Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 162

Sophie’s POV

One week since Adrian left.

I've stopped waiting for him to come back.

The first few days, I checked my phone constantly. Every notification made my heart jump—maybe a text, maybe an explanation, maybe anything to make sense of why he walked away.

I jumped at every sound in the hallway, thinking maybe that's his key in the lock, maybe he changed his mind, maybe he's coming home.

But the texts never came. The sounds were always neighbors, delivery people, anyone except Adrian.

The constant anxiety has faded into something duller. More resigned. Like accepting a chronic condition I'll just have to live with instead of fighting against it every moment.

Eleanor returned home three days ago. She stayed as long as she could, helping with Amelia, providing the maternal presence I didn't realize I'd been craving. But she has her own life to get back to. Her own responsibilities.

Before leaving, she pulled me aside in the kitchen while Bellamy entertained both children in the living room.

"You're doing better than I expected," she said quietly. "Better than Adrian probably expected too."

I didn't know how to respond to that.

She squeezed my hand. "Call me if you need anything. And Sophie," She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Don't wait for him. Live your life. If he comes back, you can decide then what that means. But don't put yourself on hold."

I nodded, throat too tight to speak.

Now the apartment feels quieter without her presence. But not empty. Noah's energy fills every corner—his laughter, his demands for exactly-six-piece bananas, his running commentary on everything Mr. Carrots thinks about the world.

The noise that would have exhausted me a month ago makes me smile now.

I realize with growing certainty that I'm managing without Adrian, more than managing. I'm thriving in ways I couldn't when he was here.

The apartment feels lighter without his brooding presence in the study. Without the constant weight of knowing he's hiding behind a closed door, avoiding us, drowning in whatever darkness he won't share.

Without walking on eggshells trying not to trigger his moods or highlight another failure.

Amelia responds to my newfound confidence. She smiles more, fusses less, seems to sense that her mother isn't falling apart anymore. Or maybe that's wishful thinking. Maybe babies don't pick up on that kind of thing.

But it feels true.

Even my coursework for Independent Study is progressing smoothly. I'm actually enjoying the assignments again instead of forcing myself through them while managing Adrian's emotional volatility.

My advisor commented on my last submission that my analysis showed renewed depth and engagement.

I'm rediscovering who I am without Adrian's shadow crushing everything.

The realization should make me sad. Should feel like failure. Instead it feels like breathing after being underwater too long.

Dinner that evening is orchestrated chaos in the best way.

Noah insists his chicken needs to be cut into "tiny tiny tiny pieces" while simultaneously trying to feed some to Mr. Carrots. Bellamy patiently explains—again—that Mr. Carrots doesn't eat real food, only pretend food, but Noah can save one piece just in case Mr. Carrots changes his mind.

I'm feeding Amelia her bottle, watching the scene unfold with something that feels dangerously close to contentment.

Bellamy catches Noah's cup before it tips off the edge of the high chair. Cuts the chicken into acceptably tiny pieces.

Makes airplane noises that get Noah to actually eat instead of just rearranging food on his tray. All while keeping an eye on Amelia in her bouncer, ready to intervene if she needs anything.

The domestic scene feels natural. Comfortable. Like we've been doing this for years instead of weeks.

I watch Bellamy's patience with Noah—the gentle corrections, the easy humor, the way he validates his son's feelings even when setting boundaries. Watch how he glances at Amelia periodically, checking she's okay without being asked.

A thought surfaces, clear and startling: maybe I can do this without Adrian.

Maybe I don't need him at all.

The relationship I destroyed my life for might have been the thing destroying me all along.

Adrian brought darkness. Volatility. Constant emotional management. The feeling of walking on crumbling ground, never knowing when it would give way completely.

Bellamy brings stability. Consistency. The feeling of solid ground beneath my feet.

The comparison isn't fair. I know that. Bellamy isn't Amelia's father. Hasn't been through what Adrian and I went through. Doesn't carry the same baggage.

But the thought won't leave: what if I'm better off without Adrian?

What if we all are?

Noah announces he's finished eating by throwing his fork on the floor with a satisfied "Done!" Bellamy retrieves it without comment, wipes Noah's hands and face while fielding questions about whether trucks sleep at night. I burp Amelia, grateful for the simple rhythm of it all.

This is what family is supposed to feel like, I think. Not the constant tension and failure that defined life with Adrian. Just people showing up for each other. Being present. Making it work.

That night, after Bellamy takes Noah to bed with the usual negotiations about how many stories constitute "just one more," I settle on the couch with my laptop and notes for an upcoming assignment.

Amelia sleeps peacefully in her bassinet nearby. The apartment is quiet except for Bellamy's voice drifting from Noah's room, reading something about construction trucks with exaggerated enthusiasm that makes me smile despite the academic analysis I'm supposed to be focused on.

The quiet is comfortable rather than oppressive. Not the suffocating silence of Adrian hiding in his study while I existed alone in our shared space. This is the peaceful quiet of a home where people are present even when not in the same room.

I'm reviewing notes on postcolonial narrative theory, pen hovering over a particularly complex passage about subaltern voices, when I hear it.

The front door.

A key turning in the lock.

My head snaps up automatically. Bellamy must be coming back from checking something. Maybe he went to his car. Maybe he remembered something he needed from—

But the figure that steps through the doorway isn't Bellamy. Adrian stands in the entrance, duffel bag in hand.

He looks exhausted. Hair longer than it was a week ago, stubble shadowing his jaw. Dark circles under his eyes like he hasn't slept in days. His clothes are rumpled—the same shirt he was wearing when he left, I realize, recognizing the coffee stain on the collar.

He looks like he's been living out of his car. Or something worse.

We stare at each other across the living room.

I'm frozen mid-movement, pen still hovering over my notebook where I'd been annotating margins. My brain struggles to process what I'm seeing. To reconcile the man standing in the doorway with the reality I've been building without him.

Adrian came back.