Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 110

Adrian’s POV

The nursery is finished.

I stand in the doorway, surveying the room that's supposed to welcome my daughter into the world. Soft colors, pale yellow and cream, cover the walls.

The crib is white oak, hand-carved, obscenely expensive. A matching changing table. A rocking chair upholstered in fabric so soft it feels like clouds. Stuffed animals arranged on shelves. Books I'll never read stacked in neat rows.

Everything a child could need.

Sophie chose most of it—the colors, the furniture, the careful aesthetic that transforms four walls into something warm. I wrote the checks. Signed off on deliveries. Nodded when she asked my opinion, though I never had one worth sharing.

I feel nothing.

The realization settles over me like ice water, chilling and undeniable. I should feel something, standing here—anticipation, fear, joy.

The room represents my future—my daughter's first space in this world, the place where I'll hold her, comfort her, watch her grow.

I feel nothing. I turn away, unable to look at it anymore.

***

In my study, I pour whiskey I don't want and stare at the books lining my shelves—first editions, rare manuscripts, a library that represents decades of careful acquisition.

I've tried. God, I've tried.

I place my hand on Sophie's belly when the baby kicks, trying to manufacture connection through touch. I feel movement—proof of life—but the emotion that should accompany it never arrives.

I've read articles about fatherhood, about bonding, about what to expect in the first year. Clinical information that slides off my brain like water off glass.

There's a book on my nightstand—The Expectant Father's Guide—that I bought three weeks ago. It sits unopened, spine uncracked, mocking me every morning when I wake.

Nothing connects.

When I imagine the future, I see Sophie. I see her smile, her stubbornness, the fire in her eyes when she challenges me. I see our life together—complicated, imperfect, but real.

But the child, my child remains abstract, a concept I can't translate into reality. I know the baby is coming.

I know it’ll have needs, demands, a personality that will develop beyond my control. I know I'm supposed to love the baby automatically, instinctively, the way fathers are supposed to love their children.

I don't know how.

I take a drink, letting the burn settle in my chest.

"You know staring at whiskey doesn't make it therapeutic."

Bellamy's voice comes from the doorway. I didn't hear him approach—a reminder that I'm more distracted than I should be.

"I wasn't aware I invited commentary."

"You didn't." He moves into the room, uninvited, settling into the chair across from my desk. "Sophie's asleep, her friends left. Thought you'd want to know."

"I do know. I checked on her."

"And then came in here to brood."

I set down my glass. "Is there something you need, or are you just determined to be irritating?"

"Little of both." Bellamy studies me with that flat gaze that's always seen too much. "You look like shit."

"Thank you for the observation."

"When's the last time you slept more than three hours?"

"I wasn't aware my sleep schedule was your concern."

"It's not." He shrugs. "But if you collapse from exhaustion, I'm the one who has to explain it to your pregnant girlfriend. Rather avoid that conversation."

The word girlfriend grates. Such an inadequate term for what Sophie is—what she's become.

She's carrying my child, she's discovered my past, she's still here, despite everything. And I can't even give her the certainty of knowing what I want.

"You can go," I say flatly. "I don't need supervision."

Bellamy doesn't move. "What's eating you?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

I meet his gaze, and for a moment, I consider telling him. About the nursery. About the emptiness where paternal instinct should be. About the growing certainty that I'm not built for any of this—fatherhood, commitment, the ordinary life Sophie deserves.

But Bellamy and I don't have that kind of relationship. Not anymore.

"Just tired," I say instead. "Like you said."

He watches me for a long moment, then rises. "Whatever it is, figure it out. That woman in there is fighting for your kid. Least you can do is show up."

He leaves without waiting for a response. I pour another whiskey. The truth is, I wasn't built for this.

Lolita shaped me into a man who takes, who controls, who dominates. She taught me pleasure through power, connection through submission. Everything I know about intimacy came filtered through her lens—manipulation disguised as passion, ownership disguised as love.

And my father showed me what family really means—leverage, loyalty, blood debts. Family wasn't about love in his world; it was about obligation. You protected your own because they were useful, because they could be trusted, because abandoning them made you weak.

Neither of them taught me how to hold a baby. How to be soft. How to love something so vulnerable without breaking it.

I think about Sophie’s Dad’s question at the hospital—’What are your intentions? Are you planning to propose?’—and the silence that followed my non-answer.

Marriage means permanence. Means trusting myself with Sophie's entire future, with her happiness, with the life of our daughter.

I don't trust myself with anything. Not after what I was. Not after what I did.

***

I check on Sophie just past midnight.

She's asleep—finally, after hours of discomfort that left her exhausted and pale.

The monitor beside her bed tracks her vitals, green lines steady against the darkness. She's curled on her side, one hand resting on her belly, protecting our daughter even in unconsciousness.

Something cracks in my chest.

She looks so small, so fragile. Fighting a battle her body might not win, carrying a child she didn't plan, loving a man who can't give her what she deserves.

It hurts to watch her suffer.

The pain surprises me. I've spent years mastering detachment—building walls so thick that nothing penetrates, nothing reaches the hollow space where emotions should live. I survived my father's world by feeling nothing.

I survived Lolita by feeling nothing. I rebuilt myself into someone new by refusing to let anyone close enough to hurt me. Yet here I am, undone by a woman carrying my child.

I sink into the chair beside her bed, watching her breathe.

"I don't know how to do this," I whisper into the darkness. "Any of it."

Sophie doesn't stir. Her breathing remains steady, even, peaceful.

"I don't know how to be a father. Don't know how to be what you need. Everything I am, everything I was built to be, it's wrong for this. Wrong for you. Wrong for her."

The confession feels dangerous, even unheard. Words I've never spoken aloud, thoughts I've barely allowed myself to think.

"But I care about you." My voice cracks, just slightly. "More than I expected, more than I wanted. When you're hurting, I hurt. When you're scared, something in me wants to destroy whatever frightened you. I don't know if that's love. I don't know what love is supposed to feel like."

Sophie's hand twitches on her belly. The baby kicks—I see the movement through her nightgown, a tiny protest against the constraints of the womb.

"I'll try," I murmur. "I don't know how to be soft, but I'll try."

Maybe caring is where it starts. Maybe the rest comes later—the bonding, the instinct, the automatic love that other fathers seem to possess.

Or maybe I'm lying to myself again. Maybe I'll never be what they need.

But watching Sophie sleep, watching our baby move beneath her skin, I know one thing with absolute certainty:

I have to try. If I fail—when I fail—at least I'll know I tried.

It's not enough. But it's all I have.