The car pulls up to the estate just after two-thirty.

I’m tired... not the exhausted, can’t-function kind from the past week, but the normal tiredness that comes from four hours of focused work.

My brain feels used in a productive way instead of spinning uselessly in circles.

It’s a better kind of tired.

Mrs. Wen is in the entryway when I walk in, arranging fresh flowers in the large vase by the stairs.

She looks up and smiles. "Young Master. You’re back early."

"Session ended at two," I say, setting my bag down.

"How did it go?"

"Productive. We made good progress on the integration."

"That’s wonderful." She adjusts one of the stems. "Would you like lunch? You left without breakfast."

My stomach is still unsettled, but less than it was this morning.

"Maybe something light. I’ll be in the study."

"I’ll bring something up shortly."

I nod and head toward the stairs. Then stop, because I hear it. The faint sound of typing coming from the living room.

Someone’s home.

Bael.

My chest tightens automatically, that familiar anxiety starting to creep back in.

He’s not supposed to be here, not at this time. He’s always at the office on Monday afternoons, always in back-to-back meetings until at least six.

But he’s here.

I could go straight upstairs, avoid him entirely and pretend I didn’t hear anything.

But I’m tired of avoiding him, tired of organizing my entire existence around not being in the same room as him.

So I don’t.

I walk past the living room entrance on my way to the stairs. I don’t stop or look in, I pass through like it’s a normal day, like there’s no tension, like we’re just two people who happen to live in the same house.

"Runze."

My name said quietly again, not as a command or a question, just... acknowledgment.

I stop and turn slightly. Bael is sitting on the couch, laptop open, in his work clothes, tie loosened slightly, looking exactly like someone who’s working from home instead of the office.

He’s looking at me. Not intensely or with any particular expression, but looking.

"You’re home early," I say, and my voice comes out perfectly polite and neutral.

The way I’d speak to a colleague or distant acquaintance.

"I am," he says. "Meeting was cancelled."

"I see."

The silence stretches.

He’s waiting for something. I don’t know what. I don’t particularly care.

"How was the session?" he asks finally.

"Productive," I say, the same word I gave Mrs. Wen. "It went well. We aligned on the integration direction."

"Good."

Another silence.

I should feel something. Anger, hurt, frustration, something.

But I don’t. I’m just tired, ready to go back to my room and work on the calculations I need to run before Thursday.

"I have work to do," I say, and turn toward the stairs.

"Runze—"

"I’ll see you at dinner if Grandmother requests it," I interrupt, not looking back. "Otherwise, I’ll be in the study."

I don’t wait for a response, I walk up the stairs at a normal pace, not running or fleeing, just leaving because there’s nothing else to say.

Behind me, Bael doesn’t call my name again, doesn’t try to stop me, he just lets me go.

Again.

***

The study is exactly as I left it this morning.

Laptop closed on the desk, notes spread out, the sketches from last week still pinned to the board on the wall.

I close the door behind me and sit down, open my laptop and recreate the circulation diagrams Elliot and I sketched earlier, pulling up the reference files from my original submission.

My phone buzzes.

A message from Elliot, his contact saved sometime between sketches and calculations earlier: *Good session today. I’ll send over my density calculations by tomorrow so you can factor them into the circulation load analysis.*

I type back: *Sounds good. I’ll have preliminary numbers ready for Thursday.*

Professional, straightforward and easy.

I set the phone aside and focus on the screen.

The green corridor integration needs more detailed analysis... we identified the concept, but the actual pedestrian load calculations need to account for peak usage times, seasonal variation, accessibility requirements.

I pull up my spreadsheet and start running numbers. It’s methodical work, satisfying in its precision, variables that have clear answers.

Problems that can be solved with math and logic and careful consideration.

No ambiguity, no emotional weight, just... work.

I lose track of time.

Mrs. Wen knocks around four with a tray of soup and bread, nothing heavy, and I eat absently while continuing to work.

