Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 140

Bellamy’s POV

Amelia has been screaming for three hours straight—full-throated, inconsolable wailing that drills into your skull and doesn't stop.

I watch Sophie pace the living room, bouncing Amelia with increasingly desperate movements that only seem to make things worse. Her shirt is soaked with spit-up.

Her hair hangs limp around her face. She looks like she's been through combat, but her jaw is set—no tears, just grim determination that's starting to crack at the edges.

"I don't know what to do." Her voice is flat with exhaustion. "I've tried everything. I've fed her, changed her, rocked her, sang to her—nothing works. Nothing fucking works."

Adrian's study door remains closed. I can hear his muffled voice through the wood—another work call, apparently more important than his screaming daughter.

"Let me try something," I say, standing from my post. "Technique I learned with Noah when he had colic."

Sophie looks at me, eyes hollowed-out but dry. "Please."

I move closer. "First, we need to swaddle her properly. That's not tight enough."

"The nurse said…"

"I know what the nurse said. But babies need pressure, security. They spent nine months compressed in a womb—loose swaddles make them feel unsafe." I gesture toward the swaddle blanket draped over the couch. "May I?"

Sophie nods, handing Amelia over with visible relief.

The baby's screams intensify when I take her. I ignore the sound, focus on the task. Lay the blanket flat, position Amelia at the top edge, fold one corner across her body firmly.

"See how I'm wrapping her arms down?" I demonstrate while talking over the crying. "Tight but not restrictive. She can't flail, which means she can't startle herself awake or agitate herself more."

I complete the swaddle with practiced efficiency. Amelia is now a compact burrito, arms secured, only her red, furious face visible.

"Now the hold." I adjust my grip, positioning her face-down along my forearm. "This is called the colic hold. Gentle pressure on the stomach—see? Her belly against my arm. It helps with gas pain."

Sophie watches intently, cataloging every movement.

I start rocking with a specific rhythm—not fast, not slow, but steady. Mimicking a heartbeat. "Count with me. One-two, one-two. Like this."

Amelia's screams don't stop immediately. But they change quality—less desperate, more just angry.

"Keep the rhythm consistent," I continue, still rocking. "Babies respond to patterns. Chaos makes them worse. Predictability calms them."

Sophie moves closer, studying the technique. "How long do you do this?"

"However long it takes. With Noah, sometimes it was five minutes. Sometimes forty-five." I adjust my hold slightly as Amelia squirms. "The key is not changing your approach every thirty seconds. Pick one technique and commit."

We stand there—me rocking Amelia with mechanical precision, Sophie watching with exhausted hope. The crying gradually subsides. Whimpers replace screams. Then finally—silence.

Amelia's eyes start to droop, her body relaxes against my arm.

"Oh my god." Sophie stares in wonder. "It actually worked…"

"Told you, it’s all about practice. And no emotional investment." I keep rocking even though the crying has stopped. "You're stressed, which makes her stressed. It's a feedback loop. Sometimes she just needs someone who isn't on the edge of breaking down."

The words come out harsher than intended. Sophie flinches slightly.

"I didn't mean…" I start.

"No, you're right." Sophie sinks onto the couch. "I am on the edge of breaking down, have been for weeks."

Amelia is fully asleep now, mouth slack, breathing even. I carefully transfer her to the swing, maintain the swaddle, keep my movements smooth and slow.

She doesn't wake—juust settles deeper into sleep with a small sigh. The apartment falls into blessed silence.

Sophie looks at me like I've performed a miracle. Then she laughs—genuinely, not the brittle forced sound I've heard from her lately. The sound is bright and genuine, transforming her entire face from an exhausted ghost into the woman I first met.

The one who had fire in her eyes despite being ambushed by paparazzi. The one who fought back instead of breaking.

"You're a wizard." She's still laughing, relief making her almost giddy. "Seriously. That was magic."

"That was just knowing what you're doing." But I smile despite myself, because making her laugh feels like an accomplishment worth celebrating.

"Can you teach me? The swaddle thing and the hold and the rhythm?"

"Of course. But right now, you should rest while she's sleeping."

Sophie shakes her head. "If I go to sleep now, I'll be up all night when she is. Better to stay awake and try to get her on a schedule."

Fair point. "Then just... sit. Breathe. Exist without a crisis for a few minutes."

She pats the couch beside her. "Sit with me?"

I should maintain professional distance. Should return to my post across the room. But Sophie looks so vulnerable right now, so desperate for human connection that isn't demands or accusations.

I sit. We exist in comfortable silence for a while. No pressure to fill it with words. Just two exhausted adults grateful for momentary peace.

"Tell me about Noah," Sophie says eventually. "Some good parts of parenthood."

I could do that, so I tell her about his obsession with trucks—not cars, specifically trucks, and he can identify every model by sound alone.

About how he refuses to eat bananas unless they're cut into exactly six pieces. About the way he says "I love you" unprompted, just random declarations throughout the day like he's afraid I might forget.

Sophie listens with genuine interest, asking questions, laughing at the funny parts.

Then she tells me about her sisters in return.

How they used to put on plays for their mom, elaborate productions with costumes made from bedsheets. How she taught the youngest one to read when she was only seven herself. How they still have a group chat that's mostly memes and inside jokes spanning years.

Memories that don't involve Adrian or scandal or shame. Just her, who she was before all this.

The afternoon passes like this—easy conversation and comfortable silences. Adrian never emerges from his study. Doesn't check on Amelia. Doesn't ask if Sophie needs anything.

His absence becomes another presence in the room, impossible to ignore.

Around four PM, I notice Sophie's eyes drooping. She's fighting sleep, trying to stay engaged in conversation about Noah's daycare drama.

"Lie down," I tell her gently. "Just for a few minutes."

"I can't. Amelia might—"

"I'll wake you if she needs you. Promise."

Sophie hesitates, then curls onto the couch. "Just twenty minutes."

"Whatever you need."

She's asleep in less than five. I watch her breathing even out, face finally relaxing from the constant tension she carries.

Amelia stirs in the swing but doesn't wake. Just shifts position, tiny fist escaping the swaddle to rest against her cheek.

I look at them—this woman and this baby who aren't mine but somehow feel like they should be. Sophie exhausted on the couch, Amelia peaceful in her swing, both of them finally at rest.

The thought hits with dangerous clarity: I could give them this. This peace. This stability. The presence Adrian can't or won't provide.

I stand carefully, retrieve the soft blanket from the chair. Drape it over Sophie with gentle movements that won't disturb her. She makes a small sound, pulling the blanket closer, but doesn't wake.

I should return to my post, should maintain that professional distance I keep telling myself matters.

Instead, I sit in the nearby chair. Close enough to respond if either of them needs me. Far enough to maintain the illusion of appropriate boundaries.

I'm not leaving, not until Sophie wakes up and dismisses me. Maybe not even then.

Because watching over them, keeping them safe while they rest feels more right than anything has in years.

More right than it should.