You stayed in your room after the run yesterday."
Heat flashes instantly across the back of my neck.
"I had work."
"You also had meals delivered upstairs."
My fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the desk.
"What exactly is your point?"
For a moment, Bael says nothing.
Then quietly:
"I don’t like this."
Something in his voice pulls my attention up before I can stop it. He’s watching me steadily now, grey eyes unreadable in the soft light of the study, focused entirely on me in a way that makes my chest feel too tight suddenly.
"This," he repeats calmly. "You running every time I touch you."
My heartbeat stumbles hard enough to physically hurt.
I stand immediately.
Bad decision.
Because the moment I move, Bael reaches out naturally, his hand closes gently around my wrist first, then slides upward before I can react properly, fingers brushing lightly against my cheek.
Warm.
Careful.
The touch itself isn’t forceful at all, which somehow makes it worse, my entire body locks up instantly.
This is exactly the problem.
Bael acts like he can touch me whenever he wants now. Like kissing me once somehow changed the rules between us without my permission, like physical affection is enough to smooth over everything that happened between us.
My throat tightens sharply.
I pull his hand away from my face immediately.
"Stop."
The word comes out rougher than I intended.
Bael’s gaze sharpens slightly, but instead of backing away, he steps closer.
Too close.
"You’ve been tense since Saturday," he says quietly.
I laugh once in disbelief.
"Really? I wonder why."
Something flickers briefly across his expression then.
Understanding, probably.
But he still doesn’t move back.
I try stepping around him toward the door instead.
Bad idea again.
Bael catches my waist before I make it two steps. Not rough, just firm enough to stop me.
My pulse spikes instantly.
"Bael—"
He pulls me back against him before I can finish.
Warmth crashes into me all at once, chest against my back, one arm locked securely around my waist while the other steadies against the desk beside me.
My entire body goes rigid.
"Stop avoiding me," he says quietly near my ear.
The closeness alone is already too much, then his mouth brushes briefly against the side of my neck.
Not even a full kiss. A warm pressure lasting barely a second. But panic and anger hit me so fast afterward it feels explosive.
Because no, definitely not.
He does not get to do this, does not get to keep touching me every time things become emotionally complicated between us like physical affection is enough to bypass actual conversations.
Like touching me now fixes everything.
My foot comes down hard directly onto his.
Bael jerks backward instantly with a sharp inhale.
I wrench myself free immediately and spin around, breathing hard.
His expression has finally cracked slightly, shock first, then something dangerously close to impressed disbelief.
"You..."
"What? You kissed my neck like it was a normal thing to do."
"You seemed upset."
"I ’am’ upset."
The words come out sharper than I intended, anger finally spilling over properly now.
"You don’t get to just—" I cut myself off violently before finishing the sentence. Before saying something too honest.
Bael watches me silently.
I force air back into my lungs, then more quietly, but somehow worse:
"Don’t touch me again unless I say you can."
The room goes completely still afterward. Rain tapping softly against the windows, my heartbeat pounding hard enough to feel sick. For one long second, I honestly think Bael might argue.
Instead he straightens slowly, his eyes stay on my face the entire time.
Then finally:
"...Alright."
The answer catches me off guard slightly, not because he agreed, because he sounds completely serious. No teasing, no amusement, just calm acceptance underneath something deeper I can’t read properly right now.
Which somehow unsettles me even more.
I step backward first, then another step toward the door.
Bael doesn’t stop me, but his eyes follow me anyway. Steady, certain, like this conversation changed absolutely nothing for him long-term, like he’s already thinking past tonight entirely.
That realization sends fresh panic skittering through my chest.
I grab the door handle too quickly.
Then stop.
Because despite everything, despite the anger still burning hot underneath my skin, despite the panic and confusion and the impossible situation my emotions have become lately—
I still remember the ginger biscuits sitting on the desk behind me.
And somehow that feels like the cruelest part.
