Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Atlas
Work was exhausting.
Five clients and a couple of walk-ins for my first day was probably a lot.
I didn’t finish until almost eleven, but even while I was tattooing, sketching, dealing with the usual, my mind wasn’t in it.
Not really.
Because every time I stepped away for a break, I found myself checking on Blythe.
Making sure she was eating the small meals I left for her.
Listening for any sign that she was still upstairs.
That she hadn’t disappeared while I wasn’t looking.
I tell myself it’s just a precaution— that I’m not worried—just being practical.
Though I know that’s bullshit.
When I finally head upstairs, the apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
I scan the space as I walk through, my pulse kicking up with every empty room I pass.
The kitchen. The bathroom.
The guest room. Nothing.
It’s not until I reach the last door—my door—that I pause.
When I push it open, she’s there.
A slow exhale slips from my lungs, easing in my chest before I can stop it.
She’s curled up on my bed, legs tucked under her, flipping through a book she must’ve grabbed from the shelf.
My shirt hangs loose on her, my sweatpants pooling around her ankles.
She looks impossibly small in them, swallowed by fabric that was never meant for her.
But fuck if I don’t like it.
She glances up when she hears me, her eyes wary at first, like she half-expected me to be someone else.
Like she still hasn’t fully let herself believe she’s safe.
“You’re back,” she murmurs.
I nod, leaning against the doorframe.
“And you’re still here.”
She shrugs, shifting against the pillows.
“Figured I’d stay at least long enough to finish this chapter.”
I huff out something that might be amusement, stepping inside.
“Good book?”
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile but doesn’t let herself.
“You tell me—I mean, it’s yours.”
“It’s good.” I toe off my boots.
“How are you feeling?”
She shrugs, setting the book aside.
“Fine.”
I raise a brow.
She sighs. “Tired. Nauseous. Existing.”
“That’s better.”
She smirks, but then her face shifts—brows knitting, lips parting slightly like something’s just hit her.
Soon enough, she pushes off the bed, rushing past me before I even process what’s happening.
It doesn’t take me long to guess where she’s going.
Bathroom.
Fuck.
I follow her in an instant, reaching the doorway just as she drops to her knees in front of the toilet.
“Blythe—”
She waves a weak hand at me.
“Don’t look at me. This is humiliating.”
I ignore that and crouch beside her, rubbing a slow circle on her back, not caring if she protests.
She doesn’t, though.
Just leans forward, hands braced on the porcelain, as another wave overtakes her.
I wait. Stay right there, close but not overbearing, until she finally sags against the cool surface, breathing shallowly.
When she leans back against the cool porcelain, drained and pale, I reach for a washcloth, run it under cold water, and crouch beside her.
She doesn’t flinch when I dab it against her skin, doesn’t protest when I wipe the sheen of sweat from her forehead.
She just breathes, slow and shaky, her lips parting like she wants to say something but isn’t sure how.
Her eyes meet mine—open, searching.
I don’t look away.
Suddenly, something shifts between us.
I don’t know what triggered it—the way she tilts her head, the quiet in the room settling around us, or maybe just the fact that she’s here, wrapped up in my clothes like she belongs in them.
But it’s there.
Thick.
Electric.
Her gaze lingers on me a second too long, her fingers still curled around the piece of toast, forgotten.
The air between us stretches, something unspoken threading through it, tugging tight.
I should step back. Should say something to break whatever this is before it turns into something I can’t walk away from.
But I don’t.
Because there’s something about this woman that disarms me.
Confuses me.
Pulls me in before I have the sense to stop it.
I don’t know what to do with that.
She shifts slightly, adjusting in the oversized sweats, and it does something to me—something I can’t explain.
It’s not just that she’s wearing my clothes.
It’s the way she looks in them like she has no idea what it’s doing to me.
Like she has no clue that even after a night of barely keeping food down, after looking completely wrecked in the bathroom, she can still manage to throw me completely off my game.
I could leave. I should.
She swallows, her throat working, but she doesn’t pull away when I slide an arm under hers and help her to her feet.
She’s warm.
Her body leans into mine just enough for me to notice, just enough for me to feel the way her fingers press into my arm for balance.
I don’t let go.
Not when she finds her footing.
Not when she exhales, slow and measured.
Not even when I should, I just stay, maybe a second too long.
Long enough to notice the way her breath catches.
The way her grip lingers, hesitant but there.
Enjoying it or testing a boundary I don’t quite understand.
Maybe both.
Move, idiot , I order myself.
That’s when I finally release her and grab a fresh toothbrush from the cabinet, rip it from the packaging, and press it into her hand.
“Here.”
She blinks, surprised, then huffs out something that could almost be a laugh.
“Are you always this prepared?”
I lean against the counter, arms crossed.
“You’re not the first sick person I’ve taken care of.”
Her brows lift.
“No?”
I shake my head.
“You’re the easiest patient I’ve had so far.”
She snorts, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“That’s a low bar, Timberbridge.”
I smirk.
“And yet, you still haven’t passed out on me.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real bite to it.
Just exhaustion and something else that I choose to ignore.
Once she’s done cleaning herself, I gesture toward the door.
“Come on.”
She hesitates for a second, like she’s debating whether she should follow me or just collapse on the bathroom floor.
Then, with a sigh, she steps forward.
I lead her to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water.
I twist off the cap, set it in front of her, then lean against the counter.
“Drink.”
She picks it up but doesn’t take a sip.
Instead, she studies it, fingers tracing over the condensation.
Then she looks at me.
“What?” I ask.
An almost-there smile tugs at her lips.
