Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 152

Adrian’s POV

I can prove myself. I can do this.

The thought repeats like a mantra as I insist on handling Amelia's entire bedtime routine alone. Bath, bottle, putting her down—all of it. Without Sophie's intervention or Bellamy's quiet competence making me look worse by comparison.

Sophie hesitates in the nursery doorway. "Are you sure? I can help."

"I've got it." My voice comes out sharper than intended. "I can handle my own daughter's bedtime, Sophie."

She holds my gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across her features. Doubt, maybe, or pity. I'm not sure which is worse.

"Okay." She sounds uncertain but too exhausted to argue. "I'm going to take a bath. If you need anything…"

"I won't need anything." I soften my tone with effort. "Go relax. We'll be fine."

Sophie leaves. I hear the bathroom door close, water running. She deserves this—an hour of peace without the constant demands of our daughter.

And I deserve a chance to prove I'm capable.

Amelia looks up at me from her crib, eyes wide and trusting. She doesn't know yet that I'm going to fail her. That I always fail her.

"Just you and me tonight, little princess." I lift her carefully, supporting her head. "We can do this."

The bath goes reasonably well. I manage not to get soap in her eyes this time, keep the water temperature perfect, and handle her slippery newborn body without dropping her. Small victories.

Then comes the bottle.

I settle into the rocking chair with Amelia cradled in my arms, bottle prepared exactly how Sophie does it. Test the temperature on my wrist—perfect.

I bring it to her mouth—she turns her head away. I try again, adjust the angle. She turns away again, fussing now, small whimpers building.

And something in me goes very still. Because I remember this room.

Not this nursery—a different one, smaller, the wallpaper peeling in one corner. I'm four years old, maybe five, and I'm the one making noise. I don't remember why: hungry, or frightened, or just lonely the way small children are lonely when their mother has been gone too long.

What I remember is my father's face in the doorway. The flat, unreadable way he looked at me. How he didn't come in. How he stood there, hands flexing at his sides, watching me cry as though I were a problem he was weighing the cost of solving.

He didn't hit me, he never hit me. That was almost the worst part—how his restraint always felt like a favor he might withdraw.

He just watched. Until eventually he turned off the light and walked away, and I cried myself out alone in the dark, because I had already learned, at five, that wanting him to come back only made it worse.

I look down at Amelia now. At my daughter's small, scrunched face. At the whimper that's building, not yet a proper cry, the first signal of distress.

I know this sequence. I know it from the wrong end. I know what it feels like to be the one in the crib.

And I am terrified—absolutely terrified—of being the one in the doorway.

"Please," I whisper, and my voice comes out strange. "Please just eat. Please."

Amelia's whimpers tip into crying. Not screaming yet, just the unmistakable sound of a baby who wants someone else.

She turns her face toward the nursery door, toward the hallway, toward where Sophie's voice would come from if Sophie were close enough to hear.

She's looking for her mother.

Even at three months old, she knows which parent she wants.

I set her down in the crib with hands that won't stop shaking. Step back. Raise my hands like she's something dangerous I need distance from.

She screams louder now, reaching for me, wanting comfort I can't provide.

I'm becoming him. Becoming exactly what Lolita and Marcus Lewis shaped me to be. A man who sees his own child as an obstacle to overcome rather than a person to love. Who feels rage instead of compassion when faced with helpless crying.

The bathroom door opens. Sophie emerges in her robe, hair wet, face shifting from confusion to alarm when she registers the sound.

"What's happening?" She's already moving toward the nursery.

"I can't. She won't eat.” I gesture helplessly at Amelia. "Nothing works."

Sophie doesn't ask questions. Just lifts our daughter from the crib, settles her against her shoulder with practiced ease. Makes soft shushing sounds, brings the bottle to Amelia's mouth.

Our daughter latches immediately, drinks greedily. The crying stops like someone flipped a switch.

The silence is devastating. I watch them—Sophie and Amelia, mother and daughter, a complete unit that functions perfectly without me.

Sophie didn't do anything different. Used the same bottle, same formula, same position I tried. The only variable that changed was the person holding her.

Amelia wanted her mother. Refused her father.

Because even at three months old, she knows. Knows I'm broken. Knows I don't love her the way I should. Knows I'm dangerous.

Something inside me snaps.

"You did this." The words come out low, accusatory. "You deliberately made her prefer you."

Sophie's head whips toward me, expression incredulous. "What?"

"You sabotaged every attempt I made to bond with her." My voice is rising, months of frustration pouring out unchecked. "Made sure she'd only want you. So you could push me out of the family and prove I'm useless."

"Are you serious right now?" Sophie stares at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.

"You systematically excluded me!" I'm shouting now, unable to stop. "Every feeding, every bath, every moment—you took over before I could figure it out. Made sure I'd always fail!"

"You pushed yourself out!" Sophie fires back, fury replacing shock. "You retreated into your study, hid behind work calls, treated fatherhood like an obligation instead of a choice! I didn't exclude you—you excluded yourself!"

"I'm trying!" The words tear from my throat. "It's never enough for you! Nothing I do is right! I can't win!"

Sophie's response comes quiet and devastating.

"You're right. It's not enough." Her voice trembles with exhaustion and honesty and something that might be grief. "She's your daughter and you can't even feed her without failing."

The words hang in the air between us. Cruel. True. Unforgivable.

‘I can't even feed her without failing.’

My face goes blank. Numb. The rage drains away leaving nothing but cold emptiness.

I turn and walk toward the door.

"Adrian…" Sophie's voice follows me but I'm already moving. Down the hallway. Through the living room. Past Bellamy who's rising from the couch with an alarm on his face.

I grab my keys from the counter. My wallet. My phone.

"Adrian, where are you going?" Sophie appears in the hallway, still holding Amelia. "Don't just leave!"

I walk out of the apartment without answering. The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds like finality.

The night air is cool. I walk without direction, end up at a bar I don't recognize in a neighborhood I've never visited.

Order whiskey. Then another. Then another.

The bartender asks if I'm okay. I don't answer.

‘I can't even feed her without failing.’

The words replay on loop. Sophie's voice. My mother's disappointment. My father's rage. Lolita's clinical assessment that some people aren't built for this.

They're all right.

I order another whiskey.