Chapter 134: Chapter 134: Language
*Bael’s POV*
He had planned to stay home today.
Not for any reason he could have named. Just the awareness, somewhere around last night, that leaving this morning would be wrong. He’d sent Shen Rui a message before six, rescheduled what needed rescheduling, and left it at that.
He hadn’t thought past the decision.
That was the first mistake.
He’s still in the bedroom. Moved to the chair by the window at some point after the door closed, and hasn’t gotten up since. His phone is face down on the side table. His laptop is on the desk where he set it earlier, screen gone dark.
The door at the end of the hall had closed hard.
He’d sat very still when it did, and he’s still sitting still now. Stillness has always come easily to him. But the quality of it this morning is different. Less controlled. More like the stillness of someone who hasn’t yet decided what to do next.
He’d said the wrong thing.
Not the apology. That part he stands behind. He’d been carrying it since yesterday, since pulling up outside the café and watching through the car window as Elliot’s hand settled at Runze’s waist, watching that and being out of the car before he’d made a conscious decision to move.
Something had shifted in that moment into a clarity he couldn’t undo. Not only jealousy. Something sharper than that. The specific, uncomfortable memory of standing in an entryway once, coming home to Runze with someone else’s scent on him, and saying it wasn’t his concern.
Runze had been carrying that.
Bael owed him the acknowledgment of it, and he’d given it.
The storage room, he should not have said.
He can trace where it came from, sitting here with nothing else to do but trace things. He’d wanted Runze to stay. That was the whole of it. And instead of saying that, some reflex reached for a directive, some attempt at forcing the situation into a shape he could manage. He has known for months that directives don’t work on Runze. He forgot that at exactly the wrong moment.
Runze’s face.
The disbelief in it before the fury arrived.
Bael looks at the window without seeing it.
*I don’t care. Go to Xue Lian. I don’t care who you’re with.*
He keeps coming back to those words. He is not someone who circles things, that’s not how he’s built, he reaches conclusions and moves. But those specific words won’t settle and he can’t make them settle, which is itself information he’d rather not have right now.
He doesn’t believe them. He’d been close enough to see Runze’s face when he said them, close enough to know that particular kind of fury, the kind that comes from feeling too much rather than too little. That isn’t what indifference looks like. He knows what indifference looks like.
But they were aimed at him.
And they landed somewhere.
He exhales once through his nose and looks at his hands.
The apology had been real. The timing had been wrong. He’d said it in the wrong room, at the wrong moment, after saying something stupid immediately before it, and Runze hadn’t been able to receive it, and Bael hadn’t been given the chance to finish. That’s the sequence. He can lay it out clearly. What he can’t do is identify, from inside this chair, what the correct next move is.
That’s the unfamiliar part.
He has spent his entire life being someone who can identify the correct next move. Problems with edges he can find and work from, situations where effort produces predictable outcomes.
What he is sitting inside right now doesn’t work like that. There is a person down the hall who matters to him in ways he is still finding language for, and that person is hurting, and the thing Bael said this morning made it worse.
No contract language fixes that.
No efficiency reaches it.
Just the hall, and the door at the end of it, and Bael in a chair by the window trying to work out how to be better at something he has never had to be good at before.
He stands eventually. And goes to the kitchen.
Mrs. Wen is at the counter, she looks up.
"He didn’t come down this morning," she says, before he asks. "I knocked. He didn’t answer."
Bael looks at the kitchen table for a moment.
"His usual porridge," he says. "Leave it outside the door."
She nods without comment, she has done this before, she knows what Runze’s usual is.
Bael goes back to the bedroom, takes the laptop and heads to the study.
He sits at the desk this time, opens the laptop, finds the contract Shen Rui flagged two days ago. He reads it properly this time. The focused attention required is what he needs right now, something that fills the available space in his head and doesn’t leave room for the rest of it.
He works for an hour.
When he stops, the house is quieter. Mid-morning settling into itself.
He thinks about going to Runze’s door.
He doesn’t go.
Not yet. Runze needs the space to process, Bael understands this by now, has watched the pattern enough times to know that pushing too soon only produces the armor, the sharpness, the wall that goes up when he feels cornered. Bael doesn’t want the wall.
He wants what’s behind it.
The wanting is new enough that it still catches him slightly, the plainness of it. Not as a complication to manage or a variable to account for. Just as a fact. He wants Runze. He’d like Runze to know that, at some point, in a way that actually reaches him.
The problem is that every time he tries, it seems to arrive in the wrong language.
The words come out as directives. The instincts are wrong. He has moved through his entire life with a competence that turns out not to cover this specific ground, and he is learning that the hard way, one wrong sentence at a time.
But he can learn.
He picks up his pen.
Outside, the morning goes on. Down the hall, at some point, a door opens.
Bael doesn’t move.
He listens to the quiet sound of Runze’s footsteps, there and then gone, and he stays in his chair, and he gives him the space, and he decides, privately and without announcement, that this is where he starts.
Here.
Getting it right slowly.
One thing at a time.
