Chapter 242: The Little Bear Who Counted Stars

*Runze’s POV*

Bael doesn’t move.

He is still leaning toward me, one hand curved around the back of my neck. But his eyes have gone very still, fixed on my face, and the careful controlled line of his mouth has come slightly apart.

I lift the book slightly, hiding half of my burning face behind the cover so only my eyes are showing. I tilt my head, looking up at him through my lashes.

"Uuh... please, Daddy?"

Bael swallows hard. His throat moves, but no sound comes out for a second.

His gaze drops to the book, comes back up to my face, and then, slowly, visibly, in a way I have never once seen happen in all the time I have known him — the line of his jaw softens. His brows lift just slightly. His lips part again, and what comes out is barely above a breath.

"C-cute..."

He catches himself immediately, but it is already too late. His mouth closes. His eyes go wide.

I stare at him. "...Uh?"

He moves so fast I don’t track it. The book is out of my hands before I’ve registered he’s reached for it. He sets it on the mattress, closes both hands around my wrists, and presses them back against the headboard, leaning over me with a look in his eyes that has nothing to do with bedtime stories.

"Baby..." Bael says, his voice dropping low.

My heart nearly explodes at the word.

"Let’s do something else first." He drops his head and his lips find my neck, warm and unhurried, pressing in slow.

"N-no," I say, wriggling my hands to try and free my wrists, but Bael holds them firmly in place. "Bael—"

"Yes," Bael whispers against my skin, moving his lips to the sensitive spot under my jaw. "Let’s do something fun. Just between us, okay? I won’t let the child hear."

"Bael, wait, wait—"

Suddenly, a firm press hits the inside of my stomach. A sharp, clear kick.

Bael stops dead.

I look down at my stomach, then up at his face.

He freezes against my neck, his whole body going rigid. The baby moves again inside me, giving another solid push against my front.

I can’t stop the laugh that spills out of me. "See? I told you! Now the baby is protesting!"

Bael lifts his head slowly. He looks at my face, then drops his eyes down to my stomach.

Very carefully, he lets go of one of my wrists. He lifts his hand and places his palm flat against the curve of my bump instead.

The baby moves immediately. There is a long, rolling shift inside me, and then a firm kick right against his palm, sharp, clear, and right into his hand.

*Thump.*

Bael’s hand goes completely still against my skin.

His eyes stay fixed on my stomach. Then he looks up at me, his eyes wide, looking genuinely caught off guard, as if he actually thinks the baby is angry at him for trying to kiss me.

Something shifts across his face slowly, a tightness around his eyes and a soft press of his lips, like his heart just did something he was not expecting.

"They’re angry at you," I tell him helpfully.

He doesn’t look away from my bump.

"...Alright," Bael says softly. The sharp edge is completely gone from his voice now. "Alright. Daddy is sorry." He presses his palm just a little bit firmer against the curve. "I’ll read to you now."

The baby moves again inside me, slower this time, just a long gentle shift without any kicking, settling down to listen.

Bael watches my stomach the whole time without saying a word.

I watch his face while he looks at my stomach, and I feel a warm, tight pull in my chest in the best possible way.

Then Bael reaches over and picks up the picture book.

His eyes come up to meet mine, narrowing just a little, and there is a familiar shine in them that I know very well.

"This," he whispers quietly, "is your fault."

"It’s not," I say, smiling and laughing softly.

He holds my gaze for one more second. Then he moves, lying back down on the mattress and settling his head comfortably in my lap just like before. I reach down and slide my fingers into his hair.

He holds the book up at a good reading angle and clears his throat, settling his voice into a low, quiet rhythm. Then he tilts the book slightly downward, toward my stomach.

"Are you ready?" he asks softly. "I’m going to read you a very interesting book."

The baby doesn’t kick this time.

"Good," Bael says. "Pay attention."

He turns to the very first page.

"Once upon a time, in a forest where the pine trees grew so tall they tickled the clouds, there lived a small bear named Mao who could not sleep."

His voice hits me in a way I am not ready for. It isn’t the voice he uses in boardrooms, and it isn’t the low, private one he keeps for the dark. It falls right between the two, unhurried and smooth, holding the words softly as if he is carrying something he doesn’t want to drop.

"Every night, while his mother and father and three older brothers breathed deep and slow in their warm cave, Mao lay on his back with his eyes wide open and thought: there must be something to count."

I watch the way the dim light catches the edge of his jaw as he reads.

"One night, when the moon was full and the forest smelled of rain, Mao crept outside to count the stars."

His free hand lifts briefly, tracing a slow arc in the air above us, as if drawing the stars, before settling back against the edge of the book. I watch the small, unguarded movement, feeling the gentle shift of his weight in my lap. It is a side of him the rest of the world never gets to see, quiet and soft, saved only for me.

I close my eyes.

"One," said Mao. "Two. Three."

"He counted until his neck ached from looking up. He counted until the numbers lost their shape. He counted until a small fox appeared beside him and said: you’ll never count them all, you know."

"I know," said Mao. "But I’m trying."

"The fox sat down beside him. They counted together for a while. Then the fox curled up in the grass and fell asleep."

My fingers begin to slow in his hair without me even trying to stop them.

The knot inside me from the last few days is finally letting go. It isn’t happening all at once, but little by little, taking all the heavy feelings with it as it unwinds. The fear in my chest, the long hours of waiting alone, the cold glass of the window. All of it melts away into the warmth of his head on my lap and the current of his voice moving through the quiet room.

"Mao met an owl who told him the stars had been there since before anyone thought to count them. He met a deer who said she had been counting for eleven years and was still on the first sky. He met an old tortoise who said he had given up on counting stars and taken up counting blades of grass instead, which was easier, and also still impossible, but closer to the ground."

Bael pauses.

Then, dropping his voice just below his reading tone, he adds:

"The tortoise had a point."

A small smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.

My hand has almost completely stopped moving in his hair.

"By the time Mao reached the hill at the edge of the forest, his legs were tired and his eyes were soft and the numbers had stopped coming. He lay down in the grass."

"He had not counted all the stars."

"He had not even counted most of them."

"But above him the sky was full of them, more than he could hold in any number, and they were very beautiful, and the grass was cool, and somewhere in the forest his family was breathing slow and deep."

"Mao closed his eyes."

"The stars, it turned out, were not there to be counted."

"They were there to watch you until you fell asleep."

The last words drift gently into the quiet room.

I hear the soft sound of the book closing, then the dull thud as he sets it on the nightstand.

His hand reaches up, gently covering mine where it rests in his dark hair. His fingers are warm, wrapping around my knuckles to hold me right there against him.

Neither of us moves.

The house around us is completely still and quiet.

Then his voice comes, low and soft, practically a whisper against the dark:

"Have a sweet dream, my beautiful Omega."

I don’t say anything back.

I am already sound asleep.