Chapter 83: Distraction

I’ve been sitting on this cushion for two hours.

Two hours.

And I’ve accomplished approximately nothing.

The cushion is helping... actually helping a lot. Without it, I’d probably be standing at my desk like some kind of eccentric architect who’s philosophically opposed to chairs. As it is, I can sit relatively comfortably despite the persistent ache in my muscles that reminds me exactly why I need the cushion in the first place.

Which is part of the problem.

Because every time I shift in my seat, every time I feel that dull soreness, my brain immediately supplies vivid, detailed memories of how I got this sore.

Bael’s hands gripping my hips.

The relentless rhythm he set.

The way he fucked me against the shower wall this morning like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.

The sounds I made.

God, the sounds.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to physically block out the memories.

Doesn’t work.

They’re still there, playing on loop, accompanied by the unhelpful physical evidence currently making itself known every time I move.

And then there’s the other thing.

The thing I’ve been trying very hard not to think about.

The kiss.

I kissed him.

Just... kissed him.

On the cheek, sure, not on the mouth, but still.

In front of his driver.

Without asking.

Without even thinking about whether that was okay or wanted or appropriate.

I just got up on my toes and pressed my lips to his cheek like I had every right to do that, like we’re the kind of couple who does casual affectionate gestures in front of staff.

My face heats up just remembering it.

What was I thinking?

I wasn’t thinking.

That’s the problem.

I just acted on impulse, on that overwhelming warmth in my chest when he handed me the cushion, on the way he’d held me this morning without pulling away, on the dangerous hope that maybe things were different now.

And then I ran.

I literally ran away before I could see his reaction.

Before I could gauge whether that was okay or if I’d just crossed some invisible line that’s going to make everything awkward.

I drop my hands and stare at the sketch in front of me.

Green corridor integration.

Right.

That’s what I should be working on.

Not obsessing over a three-second kiss that might have been a terrible mistake.

Except I can’t stop wondering.

What face was he making?

Was he surprised? Annoyed? Pleased?

Did he smile after I left, or did his expression go carefully blank the way it does when he’s processing something unexpected?

Why didn’t I just look?

Would it have killed me to turn around for half a second before fleeing to the study like a complete coward?

Now I have no idea what he’s thinking, no idea if that was crossing a line, no idea what’s going to happen when he comes home tonight.

If he comes home tonight.

My stomach drops at the thought.

Last time...

Last time he held me while sleeping, the next day he pulled away, created distance, and told me not to come to his office.

It took a fight and days of tension before things shifted back.

But this morning was different.

He didn’t pull away, he didn’t create distance.

He teased me about needing help bathing and then thoroughly fucked me in the shower.

So maybe it’s fine.

Maybe the kiss was fine.

Maybe I’m overthinking this.

Except I went and kissed him after all that.

Talk about being given an inch and taking a mile.

He didn’t pull back after last night, so I kissed him this morning like some kind of entitled idiot who thinks he has the right to casual affection.

What if that’s too much?

What if he was okay with the sex but not okay with... whatever that kiss implied?

What if I just ruined everything by being too eager, too affectionate, too much?

I realize I’m gripping my pencil hard enough that my knuckles have gone white.

Stop.

Stop spiraling.

I have work to do.

I have a competition deadline that’s getting tighter every day I waste obsessing over things I can’t control.

I’ve already lost two hours this morning thinking about Bael and what he might be thinking and what might happen tonight.

Two hours I don’t have to spare.

I force myself to look at the sketch properly.

Green corridor integration for the residential clusters.

The spec calls for sustainable pedestrian pathways with native plant buffers.

I’ve already mapped the primary circulation routes.

Now I need to work out the secondary connections and make sure the green space percentages hit the sustainability targets.

Focus.

I pick up my pencil and start drawing.

Slowly at first, my mind still half-occupied with this morning, but gradually the work takes over.

Lines become pathways.

Pathways become networks.

