It takes me another ten minutes just to pull the soft cotton shirt over my head.

My skin is still slightly damp from the bath, and my hands are being stubborn, missing the sleeve openings twice because my mind is still stuck on the hallway, stuck on the stairs, and stuck on the sudden, warm feel of Bael’s lips against my bare shoulder.

When I finally look at myself in the mirror, the flush on my neck hasn’t gone away. It just looks like it lives there now.

I take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of the clean loungewear, and look toward the bedroom door.

I turn the handle and step out into the hallway.

The walk down the stairs is slow, my stomach gives another low, impatient growl, reminding me that I haven’t eaten a single thing since early this morning.

I walk toward the dining room, expecting our usual setup—the two plates placed directly across from each other so we face each other, the sterile settings laid out by the kitchen staff, and Mrs. Wen standing quietly by the side with a towel over her arm.

Instead, when I push the door open, the room is empty of staff.

And the seating is wrong.

Bael hasn’t set our plates facing each other at all. Our usual chairs across from one another are empty.

Instead, right at the corner of the table, two simple bowls of steaming hot soup and a couple of side dishes are placed right next to each other. There isn’t even an inch of space between the two placemats, he has deliberately moved himself from his usual spot to sit right beside mine.

Bael is sitting there, his frame dressed in that same charcoal sweater with the sleeves still pushed up to his forearms. He has a pair of wooden chopsticks in his hand, but he isn’t eating. He’s just staring at the steam rising from the bowls, his jaw set in a quiet, tight line.

The moment my feet click softly against the floorboards, his head snaps up. His gray eyes lock onto me instantly, tracking my movement as I walk over to the table, feeling suddenly very naked despite the clothes I’m wearing.

"You’re late," Bael says, his voice low in the quiet room.

"I had to get dressed," I say, my voice sounding smaller than I want it to. I look down at the two chairs placed side by side. Normally, we would be facing each other, but everything that just happened in the bedroom already ruined my defenses. I pull out the chair right next to him and sit down.

The heat coming off his body hits my side immediately. It is intense and steady, entirely unbothered by the air conditioning in the room.

I reach for my spoon, trying to focus entirely on the clear broth in front of me. The soup is warm, exactly the kind of mild, nutritious food Mrs. Wen usually prepares to help with my morning sickness and pregnancy fatigue, but when I look closely at the arrangement, I notice the little details. The ginger slices are cut slightly unevenly, and the green onions are chopped a bit too thick.

I glance sideways at him. "Did you make this?"

Bael doesn’t look embarrassed. He just clenches his jaw slightly and looks down at his own bowl. "Mrs. Wen left the broth. I just finished it. Eat."

I take a soup spoonful. It’s a little too salty, but the warmth of it spreads straight down into my empty stomach, making the tight knot of anxiety in my chest loosen just a fraction. I keep my eyes on my bowl, determined to eat cleanly and quietly without causing any more scenes, but I can feel it.

I can feel his eyes on me.

He isn’t even trying to hide it. Bael has turned his entire chair slightly toward mine, his legs nearly brushing against my knee under the dark wood of the table. He rests his elbow on the table, his chin propped in his palm, just watching me chew. Every time I lift the spoon, his eyes follow the movement. Every time I swallow, his gray eyes track the line of my throat.

It is suffocating. My heart starts doing that stupid, frantic skip again, and after three minutes of trying to ignore the absolute intensity of his stare, I finally snap.

I set my spoon down against the porcelain with a soft click and turn my head to look him straight in the eyes.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask, my voice carrying that familiar, dry edge I use whenever I’m trying to hide how flustered I am. "You haven’t even touched your own food. Is there something on my face?"

Bael doesn’t blink. He doesn’t look away, and he doesn’t apologize. Instead, his fingers reach out, his hand moving toward my face so slowly that I have plenty of time to pull back if I want to.

I don’t pull back.

His fingers slide gently into the hair at the side of my head, his thumb brushing a damp strand away from my forehead.

His touch is incredibly light, completely different from the commanding grip he usually uses when he’s managing his corporate empire. He leaves his hand there, his fingers lightly stroking the back of my neck, his thumb resting right against my burning temple.

"I’m looking because you’re here," Bael says, his voice rough and honest. He looks down at my mouth, then back up to my eyes. "I spent a month looking at an empty bed beside me, Runze. Let me look."

My throat locks up. The plainness of his words hits me right in the chest, knocking away whatever sarcastic comment I had prepared to defend myself.

