Chapter 238

Chapter 238

Frederick stepped into the small courtyard glowing with warm light, the aroma of home-cooked food washing over him.

Nina had already set out several dishes on the stone table in the yard—a plate of pan-seared pork strips with roasted bell peppers, scrambled eggs mixed with lightly roasted potato cubes, and a bowl of homestyle pork soup just taken off the stove.

"David! Come sit, come sit!" Nina called out warmly.

Frederick set down the fruit basket and took a seat on the stone bench, somewhat stiffly.

This was the first time he was sitting down to dinner with her as 'David.'

On the table were the most ordinary home-cooked dishes. Beside him sat her and her close friend. In the little house nearby, his son slept. A warmth he'd never known before—something called 'home'—enveloped him completely.

Beatrice ladled him a bowl of soup and placed it before him, saying softly, "Try some. Our cooking's pretty basic, so bear with us."

Frederick accepted the bowl, steam from the soup fogging up his glasses.

He removed them, wiping the lenses while murmuring low, "Thank you."

Behind those lenses, his deep eyes churned with waves no one could fathom.

The soup was simple and homey—the pork stewed until tender, carrots releasing their sweetness into the broth, sliding warmly into his stomach and chasing away the mountain night's chill.

Frederick ate slowly, his movements carrying a refinement that didn't match his appearance.

Nina couldn't keep quiet even while eating, her mouth never idle.

"David, living alone, you probably just throw together whatever for meals, right? From now on, when we cook, just come over and eat with us. More people make it lively anyway."

Frederick looked up at Beatrice, as if seeking her approval.

Beatrice was dishing out food for Nina when she smiled and said, "Nina's right. If you don't mind, come over regularly."

His chest warmed, though he demurred politely, "That wouldn't be right. I'd be imposing too much."

"Not at all, it's just one more set of dishes."

Beatrice spoke casually, then asked, "You mentioned serving in the military before—what did you do?"

"Communications specialist, then transferred to logistics." Frederick's answer was airtight—all part of the background Liam had fabricated overnight, authentic enough to have records in the system.

"That must've been tough." Nina looked admiring.

"It's all in the past." Frederick set down his fork, his gaze sweeping across the courtyard as if casually. "You two young women, living here with a baby... it can't be easy. Don't you have... relatives or friends who come by to help out?"

He asked carefully, like a neighbor genuinely concerned.

Beatrice smiled. "We're doing fine. Mr. Nguyen, who helped us find this place, stops by occasionally to drop things off."

Frederick's heartbeat skipped. His hand tightened around his glass, though his voice remained steady.

"Mr. Nguyen? Oh, that young guy who came by in the car last time? He looked about Ms. Jenner' age—is he... your brother?"

"No," Beatrice shook her head, her expression open. "He's a friend. A benefactor, really. Without him, my son and I wouldn't even know where we'd be right now."

"Ah, a friend," Frederick repeated it, his tone carrying a certain elder's knowing quality. "That young man seems decent, and he clearly looks out for you both. Young people should stay connected. That's good."

His words carried equal parts probing and matchmaking.

Hearing this, Beatrice couldn't help laughing, her eyes taking on a teasing glint as she looked at him.

"Mr. Johnson, you're starting to sound more nosy than my mom."

That playful remark was like a warm breeze, sweeping away all the gloom and tension from Frederick's heart.

That was exactly the answer he'd wanted.

Friend. Benefactor.

Nothing more.

He laughed too, his eyes behind the lenses curving into a gentle arc, tinged with self-mockery.

"Getting old makes you worry about everything."

This was the best meal he'd had in his entire life.

After dinner, Nina efficiently cleared the dishes.

Beatrice was about to get up and help when whimpering sounds came from the inner room, followed quickly by full-throated crying.

"Baby's awake," Nina called out without turning around. "Bella, he probably needs changing. Go check on him."

Beatrice responded and hurried into the room.

Frederick stood too, following her over but stopping at the doorway without entering.

Inside, Beatrice opened the diaper and confirmed her suspicion.

Just as she was about to start, Ray seemed to know he was about to be handled and cried harder, his little legs kicking furiously.

