Chapter 248: Expected

*Runze’s POV*

Dr. Xi’s clinic smells the same as it always does, antiseptic underneath something warmer, the faint trace of the lavender diffuser on the windowsill that I’ve come to associate with good news and bad news in equal measure.

I sit on the examination table in my usual position, slightly propped, my shirt lifted above my stomach. The paper beneath me crinkles every time I shift.

Bael is in the chair beside me.

His hand has been on my knee since we sat down, warm through the fabric of my trousers, his thumb making an absent circle near my kneecap that I don’t think he’s aware of. When Dr. Xi began reviewing the ultrasound images on his monitor, Bael’s other hand moved to my wrist, his fingers resting lightly over my pulse.

I didn’t say anything.

Dr. Xi is talking about positioning, about measurements, about how well the baby has settled in the last two weeks. Good words, solid words, the kind that make the breath come out a little easier.

"Everything is exactly where we want it to be," Dr. Xi says, turning from his screen. "The baby is in position. Head down, well engaged. At this rate, I expect labor to begin naturally within the next two to three weeks."

Bael picks up his phone with his free hand.

"Two to three weeks," he says, not as a question. "The earlier end of that range or the later end?"

"It varies," Dr. Xi says warmly. "First deliveries often run slightly later, but given how well young master Runze has progressed, I wouldn’t rule out the earlier end either."

Bael types something on his phone. He hasn’t let go of my wrist.

"And the check-in date."

"Three days before the estimated date, we’ll have him admitted so we can monitor the progression properly and ensure everything is ready."

More typing.

I look down at the hand around my wrist.

His hand has migrated from my kneecap to the inside of my arm, tracing a slow line from my wrist toward my elbow. It is an entirely unconscious movement. He is looking at Dr. Xi, asking something about the delivery team, and his fingers are moving along the soft skin of my forearm as naturally as breathing.

I open my mouth to say something.

Dr. Xi glances down at the movement. He looks up at me. A brief, professional pause, and then he looks back at Bael to answer the question, the very faintest curve settling at the corner of his mouth.

I close my mouth.

Bael traces the line back down toward my wrist without noticing any of this.

"Any physical restrictions between now and check-in?" Bael asks.

"Nothing new," Dr. Xi says. "He should continue resting well, staying off his feet for extended periods, eating regularly. Light movement is still encouraged, short walks, nothing strenuous." He glances at me. "How has the fatigue been this week?"

"Manageable," I say. "Worse in the evenings."

"That’s normal at this stage. The baby is taking a great deal." He makes a note. "Any shortness of breath? Pressure in the lower back?"

"Some. Not constant."

"Also normal." He looks at the chart, then back at me. "You’re doing very well, young master. Better than most at this point."

Bael has stopped typing. His fingers rest at the inside of my wrist, not moving now, just pressed there. I can feel my own pulse against his fingertip.

***

The car is quiet on the way home.

Bael spoke to the driver before we got in, something brief and low that I did not catch, and when the car pulled away from the clinic the privacy partition was already rising. The tinted glass seals us into the back seat and creates that total muffled silence that comes from the outside world being locked out.

I watch the partition lock into place then I look at Bael.

He is already looking at me.

He reaches over and draws me closer across the seat, his hand finding my waist and adjusting until my back is properly supported against him. I settle into the position without thinking about it because we have done this enough times that my body knows where it fits against his.

The city moves past the darkened windows.

His hand moves lower.

I go still.

"Bael." I keep my voice low even though the partition is up. "What’s wrong with you today?"

He does not answer. His fingers continue their slow deliberate work and I feel my breath go uneven almost immediately as he palms me through my clothes, pressing and rubbing with steady pressure until I am hardening fully under his hand.

"Bael..." His name comes out thinner than I intend. "Stop—"

"Hmm." The sound is low against my ear. "I don’t want to."

His lips find the curve of my ear, warm and unhurried, and I feel his breath before I feel anything else, soft and deliberate, settling over the shell of my ear in a way that immediately sends heat down the back of my neck.

My hand finds his sleeve and grips it while his lips move down to the spot just below, the one that makes my whole body recalibrate. At the same time his hand slips under the waistband of my clothes, warm fingers wrapping around my cock and stroking with a firm unhurried rhythm that is completely focused.

He works me like that, thumb sliding over the head on every upward stroke, spreading the wetness that is already gathering there, and the friction is hot and smooth and relentless. I turn my face into his shoulder and hold on as the pleasure builds fast, my hips shifting slightly into his grip even though there is nowhere to go in the confined space of the back seat.

Bael keeps kissing that sensitive place below my ear while his hand never stops moving, tightening just enough on the downstroke and twisting a little at the top in the way he knows I cannot resist. The wet sound of his palm on my cock is soft but clear in the quiet car, and every stroke pulls another shaky breath out of me.

I come with a muffled sound against his shoulder, spilling over his fingers while he keeps stroking me through it, slower now but just as thorough, until the last tremors fade and I am left breathing hard against him.

Afterward I stay where I am, my head against his shoulder and his arm around me. Neither of us speaks. His thumb moves in slow circles against my side, absent and warm, and he does not bother wiping his hand yet.

I close my eyes.

The car carries us home through the quiet city.

***

Grandmother’s knock is two precise raps before the door is already opening, because Grandmother has never operated on the assumption that a door might remain closed to her.

I scramble to sit up when I see her, pulling myself upright against the headboard, wincing slightly at the sudden pull in my lower back and ribs. But she is already crossing the room, cutting me off with a brief, sharp motion of her hand.

"Don’t," she says. "Stay as you are."

I stay, though I straighten my posture as much as I can manage. She pulls the desk chair up to the side of the bed and sits down with the unhurried precision she brings to everything in her life.

She looks at me for a moment, not with the quick, assessing sweep of someone checking for obvious problems, but with something much slower and heavier than that.

"You’ve been staying in your room these past few days," she says.

"It’s been harder to move around," I admit. "Everything just feels heavier."

She nods once and doesn’t press further. That is Grandmother, she doesn’t waste words or push where pushing isn’t necessary.

"I heard Dr. Xi confirmed the timeline today," she says.

"Yes. Two to three weeks from now."

Another nod.

"It won’t be easy," she says directly, speaking with her usual blunt clarity. "What comes after. The first weeks, the first months. There will be moments where you don’t know what you’re doing and the child needs you anyway." She pauses. "That feeling doesn’t really go away, Runze. You simply get more practiced at living with it."

I look down at my hands resting on my blanket, my fingers tracing the hem of the sheet.

"...I know," I say quietly.

And I do know, abstractly. But knowing a fact intellectually and actually living through it are two entirely different things. I’m not sure if I’m ready, and I think she can see that written all over my face.

"You’re afraid of making mistakes," she says, her voice surprisingly gentle beneath its firm edge. "Everyone is. But your body is already doing the work, and your mind will follow. The only real preparation is accepting that you won’t have all the answers, and choosing to show up anyway."

I look back up at her.

"You will manage," she says simply, holding my gaze. "I know you will."

Something tight and anxious in my chest finally loosens, just slightly.

She stands up, smoothing the front of her dress, then reaches over and pats my arm once, a brief, firm gesture that serves as the Grandmother Wuchen version of an embrace.

"Eat something later," she says, moving toward the door. "Mrs. Wen made wild yam porridge. Gentle on the stomach, it will stay down."

"Thank you, Grandmother," I say to her back.

She pauses at the door, turning her head to look back at me one last time.

She gives me a single, small, precise nod.

"Sleep well," she says.

And then she’s gone.