Chapter 127: Chapter 127: Home
*Runze’s POV*
By the time we finish our coffee, the conversation has mostly drifted away from design work and into logistics.
The community center proposal is basically done.
After weeks of revisions, consultant meetings, structural reviews, and enough last-minute adjustments to make me question my career choices several times, there isn’t much left to change on paper. The next major step will be visiting the actual site with the broader team and reviewing everything in person before the project officially moves forward.
It still feels a little unreal.
A few months ago, I’d been struggling just to convince people to take me seriously.
Now I am one of the lead architects on a project that is actually going to be built.
Not a competition submission or a concept, not a pretty rendering that will sit forgotten in a portfolio.
A real building, a real commission, something that will exist long after I am gone.
The thought settles warmly somewhere in my chest.
Apparently I am not hiding it very well.
"You look pleased with yourself."
I glance up from my coffee.
"I am pleased with myself."
That earns a laugh.
"You should be."
The simple approval feels embarrassingly good.
Maybe because Elliot never hands out compliments casually. Every piece of praise comes attached to actual reasons, which makes it difficult to dismiss as politeness.
A few minutes later we pay and leave the café.
The afternoon air is cooler than before.
I adjust my bag and step onto the sidewalk while Elliot continues talking about the upcoming site visit.
"I still think the courtyard is too large."
I groan immediately.
"We’re done, Elliot."
"We’re not done until construction starts."
"But the drawings are approved!"
"That doesn’t mean I have to like them."
I shoot him a look.
"The courtyard stays."
"You’re sacrificing usable interior space."
"I’m creating a gathering space-"
"For people who could gather indoors."
"Elliot, it’s a community center."
"It’s still a building, no?"
"It’s both, and besides, people like being outside."
"Not really, people like air conditioning."
"You’re impossible."
"And yet somehow you’re still smiling."
For a moment, he simply looks at me. Then he sighs.
"This is why arguing with you is exhausting."
A grin tugs at my mouth.
"You lost, that’s why."
"I absolutely did not lose."
"You did."
"The courtyard is only there because the committee liked your presentation."
"That’s because the committee had excellent judgment."
"Nope. The committee was emotionally manipulated."
"The committee was inspired."
"They were manipulated."
I laugh.
Elliot looks deeply offended by my amusement, which only makes me laugh harder. The argument is familiar enough now that neither of us takes it seriously.
I find myself smiling.
Working with Elliot has been unexpectedly easy, not because we agree all the time. Actually, we disagree constantly.
But Elliot argues about buildings the same way I do. Passionately, stubbornly, like the discussion itself matters.
It is refreshing.
The step down from the café entrance is shallow, barely worth calling a step. I’ve gone down it a dozen times without thinking about it.
This time my foot catches the edge wrong.
The world tilts sideways faster than I can correct it and then Elliot’s hand is at my waist, solid and steady, stopping me before I go down properly.
"You okay?"
"I’m fine." I get my balance back, slightly embarrassed, hand still braced against his arm. "Thank you."
He doesn’t let go immediately.
That’s the first thing I notice.
His hand stays at my waist for a second longer than catching someone requires, and when I glance up at him his expression is... different. Not his usual casual professional look, something more careful than that, more considered.
He’s looking at me the way people look at something they’ve been thinking about for a while.
"...Runze," he says.
His voice is quieter than normal.
"Do you... Do you plan to stay in the marriage? After the birth?"
The question lands so far outside anything I was expecting that for a moment my brain simply doesn’t process it.
I look at him.
He looks back, steady, not pretending he didn’t just say that, not softening it or reframing it. Just waiting. The same way he waits through structural review sessions when he’s asked something he actually wants an answer to.
My mouth opens, nothing comes out.
Because I’m standing on a pavement outside a cafe with Elliot Jun’s hand still at my waist and he just asked me whether I intend to stay married to Bael and something in his expression makes it suddenly, horribly clear that this is not a casual question.
He’s been... he’s been...
I don’t finish the thought because his gaze shifts over my shoulder.
His expression shifts so quickly I almost miss it — something closing over, something deliberate being set aside — and then he steps back, releasing my waist, and straightens with the kind of composed professionalism that takes effort to produce.
"Mr. Wuchen."
I turn around.
Bael.
Standing on the pavement three feet away, hands loosely at his sides, looking at me with an expression I don’t know how to read.
I’ve been reading Bael’s expressions for months. I’ve learned the controlled neutrality he uses in meetings, the specific stillness that means he’s angry, the almost-smile that means he finds something privately amusing. I know his face.
I don’t know this one.
"Bael?"
His name comes out before I can stop it, surprised and unguarded, and something in his expression shifts when I say it.
Then he starts walking toward me.
Fast.
Not running, not quite. But moving with a kind of certainty that instantly makes me nervous.
He crosses the last few feet between us without hesitation and then his arms come around me, both of them, pulling me into a hug that I absolutely did not see coming.
His hand comes up to the back of my head.
My face ends up against his chest.
His heartbeat is faster than usual.
My brain stops working completely. For several seconds, I can’t process what has just happened.
Bael is hugging me in public, in front of Elliot, without hesitation, without embarrassment, without caring who is watching.
I stand there completely stunned, arms half-raised, not sure whether to push back or just... stay here... and the warmth of him makes that decision considerably harder than it should be.
"You almost injured yourself," he says, against my hair.
His voice is even. Calm. Like this is a normal thing to say while hugging your spouse in public in front of their colleague without any warning or preamble.
My face is warm, actually very warm.
Because we’re outside, on a public pavement, and Elliot is standing two feet away, and Bael is holding me like he doesn’t notice or care about either of those facts.
I stare blankly at the front of his coat.
"What?"
His hand moves once through my hair.
The simple gesture sends heat rushing straight into my face. My heartbeat becomes impossible to ignore.
Why is he acting like this? Why is he here?
Nothing about this makes sense.
At all.
"Why are you here?" I finally ask.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at me.
"Why else?" he says simply. "I came to take you home."
Something in my chest does something I immediately don’t examine.
He holds my gaze for a moment, that expression still, that unreadable thing I can’t place, and then he turns, holding my hand, drawing me gently to stand beside him.
We’re both facing Elliot now.
Elliot, to his credit, looks like a man who has fully composed himself, expression professional, nothing on his face that gives away whatever happened thirty seconds ago.
Bael looks at him.
"Mr. Jun."
"President Wuchen."
Bael inclines his head slightly. The gesture carries an unexpected sincerity.
"Thank you for catching him."
I blink.
Apparently, I am not the only surprised one.
Elliot looks caught off guard for half a second before his usual composure returns.
"Of course."
Bael nods once, then his fingers tighten slightly around mine.
"I’ll take it from here."
Something flickers across Elliot’s face, gone too quickly for me to identify.
"Understood."
That is the end of it.
A few minutes later, Bael is guiding me toward the waiting car.
I let him because my brain is operating at significantly reduced capacity right now, split between what Bael just did and whatever is currently happening on my face that I cannot seem to control.
The driver opens the rear door immediately.
Bael holds it while I get in, then follows.
The door closes behind us. The city goes quiet on the other side of the glass.
I stare at my hands in my lap.
Bael doesn’t say anything.
I don’t say anything.
The car pulls out into traffic.
My face is still warm.
Somewhere behind us, outside a café on Fenglin Street, Elliot is probably still standing on the pavement.
I don’t let myself think about what he asked.
Not yet.
Not while Bael is sitting here beside me and I still can’t read his expression and my heart hasn’t settled back to anything resembling normal.
Later.
I’ll think about it later.