Frederick watched Beatrice fumbling, and Maddy's roar instantly echoed in his mind—"The baby cries, and you panic? When you panic, he cries harder!"

He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

"Did he... have an accident?" he asked, though he already knew, keeping his voice low.

"Yes, he does this every diaper change. Nothing calms him down." Beatrice sounded helpless.

Frederick rubbed his hands together, looking somewhat embarrassed yet eager to try.

"How about... I give it a shot? Back when I was raising my son, diaper changes were always my job."

Beatrice froze, looking at him. Thinking of his child who'd died so young, her heart ached, and she stepped aside.

Frederick moved forward, his movements worlds apart from the stiff way he'd held the baby earlier that day.

He bent down first, using his finger to gently tickle Ray's chin, speaking in an unfamiliar, deliberately soft and low voice: "Don't cry, Ray. You'll feel better once we're done."

Ray's crying miraculously paused. He stared with watery eyes at this strange David.

Frederick's technique was practiced. With one hand, he gently lifted Ray's bottom, pulling out the soaked diaper while his other hand already had a wipe ready, wiping from front to back in one smooth motion.

Next came diaper cream, fingertip dabbing a thin layer and spreading it evenly.

Finally, a fresh diaper positioned underneath, aligned on both sides, tabs fastened with a single motion, tightness just right—exactly enough room to slip one finger inside.

The entire sequence flowed like water—fast, precise, steady, more textbook-perfect than any manual.

Beatrice and Nina, watching from the side, were stunned.

Nina's mouth hung open, finally managing to squeeze out, "David... were you, like, professionally trained for this?"

"Practice makes perfect."

As Frederick spoke, he lifted Ray up, using the standard upright hold, letting the baby's head rest steadily against his shoulder.

Ray stopped crying, only sniffling pitifully, his little head nuzzling against Frederick's shoulder to find a comfortable position.

Watching this scene, Beatrice felt something indescribable.

This David, when he mentioned his lost child, that buried grief had nearly overflowed.

Yet now holding someone else's baby, every movement was filled with practiced tenderness and patience.

He must have loved his own son so, so much.

"I think he's hungry again." Beatrice noticed Ray starting to smack his lips, saying softly.

"I'll make the bottle!" Nina volunteered.

"Let me," Frederick spoke up, carrying Ray toward the table. "Water temperature and formula ratio—I've got more experience than you two."

He held the baby with one hand while working.

Pouring water, testing temperature, adding powder, capping the bottle, his wrist rotating smoothly in horizontal circles—the entire process without spilling a single drop, the formula showing barely a bubble.

He handed the bottle to Beatrice.

Beatrice took it, testing the temperature. Perfect.

Her gaze toward Frederick had shifted from initial sympathy to complete admiration and respect.

Ray gulped down the milk, quickly draining the bottle.

Beatrice was just about to pick him up for burping when Frederick naturally took him.

He positioned Ray against his shoulder, cupping his palm to create a perfect hollow, patting gently from bottom to top with a rhythm that was tender yet firm.

After just a few pats, a crisp little burp sounded.

Ray sighed contentedly, lying against that broad and solid shoulder, and soon fell asleep.

The entire house went quiet.

Frederick held that tiny, milk-scented life in his arms, not daring to move.

He lowered his head, able to see his son's thick lashes, able to feel his even breathing.

Beatrice stood to the side, watching silently.

Moonlight spilled through the window, falling on Frederick and the child, sketching an unusually harmonious and warm picture.

She suddenly felt that this David—limping, wearing a mask, carrying so many untold stories—wasn't as lonely or tragic as she'd imagined.

He possessed a kind of strength, the kind that had been hammered repeatedly by life yet remained resilient and gentle.

Frederick held the soft, warm baby in his arms, his body maintaining a rigid posture, afraid the slightest movement might disturb this hard-won peace.

He could clearly smell that clean milk scent on his son, like early spring, like tender grass tips after rain, carrying the freshest breath of life.

Beatrice and Nina exchanged glances, each seeing the same astonishment in the other's eyes.