I stare at him, my fingers tightening around the edge of my napkin, realizing that the cold, arrogant Alpha who used to tell me his whereabouts were *none of my concern* is gone. The person sitting next to me right now looks almost raw, his gray eyes full of an unmanaged, stubborn intensity that I don’t know how to handle.

"You still need to eat," I mutter, turning my head slightly to break the contact of his thumb, though my skin instantly misses the warmth of it. "The soup is going to get cold."

A small, sharp spark of amusement flashes in Bael’s eyes, breaking the heavy tension just a bit. He doesn’t move his hand away from the back of my chair, his shoulders leaning in even closer until his breath feels warm against my cheek.

"I can’t eat," Bael says, his voice perfectly serious, though the corner of his mouth twitches just a tiny bit.

"Why not?"

"My hands are tired," he deadpans, holding up his left hand, which looks perfectly capable of breaking a piece of solid wood in half. He looks from his chopsticks to my face, his gray eyes flashing with a sudden, teasing glint. "Why don’t you feed me?"

I stare at him, my mouth falling open slightly. *Is he serious?* The absolute ridiculousness of Wuchen Bael, the terrifying, unyielding head of the Wuchen Group, asking to be spoon-fed like a toddler in his own dining room makes a sharp laugh bubble up in my throat before I can stop it.

"Are you five years old?" I ask, rolling my eyes instantly as the blush on my face spreads all the way to my ears. "Feed yourself. You have two perfectly good hands." 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

"They’re tired from waiting for you," he says, his tone completely deadpan, but the quiet amusement in his voice is entirely loud.

"Shut up and eat," I say, picking up my spoon again and shoving a piece of radish into my mouth just to avoid looking at him.

Bael lets out a low, soft huff that sounds remarkably like a laugh. He finally picks up his own chopsticks and begins to eat, but he doesn’t move his chair back an inch. Our shoulders rub against each other every time he lifts his arm, and his left hand stays firmly anchored on the back of my seat, his thumb occasionally brushing against the fabric over my shoulder blade.

The meal continues in a quiet, heavy rhythm. It isn’t the awkward, freezing silence of the past few weeks, where every click of a fork felt like a weapon. It feels steady. The simple reality of sharing food across a small corner of the table makes the entire house feel smaller, more manageable.

When Bael finishes his bowl, he sets his chopsticks down cleanly and turns his attention right back to me. The teasing look is gone from his face now, replaced by that dark, serious focus that always makes my skin prickle.

"Runze," he says quietly.

"Yeah?" I keep my eyes on the last bit of broth in my bowl, my thumb tracing the porcelain rim.

"I know I’m not good at this," Bael says, his voice dropping into a rough, low register that vibrates straight through the wood of the table. He clenches his fist against his knee, his knuckles going white for a second. "The things I said before... the way I acted. I used to think everything could be managed like a contract. I thought if I gave a directive, things would just fall into place."

I stay completely still, my heart slamming hard against my ribs. I don’t interrupt him.

"But you don’t follow directives," Bael continues, a small, self-deprecating smile touching his lips for a fraction of a second before his face goes serious again. He reaches out, his hand settling firmly over my left wrist, his palm is heavy and hot. "When you drew the line between us, I didn’t know what to do. I realized my instincts keep coming out the wrong way. But I am trying to change for the better. I want to learn how to speak to you cleanly."

I look down at his hand covering my wrist. His fingers are slightly rough, the grip solid and steady, but there is a faint, barely noticeable tremble in his touch that tells me exactly how much effort it’s taking for him to lay himself bare like this.

This is an Alpha who has never had to ask for anything in his entire life, a person who was raised to command empires, and he is sitting in a charcoal sweater telling me he wants to change.

The quiet inside my head doesn’t feel like a fortress anymore. It just feels like a soft, open space.

Bael looks at me for a long, silent moment, his chest rising and falling in a deep, relieved breath. He doesn’t say anything else, but his fingers slide down from my wrist, threading through mine until our hands are locked tightly together over the empty plates.

He doesn’t pull me up from the seat. He doesn’t rush us back up the stairs. Instead, he releases my hand only to shift his chair even closer, his arm coming around my shoulders to pull me against his side. His fingers thread gently through the hair at the back of my head, his touch careful as he guides my head down to rest right against his chest.

I don’t fight him. I let my eyes close, pressing my cheek against the soft wool of his sweater.

The dining room is completely quiet around us, but beneath my ear, the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart is incredibly loud.

It is even, strong, and completely real.

We stay like that at the corner of the table, his fingers resting in my hair, and as I listen to the calm beat against my cheek, my heart feels completely safe.