The calculations start taking shape.

Peak load during morning and evening commutes, reduced usage during midday.

Need to account for weather... covered sections versus open pathways.

Emergency access requirements.

I make notes for Thursday’s session with the structural consultant.

Questions about load-bearing requirements for the corridor canopies, drainage considerations, material choices that balance durability with sustainability metrics.

By six o’clock, I have a solid draft.

Not perfect, it still needs refinement.

But enough to present on Thursday, enough to demonstrate that I’m not just contributing vague concepts but actual technical solutions.

I lean back in my chair and look at the numbers on the screen.

Four hours of productive work at Dingshan, three more hours here. Seven hours today where I was just... myself. Doing work that matters, building something real.

Not thinking about Bael or "nothing happened" or any of it.

The tension in my chest has loosened again.

It’s not gone yet, but it’s manageable, controllable.

I can do this.

I save my work and close the laptop, stand up and stretch.

My back aches from sitting hunched over for hours, and the baby is moving more actively now, probably protesting the fact that I’ve been relatively still for so long.

I press my hand against the bump and feel the kicks, stronger than they were last week.

More frequent, growing. Real.

A reminder that regardless of what’s happening with Bael, there’s still this, the baby, the future I need to prepare for, the work I need to complete.

Still me.

My phone buzzes again, but it’s not Elliot this time.

Ling Yue: *Still busy? Been a while since we caught up.*

I stare at the message for a moment.

Then type: *Next week maybe? The competition collaboration is taking up a lot of time.*

Not a lie, just not the whole truth.

He responds immediately: *No problem. Let me know when you’re free. Proud of you for placing second btw. That’s huge.*

I close the messaging app without responding.

I can’t deal with that right now, can’t explain why placing second feels hollow when it should feel like an achievement, can’t unpack all the reasons the timing was terrible and the accomplishment got completely overshadowed.

I set the phone down and move to the window.

Look out at the garden.

The evening light is soft, golden, making everything look peaceful and controlled, like nothing is wrong, like this is just a normal Monday evening in a normal household.

Somewhere in this house, Bael is probably still working, probably hasn’t moved from the living room couch.

Probably noticed that I came back from the session and went straight upstairs without seeking him out, without reporting on how it went, without acting like his presence matters at all.

Part of me wonders if that bothers him, if the difference between last week’s avoidance and today’s controlled indifference registers as significant.

If he noticed that I didn’t run, didn’t lock myself away, just... passed through.

Like he’s furniture, like he’s irrelevant.

I stop that train of thought. I don’t care. I can’t afford to care.

Caring is what got me here in the first place.

I turn away from the window.

I’ll run more calculations tomorrow, refine the pedestrian load analysis, and maybe sketch some preliminary canopy designs for the covered pathway sections.

Then on Wednesday I’ll review everything again, make sure it’s ready for Thursday’s presentation to the structural consultant.

Thursday I’ll go to Dingshan and present professionally and continue building this thing that’s mine.

And somewhere in between all of that, I’ll exist in this house, sleep in this room, eat meals when required and coexist with Bael without giving him anything beyond basic civility.

It’s not sustainable forever. I know that.

But it’s working for now.

And now is all I can manage.

I grab my laptop and notes and head to my room, turn off the light and lie down, staring at the ceiling in the dim spill of evening from the window.

And try to hold onto the feeling from today.

The feeling of being capable, of being myself, of mattering because of what I can do, not because of who I’m married to or what I’m carrying or any of the other things that have defined me for the past four months.

The house is quiet. Too quiet for a place this large, like everyone inside it is deliberately staying out of each other’s way.

Somewhere down the hall, a door closes.

I don’t check whose.

I just close my eyes and focus on breathing, on the steady rhythm of it, on something simple and controllable.

Tomorrow there will be more work, more numbers, more decisions, more things that make sense.

That’s enough.