“You’re weirdly good at this.”
I scoff.
“At what? Taking care of people?”
She nods, voice quieter now.
“Yeah.”
I shrug, reaching out and brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead.
“You get used to it.”
She studies me.
There’s something unreadable in her expression.
Then, after a long moment, she asks, “Who took care of you?”
The question lands somewhere deep, hitting a place I don’t usually let people go.
I could lie.
Tell her it doesn’t matter.
But instead, I just shake my head.
“No one and it’s totally fine.”
She doesn’t look away.
Thankfully, she doesn’t say she’s sorry for whatever fucked up childhood I had.
Nor does she try to fill the silence with something that won’t mean anything.
She just nods. Like maybe she understands.
Like maybe she’s lived it too.
I don’t know what pushes me to take her into my arms. Thank fuck she lets me hold her there, her body tense at first, and then something shifts.
She exhales, just barely, and it’s enough.
Enough to tell me she’s letting herself lean—just for a second.
And fuck—she doesn’t pull away.
And I don’t let go.
Not yet.
For some reason, I can’t understand why I need this.
It settles me in a way I never expected, just like it confuses me the only way Blythe can since I met her at the coffee shop.
The next morning, I wake up in the guest room.
It wasn’t the plan to let her stay in my apartment—or to give her my bed.
However, after a couple of times of Blythe running back and forth to the bathroom, it just made sense.
I didn’t want her to be alone while she had to deal with her stomach issues.
Morning sickness? Fucking lie.
There was nothing morning about it.
It dragged her out of bed every few minutes, pulling me right along with it.
Maybe it wasn’t that often, but it sure as fuck felt like it.
I rub a hand over my face, exhaling before pushing myself up.
I’m exhausted, but lying here won’t do shit.
I head to the kitchen, already pulling out the basics—bread, eggs, and avocado.
Something tells me that if I don’t step in, she’ll keep living off crackers and whatever else she manages to grab when I remind her she has to eat.
Before I can start, I grab my wireless earbuds, slipping them on, and call Sanford.
“This better be good, or I swear I’m going to kill you,” he answers, voice already impatient.
“Morning, sunshine,” I laugh.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“I need the concierge.”
There’s a pause.
Then, “For what?”
“Clothes, shoes, whatever pregnant women need,” I say, shoving bread into the toaster.
“And get me a list of good OBs nearby. I know we have Simone, but I want the best care for Blythe. I don’t care how much they cost—just make sure they’re the best.”
Another pause.
“You playing house now?”
I don’t dignify that with an answer.
“Just do it.”
“Simone is on the list of trusted doctors, Timberbridge,” he says with a warning voice.
“I don’t care if you’re trying to woo this woman, but you’re not fucking breaking protocol. You get me?”
This isn’t a mission, and technically, I’m not working for him.
I have to think about Blythe and the baby.
“What if?—”
“She’ll be fine. Simone is one of the best,” he cuts me off.
“If not, she wouldn’t be on the roster.”
“Would you trust Aerin’s care to her?” I have to bring up one of his significant others.
If she were pregnant, what would he do?
“Yes, if this would keep her out of danger, I would. Now, if you prefer, I could move the two of you to Luna Harbor?—”
“No,” I cut him.
“If we do, we’ll lose the trail, and this nightmare will never end.”
Sanford mutters something under his breath.
“Glad we have an understanding. Anything else?”
“That’s it.” I hang up before I change my mind and move to Antarctica with Blythe.
By the time the toast pops up, I’ve got eggs in the pan, avocado sliced.
I work on autopilot.
Something about cooking has always helped clear my mind—maybe because it’s one of the few things in my life that follows a predictable pattern.
When everything’s ready, I plate the food, grab a bottle of water, and head to the bedroom to wake her up.
But when I push open the bedroom door, I pause.
She’s up, already showered and tidying the room.
My bed is made, the few things I’d left out neatly stacked on the dresser.
She moves slowly, her hair damp, but there’s something about it that pulls at something deep in my gut.
And then I realize what she’s wearing.
A clean shirt, mine, along with a pair of shorts—also mine.
The fabric hangs off her frame, drowning her in soft folds, but fuck if I don’t like it.
She turns when she hears me, brushing loose strands of hair from her face.
“You’re awake.”
I lift the plate.
“And I made breakfast.”
Her gaze flicks to the food, then back to me.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did,” I say, stepping inside.
“Because if I didn’t, you’d survive off whatever scraps you could find. And as much as I enjoy watching you live out your struggling-college-student era, you’re pregnant, so . . .” I set the plate down on the nightstand, crossing my arms. “Eat.”
She rolls her eyes but sits on the edge of the bed anyway.
“You’re really bossy.”
“And you’re really bad at taking care of yourself.”
She stares at me for a second before sighing, grabbing a piece of toast. I watch as she takes a bite, chewing slowly.
Like she’s not trusting .
. . the toast? Me?
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods, swallowing carefully.
“Yeah. Just waiting to see if my stomach rejects this.”
“Think it’ll stay down?”
She takes another bite, slower this time.
“Guess we’ll find out.”
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as she eats.
And maybe I shouldn’t be watching.
Noticing the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, how my shirt slips off one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her collarbone.
How her lips part just slightly before each bite, the way her fingers toy with the edge of the toast like she’s half-distracted.
She’s not trying to do anything.
Not trying to get my attention.
But fuck if she doesn’t have it anyway.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling through my nose, forcing myself to look away before my thoughts go somewhere they shouldn’t.
And I tell myself this is nothing.
That it doesn’t mean anything.
But I know that’s a fucking lie. Fuck.