By the sixth day, I stop pretending I can distract myself.

It’s not that I don’t try, I still sketch, still pick up books I don’t finish, still walk through the estate like there’s something new to find, but none of it holds for long.

The restlessness has settled in properly now, not sharp enough to be panic, not loud enough to be a spiral, just constant, like something under my skin I can’t quite reach.

By midday, even that feels like too much effort.

So I stop trying.

That’s how I end up outside Bael’s home office.

The door is half-open, not unusual, he doesn’t like being completely shut off when he’s working from home, just enough distance to keep interruptions controlled.

I can hear his voice from where I stand, low and even, the kind of tone that doesn’t need to rise to command attention.

He’s on a call.

I should leave.

I don’t.

I tell myself I’m just passing by, that I’ll keep walking in a second, but my feet don’t move. Instead, I lean slightly against the doorframe, just enough to see inside without being obvious about it.

He’s seated at the desk, laptop open, one hand resting lightly beside it while the other holds his phone.

His posture is exactly the same as always, straight-backed, composed, everything about him controlled down to the smallest movement.

"No. The initial proposal." His tone doesn’t change. "The projected loss is acceptable within that margin. Adjust the timeline."

There’s a pause while whoever’s on the other end responds.

He listens without interrupting, gaze steady on the screen in front of him, then says, "Rework the allocation. We’re not repeating this conversation."

Not sharper, not louder.

Just final.

There’s another pause, shorter this time.

"Tonight," he says, and ends the call.

For a second, the room is quiet.

Then his gaze lifts, straight to where I’m standing.

Shit.

"Three minutes," he says.

I straighten slightly. "What?"

"You’ve been standing there for three minutes."

How does he—

"I was waiting," I say, stepping inside because pretending I wasn’t there feels pointless now. "You were on a call."

"Obviously."

I stop a few feet from the desk, not close enough to intrude, not far enough to be casual.

"So what’s the problem?"

"You’re still here."

"You just got off the phone."

"And you needed something urgent enough to hover for three minutes?" He doesn’t look up from his laptop. "Or you’re wasting time."

"I’m not wasting..." I stop. Take a breath. "I was just bored."

"Then find something useful to do."

"I tried."

"Try harder."

I stare at him. "That’s your advice?"

"It’s the obvious solution."

"To boredom."

"To inefficiency."

"I’m not being inefficient, I’m waiting for competition results that won’t arrive for five more days and there’s nothing I can do about it."

"Correct." He finally looks up. "So why are you thinking about it?"

"Because that’s how brains work?"

"No. That’s how undisciplined brains work."

I blink. "Did you just call me undisciplined?"

"I called your approach undisciplined. There’s a difference."

"That’s the same thing."

"It isn’t."

"It absolutely is."

His expression doesn’t change. "You’re wasting energy on a variable you can’t influence. That’s poor resource management."

"I’m not a quarterly budget report, Bael."

"No. Budgets are more predictable."

I open my mouth.

Close it.

He’s already back to typing.

"You don’t get anxious about things like this," I say finally.

"Correct."

"Because you’re secretly a robot?"

"Because I allocate attention to productive tasks." He pauses, glances at me. "You should try it."

"I have been trying it. For six days."

"Then you’re not trying correctly."

"Oh my god."

"Sit down or leave," he says, returning to his screen. "You’re hovering again."

I don’t move for a second, processing the fact that he just told me to either commit or get out, which is very Bael but also incredibly annoying.

Then I move to the chair near the window and sit down without asking permission.

He doesn’t comment.

I pick up the book on the side table, flip it open, try to read.

It doesn’t work.

I make it halfway through a paragraph before my attention drifts again, not back to the competition this time, but to him.

The sound of typing.

The quiet rhythm of it.

The way he pauses occasionally, then continues without hesitation.

After a while, he stops typing.

"Are you reading that or memorizing the same page?"

I close the book. "I’m reading."

"You’ve turned the same page three times."

"You’re not even looking at me."

"I don’t need to."

"That’s creepy."

"It’s observant."

"Same thing."

"It isn’t." He finally looks up. "If you have something to say, say it. Otherwise stop circling."

"I’m not circling."

"You’re in my office doing nothing and repeatedly attempting to engage my attention without committing to an actual conversation. That’s circling."

I stare at him. "That’s a very specific definition."

"It’s accurate."

"It’s nitpicking."

"It’s efficient."

"Of course it is." I lean back in the chair. "Maybe I just didn’t want to be alone."

The words come out quieter than I intended.

The silence stretches.

Not uncomfortable.

Just different.

Then Bael sets his pen down with deliberate precision.

"Then sit properly and stop talking."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"That’s your solution to me not wanting to be alone? Sit still and shut up?"

"Yes."

I stare at him.

He stares back, completely unbothered.

"You’re unbelievable," I say.

"You’re still talking."

"Because you just told me to stop."

"Yes. And you’re not following instructions."

"They’re terrible instructions."

"They’re effective instructions." His gaze doesn’t waver. "You wanted to not be alone. You’re not alone. The problem is solved."

"That’s not—" I stop. Take a breath. "That’s not how that works."

"It’s exactly how that works. You’re overcomplicating it."

I open my mouth to argue.

Stop.

Because he’s not wrong, not exactly, he’s just being incredibly blunt about it in a way that somehow makes sense while also being completely aggravating.

"Fine," I say finally.

"Fine what?"

"I’ll sit properly and stop talking."

"Good."

I shift in the chair, settling back against the frame, letting my shoulders relax.

"Like this?"

His gaze flicks over me briefly. "Acceptable."

"That’s all I get? Acceptable?"

"You’re talking again."

"Right. Stopping now."

"Good."

He returns to his work.

And this time, I actually do stop talking.

I just sit there, in the same room, listening to the quiet rhythm of his typing, the occasional movement when he shifts position, the small controlled sounds of someone entirely focused on what they’re doing.

The restlessness doesn’t disappear.

But it changes.

Softens, maybe.

Becomes something I can sit with instead of something I need to escape from.

Time passes.

I don’t track how much.

At some point, his typing slows.

Stops.

I glance up.

He’s looking at me.

"What?" I ask.

"You’ve been quiet for twelve minutes."

"You told me to be quiet."

"I did."

"So... what’s the problem?"

He looks at me for another second, expression unreadable.

"Nothing," he says finally, and goes back to his screen. "Continue."

I huff quietly under my breath, but I don’t move.

And for the first time in days, the waiting doesn’t feel quite as loud.