Chapter 77: Belief

I’ve been staring at the same residential cluster layout for forty minutes.

The proportions are fine, the circulation makes sense, the green space integration works.

But I keep adjusting it anyway.

Half a centimeter to the left.

No, back to the right.

Maybe increase the density slightly.

No, that throws off the parking ratios.

Back to the original.

I press my fingers against my temples.

This was already good yesterday.

I know it was good.

So why does it suddenly feel inadequate?

*I expect you to place in the top three at minimum.*

Grandmother’s words won’t stop circling.

Top three.

Out of how many competitors? Hundreds, probably. Established firms with teams of architects, professional credentials, years of experience.

And me.

A third-year dropout with sketches and four weeks to compete against people who actually know what they’re doing.

I grab my eraser and start removing the pathway I spent an hour perfecting yesterday.

It’s fine.

I can make it better.

I have to make it better.

The eraser smudges across the paper and I blow away the residue, already reaching for my pencil to redraw—

"For how long do you plan to keep doing that?"

I jump.

Bael is standing in the doorway.

I didn’t hear him come in.

Didn’t hear the door open or his footsteps or anything because I was too focused on fixing something that didn’t need fixing.

"Doing what?" I ask, setting down the eraser.

He walks into the room, stopping beside my desk, still in his work clothes, jacket gone somewhere, tie loosened.

His eyes move over the scattered papers, the seventeen open tabs on my laptop, the cold coffee I don’t remember drinking.

Then he looks at me.

Really looks.

And something in his expression shifts.

"Erasing and redrawing the same section," he says quietly.

My stomach drops.

"I’m just refining..."

"You’ve been doing it for the past twenty minutes."

I stare at him.

He was watching?

For twenty minutes?

"I didn’t realize you were there," I say.

"I know." He pulls out the chair across from me and sits. "You were too focused."

There’s something careful in his tone.

Not accusatory.

Just... observing.

I look back down at my sketch, at the smudged pathway that was perfectly fine before I started second-guessing it.

"I’m just making sure it’s right."

"It was right yesterday."

"How would you..." I stop.

He’s been paying attention, actually watching me work, not just passing by. Close enough to know what I worked on yesterday, what’s changed today, how long I’ve been spiraling.

Something warm and uncomfortable twists in my chest.

"Well," I say, not looking at him, "maybe it needs to be better than right."

Silence.

I can feel him watching me.

Assessing in that calm, measured way that makes me feel simultaneously seen and exposed.

He’s not saying anything, he’s just... watching.

The silence stretches until I can’t take it anymore.

"I’m fine," I say, not looking up.

"You’re not."

"I am. I’m just..."

"Spiraling."

The word lands like a punch.

I set down my pencil and finally look at him.

"I’m refining the design."

"You’re second-guessing work that was already good." His tone is matter-of-fact, not accusing. "Why?"

I want to brush it off.

I want to say something dismissive and go back to work.

But the way he’s looking at me... calm and patient and not letting this go... makes it impossible.

"Grandmother expects me to place in the top three," I say finally.

The words taste bitter.

Bael’s expression doesn’t change.

"And?"

"And what?"

"What’s the problem?"

I stare at him.

Is he serious?

"The problem is I’m competing against actual professionals. People with credentials and experience and entire teams. I’m a dropout with sketches and four weeks."

"So?"

The casual dismissal makes something hot flare in my chest.

"So I don’t think I can actually..." I stop myself.

I can’t finish that sentence, can’t admit out loud to Bael, of all people, that I’m terrified of failing.

That I’m scared I’ve overestimated my abilities.

That saying it makes the fear too real.

And besides, Bael isn’t exactly the kind of person I should be baring my feelings to.

He’s probably just going to tell me to stop wasting time or something equally unhelpful and efficient.

The silence stretches again.

Then Bael leans back slightly in his chair.

"Top three?" he says. "So what?"

I blink at him.

"So what?"

"It’s reasonable. What, you think you can’t do it?"

"I don’t know if—"

"Why not?" He cuts me off, tone flat. "I’ve seen your work."

The certainty in his voice throws me.

"You’ve seen sketches. That doesn’t mean..."

"I’ve watched you work for weeks." He says it like it’s obvious. "Fourteen-hour days. The way you approach problems, the discipline, the focus. That’s not amateur work."

