Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 199

Bellamy’s POV

The children's formal wear shop is almost aggressively cheerful—bright lighting, cartoon characters on the walls, a play area in the corner with oversized building blocks.

Noah vibrates with barely contained excitement beside me, his small hand gripping mine tightly as we approach the sales counter.

"We're here to get me a grown-up suit like Daddy!" he announces to the sales associate before I can speak, his voice carrying that particular volume only four-year-olds can achieve. "For Miss Sophie's fancy party!"

The associate—a young woman with a patient smile—catches my eye with obvious amusement. "A fancy party? That sounds special. Let's find you something perfect."

She leads us through the racks, pulling options while Noah provides running commentary on every suit we pass.

Too boring. Wrong blue. That one looks scratchy. Finally, she presents a tiny navy suit with subtle pinstripes, complete with a clip-on tie that matches almost exactly.

"This one!" Noah's eyes light up. "It's like yours, Daddy!"

It is similar to the suit I'm wearing to the wedding, I realize. Navy, conservative, appropriate for standing witness to the woman you're in love with marrying someone else.

In the fitting room, I kneel to adjust Noah's jacket while he stands on the small platform in front of the mirror.

The suit fits perfectly—or will, once the pants are hemmed. He looks impossibly small in the formal wear, drowning slightly in the structured fabric. But also somehow older, more grown up. A glimpse of the boy he's becoming.

It hits me suddenly how fast he's growing. How these years are slipping through my fingers while I'm distracted by complicated feelings for a woman I can't have.

Soon he won't need me to tie his shoes or cut his food or adjust his jacket. Soon he'll be too big for ice cream bribes and bedtime stories.

"Do I look handsome, Daddy?" Noah asks, striking what he clearly believes is a serious, grown-up pose.

"Very handsome," I manage, my voice rougher than intended. "The handsomest boy at the wedding."

"Will there be cake?"

Noah asks, abandoning his serious pose to bounce slightly.

"Miss Sophie said there would be lots of cake. And can I dance with her? Will she dance with me even though she's the bride? And will baby Mimi be there too? I want to show her my suit. Do you think she'll like it?"

The questions tumble out in typical Noah fashion—no pause for answers, just pure stream of consciousness excitement. My chest aches listening to his innocent enthusiasm. He has no idea what this wedding actually means.

That Miss Sophie will become Mrs. Lewis. That they'll be seeing her less—much less. That I'm preparing to step away from their lives completely, to become just a memory Noah will barely remember in a few years.

To Noah, it's just a party where people he loves will be happy. Where there will be cake and dancing and baby Mimi to show his new suit to. The simplicity of his joy makes everything worse.

"She'll love your suit," I tell him, smoothing down his collar one more time. "And yes, there will definitely be cake."

We purchase the suit, hemming will be ready in three days, and Noah insists on carrying the garment bag himself even though it drags on the ground behind him. His pride in this responsibility is evident in the careful way he holds it.

"Ice cream?" I suggest, and Noah's face lights up like I've offered him the moon.

The ice cream parlor is busy with the after-school crowd, but we find two seats at the counter. Noah orders chocolate, his perpetual choice, and proceeds to get it everywhere.

His face, his hands, the counter, somehow even his hair. He swings his legs from the tall chair, talking non-stop about the wedding.

"I'm going to be the best big boy there," he declares with absolute certainty. "I'll sit very still during the boring parts and only dance during the fun parts. And I'll share my cake with baby Mimi even though she probably can't eat it yet because she's too little. But it's nice to share, right Daddy?"

"Right," I agree, watching him. Memorizing this moment—his joy, his chocolate-smudged face, his uncomplicated love for Sophie and Amelia.

The innocence of not understanding loss yet, of believing that everyone you love will always be in your life.

I want to protect that innocence. Want to shield him from the reality that people leave, that feelings get complicated, that sometimes the people we care about most become inaccessible for reasons a four-year-old couldn't possibly understand.

"Daddy?" Noah's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Are you sad?"

I realize my expression must have slipped, that whatever I'm feeling inside has shown on my face. I force a smile. "No, buddy. Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how much I love you."

Noah considers this seriously, chocolate ice cream dripping from his spoon. Then he brightens. "You should get ice cream too! It makes everything better. Even when you're sad-thinking."

The logic is so pure, so perfectly Noah, that I can't help but genuinely smile.

I order a vanilla cone I don't particularly want, just to see the approval on my son's face, the satisfaction that he's solved the problem of Daddy's sad-thinking with ice cream.

We sit at that counter for another twenty minutes, Noah chattering about everything and nothing while I listen and respond and try to memorize every detail.

The way his nose crinkles when he laughs. The gap where he lost his first tooth last month. The absolute certainty in his voice when he declares something important.

This is what matters, I think.

Not my feelings for Sophie. Not the wedding I'll have to witness in ten days. Not the complicated mess of wanting someone I can't have, of nearly crossing lines I shouldn't, of knowing she has feelings for me too but choosing someone else anyway.

Just this: being Noah's father, protecting his son's happiness. Making sure Noah never loses the people he loves because of my choices or my inability to control my heart.

I'll go to the wedding. I'll smile. I'll watch Sophie marry Adrian with whatever grace I can muster. And then I'll walk away cleanly, completely, for Noah's sake if not my own.

Because Noah loves Sophie and Amelia. They're part of his world, his understanding of family and happiness. And I won't be the reason that gets taken away from him. I won't let my complicated feelings create loss in my son's life.

Driving home, Noah falls asleep in his car seat almost immediately, the garment bag clutched against his chest like a treasure. Chocolate is still smudged on his cheek—I'd wiped most of it but missed some.

In the rearview mirror, I watch his peaceful face, his small chest rising and falling with deep sleep.

This is enough, I tell myself. Being his father is enough. It has to be enough.

At home, I carry Noah inside without waking him, get him changed and into bed with practiced efficiency. He barely stirs, just mumbles something about cake and Miss Sophie before burrowing deeper into his pillow.

I hang his tiny suit carefully in his closet, smoothing the jacket one more time. Navy blue, just like mine. Two suits for a wedding where we'll watch Sophie become someone else's wife.