[BL] Oops! I Seduced My Sister's Fiance (And Now I'm Pregnant) Chapter 122: Boundaries

By the ti I get back to the estate, it’s raining properly.

Not heavily. Just steady enough that the windows blur silver while Liang Feng pulls the car through the gates and up the driveway.

I grab my bag and head inside already thinking about the western tolerance model.

The board presentation tiline is becoming uncomfortably real now, and Elliot wants the updated calculations before nine so he can build the structural check around them tonight. Which ans I need at least three uninterrupted hours.

Possibly four if the load redistribution numbers keep fighting .

Mrs. Wen intercepts halfway through the foyer.

"You’re ho early."

"It’s barely six."

"Exactly." She takes my coat before I can object. "Dinner will be ready soon."

"I’ll eat later."

Her eyes narrow imdiately because apparently everyone in this house has collectively decided my basic survival requires supervision now.

"You said that yesterday too."

"I have work."

"You always have work."

"That sounds judgntal."

"It is judgntal."

I sigh quietly.

"Please just send tea upstairs."

Mrs. Wen studies my face for another second before waving away with obvious disapproval.

"At least eat the fruit I left earlier."

I promise nothing and escape upstairs before she can escalate this into a lecture.

Thankfully, the estate feels quieter than usual tonight.

Bael went to the office this morning and apparently still isn’t back yet, which ans I can work in peace without accidentally making eye contact with soone capable of destabilizing my entire nervous system by standing too close.

An excellent developnt for everyone involved.

I head into the study instead of my bedroom because the larger desk gives space to spread out the revised drafts properly.

Three hours disappear almost imdiately.

The western cluster tolerances are worse than I expected.

Not catastrophically wrong, just annoyingly delicate. Every adjustnt affects sothing else, circulation pressure, structural load, pedestrian flow efficiency. I rerun the sa projection twice before finally getting numbers that stop irritating enough to accept them.

By the ti I finish compiling the updated model, my neck hurts and my eyes feel slightly unfocused from staring at calculations too long.

I check the ti.

8:17 PM.

Good enough.

I export the files and send them to Elliot with a brief summary attached.

His reply cos less than two minutes later.

*Looks good. I’ll run the structural check tonight.*

A second ssage follows after a short pause.

*I’ll send you the results tomorrow morning.*

I stare at the screen briefly before typing back.

*Alright.*

The typing indicator appears almost imdiately again.

*Get so sleep first.*

I look at that ssage for a second longer than necessary, then I set the phone facedown beside the laptop.

A soft knock interrupts the thought.

The study door opens before I answer.

Mrs. Wen steps inside carrying a tray.

"I knew you weren’t going downstairs," she says flatly.

The tray slls good enough that I imdiately realize how hungry I actually are.

Soup. Rice. Sothing stead.

And a small paper bag sitting beside the plate.

I frown slightly. "What’s that?"

"Young master brought it ho."

My stomach does sothing deeply unhelpful.

I look away from the tray toward the rain-dark windows instead.

"...He’s back?"

"He ca ho around twenty minutes ago." Mrs. Wen sets everything down on the side table beside the desk. "He said you skipped lunch."

I absolutely did not skip lunch.

Mrs. Wen clearly reads the denial sowhere on my face anyway because her expression turns unimpressed.

"He also said if you keep working without eating properly, your headaches will co back."

I go very still for one brief second, because I don’t rember ntioning the headaches recently.

Then mory catches up.

Two weeks ago.

One conversation after dinner where I’d rubbed my temples once too long while reviewing site revisions.

Bael noticed.

Of course he did.

Annoyingly, unfairly, infuriatingly observant.

Mrs. Wen nudges the paper bag toward .

"Open it."

I do, mostly because resistance is pointless at this stage.

Inside are ginger biscuits from that small bakery near the south district.

The expensive ones, the ones I bought once months ago because they were the only thing that stopped the nausea properly during the first trister.

Sothing uncomfortable shifts underneath my ribs.

I close the bag again too quickly.

Mrs. Wen watches carefully for a mont before sighing quietly.

"Eat while it’s warm."

Then she leaves.

The study falls silent again.

Rain taps softly against the windows.

I stare at the bag for several long seconds before finally pulling the tray closer.

The soup is still hot.

I eat slowly while rereading the finalized tolerance report, forcing my attention back toward work instead of the increasingly dangerous realization that Bael has apparently started rembering small things about too.

First the tea, now this. I don’t know what to do with that.

Halfway through the al, footsteps pause outside the study.

My shoulders tense automatically.

A second later, the door opens.

Bael walks in without speaking.

He’s still dressed from work, dark coat gone, sleeves rolled once past his wrists while faint rain dampness clings to the edges of his hair. One glance is enough to make my heartbeat start misbehaving imdiately, which feels deeply unfair considering I’ve been successfully avoiding him for almost two days now.