"You don’t even know anything about architecture."

"I know what competence looks like." His gaze is steady, unwavering. "You seem to have forgotten that I spend my life evaluating people. You’re good at this. That’s not a guess."

Something in my chest tightens.

Not from the words exactly... from the certainty.

I stare at him.

This isn’t like him.

Bael doesn’t... reassure people. He doesn’t say things like that just to make someone feel better.

So why...

I look away first, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the desk.

"What if you’re wrong?" The question comes out quieter than I intend.

"I’m not."

The absolute certainty in those two words makes me want to believe him.

Makes me want to stop second-guessing and just trust that he sees something real.

But I can’t quite get there.

"You’re annoyingly confident," I mutter, looking back down at my ruined sketch.

"And you’re wasting time."

I glance back up.

His expression hasn’t changed much, still controlled, still calm.

But there’s something in his eyes.

Something I can’t quite name.

Not concern, exactly.

Just... awareness.

Like seeing me like this has registered in a way I didn’t expect.

"Stop redrawing things that were already strong," he says. "Finish it. Submit it."

He stands, picking up my cold coffee cup.

"Come eat dinner."

Then he’s heading for the door.

I sit there, staring at the sketches spread across my desk.

*I’ve seen your work.*

*You’re good at this. That’s not a guess.*

My hands are shaking slightly.

Not from stress anymore.

From something else entirely.

***

Dinner passes in a blur.

Grandmother asks about my progress and I give vague answers that seem to satisfy her.

Bael says nothing, just eats with his usual efficiency.

But I catch him watching me.

More than once.

Like he’s checking.

Making sure I’m actually okay.

It should feel like surveillance.

Instead it feels... grounding.

After dinner I go back to the study, but not to spiral.

Just to organize, to review my timeline, to remind myself I’m actually on track.

The residential cluster I agonized over earlier looks fine now.

Better than fine.

Good.

I leave it alone.

***

Later that night, lying in bed, I can’t stop replaying the conversation.

*I’ve seen your work.*

*You’re good at this.*

*I’m not wrong.*

My brain won’t shut up about it.

"You’re thinking too loud," Bael says from his side of the bed.

I turn my head.

He’s lying on his back, eyes closed, looking completely relaxed.

"How would you even know that?"

"I can hear you overthinking from here."

"That’s not possible."

"It is with you." He opens his eyes, turning his head to look at me. "It’s inefficient."

"Everything’s inefficient to you."

"Not everything." His gaze holds mine. "Your work isn’t. When you’re not spiraling."

My heart does something complicated.

The silence settles between us softer than before, almost comfortable.

I should let it go, I should close my eyes and sleep, but something makes me say it anyway.

"You really think I can do it?"

The question comes out smaller than I intend, more vulnerable than I want it to be.

Bael doesn’t hesitate.

"Yes."

One word.

Simple and certain, like there’s no other possible answer.

My chest feels too tight.

"Okay," I say quietly.

He doesn’t respond, just closes his eyes again.

But I swear I see something shift in his expression before he does.

Something almost like satisfaction.

I close my eyes too, trying to slow my breathing.

This is worse than I thought.

It would be easier if this was just physical. If it was just proximity, or hormones, or the fact that Bael is unfairly attractive and apparently determined to make basic human interaction feel like a personal attack.

That would be manageable.

Embarrassing, but manageable.

But this...

This is worse.

Because it isn’t just the hand-holding, or the late-night check-ins, or the stupid way my heart reacts every time he looks at me like he’s actually paying attention.

It’s that he looked at work I was ready to tear apart and said it was good.

Not casually or politely.

Like he meant it, like it was obvious, like my doubt was the irrational thing, not his confidence.

And that... that stays.

That gets under your skin.

Because affection can be explained away.

Care can be blamed on the baby.

Responsibility can be filed neatly into obligation.

But belief?

That is harder, that is dangerous.

Because now there’s a part of me...a deeply stupid part...that wants to lean into it, wants to believe him, wants to hear him say it again.

And that is a terrible idea.

An objectively terrible, humiliating idea.

Because Bael is still Bael.

Controlled. Difficult. Emotionally repressed enough to make communication feel like a corporate merger.

And I am still me.

Apparently, an idiot.

I stare at the ceiling in the dark.

This is going to end badly.