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 so 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 exactly why I need the cushion in the first place.
Which is part of the problem.
Because every ti I shift in my seat, every ti I feel that dull soreness, my brain imdiately supplies vivid, detailed mories of how I got this sore.
Bael’s hands gripping my hips.
The relentless rhythm he set.
The way he fucked against the shower wall this morning like he had all the ti 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 mories.
Doesn’t work.
They’re still there, playing on loop, accompanied by the unhelpful physical evidence currently making itself known every ti 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 rembering 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 the cushion, on the way he’d held 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 so invisible line that’s going to make everything awkward.
I drop my hands and stare at the sketch in front of .
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 sothing unexpected?
Why didn’t I just look?
Would it have killed 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 cos ho tonight.
If he cos ho tonight.
My stomach drops at the thought.
Last ti...
Last ti he held while sleeping, the next day he pulled away, created distance, and told not to co 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 about needing help bathing and then thoroughly fucked 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 so 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 beco pathways.
Pathways beco networks.
Networks integrate with the existing cluster designs.
The familiar rhythm of problem-solving settles over , pushing everything else to the background.
Not gone.
Just... quieter.
I work through the morning properly this ti, 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 having to be reminded, setting the tray down beside my sketches.
She pauses for a mont, 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 et the deadline."
She smiles. "You’ll do wonderfully. I’m sure of it."
Then she’s gone, leaving 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 adjustnt.
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 sowhere in the back of my head, underneath the technical problem-solving and design decisions, there’s a persistent awareness of ti passing.
Hours moving forward.
Bringing closer to evening.
Closer to when Bael cos ho.
Closer to finding out whether this morning’s kiss was okay or whether I’ve sohow 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 that’s hoping tonight will be more of that... more closeness, more of him wanting , 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 requirents 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 so minor adjustnts to the plant density calculations.
I should feel satisfied.
Accomplished.
Instead, I feel restless.
Distracted.
Aware of every minute passing, bringing closer to whatever happens next.
I look at the clock.
Three hours until Bael typically cos ho.
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 co ho 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 sothing 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.
User Comments
0 comments from readers