Networks integrate with the existing cluster designs.

The familiar rhythm of problem-solving settles over me, pushing everything else to the background.

Not gone.

Just... quieter.

I work through the morning properly this time, making actual progress, refining the circulation patterns until they flow naturally, adjusting the green space distribution to maximize both functionality and aesthetic appeal.

By noon, I’ve completed the secondary pathway network and started the planting specifications.

Mrs. Wen brings lunch without me having to be reminded, setting the tray down beside my sketches.

She pauses for a moment, looking at the drawings spread across my desk.

"Young Master is so talented," she says warmly. "Working so hard every day."

I glance up, a bit embarrassed. "I’m just trying to meet the deadline."

She smiles. "You’ll do wonderfully. I’m sure of it."

Then she’s gone, leaving me with the food and that warm feeling in my chest again.

The thought that Bael probably told her to make sure I eat on schedule lingers anyway.

Dangerous.

I eat while reviewing my morning’s work, making notes about areas that need adjustment.

The cushion is still helping.

The soreness is still there... probably will be for a few days if this morning’s shower activities are any indication... but it’s manageable.

I can work.

I am working.

That’s what matters.

Except somewhere in the back of my head, underneath the technical problem-solving and design decisions, there’s a persistent awareness of time passing.

Hours moving forward.

Bringing me closer to evening.

Closer to when Bael comes home.

Closer to finding out whether this morning’s kiss was okay or whether I’ve somehow managed to fuck up the tentative balance we’d found.

I don’t know if what I’m feeling is anticipation or dread.

Maybe both.

Anticipation because last night was... incredible. Because this morning he didn’t pull away. Because there’s a part of me that’s hoping tonight will be more of that... more closeness, more of him wanting me, more evidence that this isn’t just physical.

Dread because I kissed him. Because I might have pushed too far. Because every good thing that’s happened between us has been followed by distance and I’m terrified that pattern is going to repeat.

I force my attention back to the planting specifications.

Native species selection for climate zone 7.

Drought-resistant options for the buffer zones.

Maintenance requirements for the pedestrian corridors.

Technical.

Concrete.

Controllable.

Unlike everything else currently occupying space in my head.

By mid-afternoon, I’ve made solid progress.

The green corridor integration is nearly complete, just needs final review and some minor adjustments to the plant density calculations.

I should feel satisfied.

Accomplished.

Instead, I feel restless.

Distracted.

Aware of every minute passing, bringing me closer to whatever happens next.

I look at the clock.

Three hours until Bael typically comes home.

Three hours to finish this section, review yesterday’s work, maybe start on the presentation materials.

Three hours to prepare myself for whatever tonight brings.

I pick up my pencil and get back to work.

Try to, anyway.

Because even as I’m drawing, even as I’m making decisions about pathway widths and planting zones, there’s a part of my brain that won’t shut up.

Won’t stop wondering what face he made when I kissed him.

Won’t stop hoping he didn’t mind.

Won’t stop dreading the possibility that I’ve ruined everything by wanting too much, too fast.

I press the pencil harder against the paper, forcing lines into existence through sheer stubborn will.

Work.

Just work.

Figure out the rest later.

When it’s actually happening.

When I can see his face and gauge his reaction and know whether I need to apologize or retreat or...

Or maybe it’ll be fine.

Maybe he’ll come home and act normal and I’m worrying about nothing.

Maybe.

I really hope so.

Because I don’t think I can handle going back to distance and careful politeness.

Not after last night.

Not after this morning.

Not after I’ve gotten a taste of what it feels like when he doesn’t hold back.

The pencil moves across the paper, creating something coherent despite my scattered thoughts.

Professional.

Technical.

Exactly what the competition judges will want to see.

And underneath it all, that persistent awareness.

Three hours.

Less now.

Two hours and fifty-seven minutes until I find out if kissing Bael Wuchen was the best decision I’ve made or the biggest mistake.