His eyes move briefly over the desk. The papers, the laptop, the half-finished soup, then settle on .

"You ate."

I hate that this sounds vaguely approving.

"I usually do."

"Lately?" His gaze flicks toward the untouched biscuits. "Debatable."

I look back at the screen instead of him.

"I’m working."

"I noticed."

Silence stretches briefly afterward.

Normally Bael fills silence very easily. Not with talking, just presence. Calm, steady, entirely too comfortable occupying space around .

Tonight it feels heavier.

More aware.

I hear him move closer.

Then the quiet sound of him leaning lightly against the edge of the desk beside .

My pulse imdiately gets worse.

I continue staring at the laptop like the structural calculations have suddenly beco emotionally fascinating.

Beside , Bael says quietly:

"You’ve been avoiding ."

Straight to the point.

Of course.

I keep my eyes on the screen.

"I’ve been busy."

"You stayed in your room after the run yesterday."

Heat flashes instantly across the back of my neck.

"I had work."

"You also had als delivered upstairs."

My fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the desk.

"What exactly is your point?"

For a mont, Bael says nothing.

Then quietly:

"I don’t like this."

Sothing in his voice pulls my attention up before I can stop it. He’s watching steadily now, grey eyes unreadable in the soft light of the study, focused entirely on in a way that makes my chest feel too tight suddenly.

"This," he repeats calmly. "You running every ti I touch you."

My heartbeat stumbles hard enough to physically hurt.

I stand imdiately.

Bad decision.

Because the mont I move, Bael reaches out naturally, his hand closes gently around my wrist first, then slides upward before I can react properly, fingers brushing lightly against my cheek.

Warm.

Careful.

The touch itself isn’t forceful at all, which sohow makes it worse, my entire body locks up instantly.

This is exactly the problem.

Bael acts like he can touch whenever he wants now. Like kissing once sohow changed the rules between us without my permission, like physical affection is enough to smooth over everything that happened between us.

My throat tightens sharply.

I pull his hand away from my face imdiately.

"Stop."

The word cos out rougher than I intended.

Bael’s gaze sharpens slightly, but instead of backing away, he steps closer.

Too close.

"You’ve been tense since Saturday," he says quietly.

I laugh once in disbelief.

"Really? I wonder why."

Sothing flickers briefly across his expression then.

Understanding, probably.

But he still doesn’t move back.

I try stepping around him toward the door instead.

Bad idea again.

Bael catches my waist before I make it two steps. Not rough, just firm enough to stop .

My pulse spikes instantly.

"Bael—"

He pulls back against him before I can finish.

Warmth crashes into all at once, chest against my back, one arm locked securely around my waist while the other steadies against the desk beside .

My entire body goes rigid.

"Stop avoiding ," he says quietly near my ear.

The closeness alone is already too much, then his mouth brushes briefly against the side of my neck.

Not even a full kiss. A warm pressure lasting barely a second. But panic and anger hit so fast afterward it feels explosive.

Because no, definitely not.

He does not get to do this, does not get to keep touching every ti things beco emotionally complicated between us like physical affection is enough to bypass actual conversations.

Like touching now fixes everything.

My foot cos down hard directly onto his.

Bael jerks backward instantly with a sharp inhale.

I wrench myself free imdiately and spin around, breathing hard.

His expression has finally cracked slightly, shock first, then sothing dangerously close to impressed disbelief.

"You..."

"What? You kissed my neck like it was a normal thing to do."

"You seed upset."

"I ’am’ upset."

The words co out sharper than I intended, anger finally spilling over properly now.

"You don’t get to just—" I cut myself off violently before finishing the sentence. Before saying sothing too honest.

Bael watches silently.

I force air back into my lungs, then more quietly, but sohow worse:

"Don’t touch again unless I say you can."

The room goes completely still afterward. Rain tapping softly against the windows, my heartbeat pounding hard enough to feel sick. For one long second, I honestly think Bael might argue.

Instead he straightens slowly, his eyes stay on my face the entire ti.

Then finally:

"...Alright."

The answer catches off guard slightly, not because he agreed, because he sounds completely serious. No teasing, no amusent, just calm acceptance underneath sothing deeper I can’t read properly right now.

Which sohow unsettles even more.

I step backward first, then another step toward the door.

Bael doesn’t stop , but his eyes follow anyway. Steady, certain, like this conversation changed absolutely nothing for him long-term, like he’s already thinking past tonight entirely.

That realization sends fresh panic skittering through my chest.

I grab the door handle too quickly.

Then stop.

Because despite everything, despite the anger still burning hot underneath my skin, despite the panic and confusion and the impossible situation my emotions have beco lately—

I still rember the ginger biscuits sitting on the desk behind .

And sohow that feels like the cruelest part.