Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Atlas
My weekend was .
. . different, to say the least.
I don’t do overnight stays—ever.
That’s just a thing.
No exceptions. And yet, Blythe has been in my apartment all weekend.
She worked a few hours on Saturday, but not many.
Not with how little sleep she’s been getting.
Was she happy when I told her that if I saw her downstairs, she’d be fired?
Nope, but at least she got to rest. I just need her to learn how to relax and then she can be at the shop full time.
Things in my place have been a little too .
. . domestic? Is that the word I should use?
Maybe. And I should feel uncomfortable.
Should want my space back.
Should be itching to get back to the way things were before she showed up.
But somehow, I’m fine with it.
‘Fine’ might not be the right word, but I choose not to dig into it.
Monday morning, the concierge showed up first thing with everything I’d arranged—clothes, shoes, whatever Blythe might need.
And that was an issue.
Apparently, Winston used to control what she wore, so explaining that all I was doing was giving her options was .
. . challenging, to say the least.
What should have been a simple task turned into a goddamn tug-of-war, one I barely won.
In the end, we managed to order enough clothes to cover her for the pregnancy and beyond.
Something about stretch fabrics and usefulness later convinced her to get a few pieces that they brought.
Did I understand any of that?
Nope. I just told Teddy Bradley, the concierge, to make sure Blythe had everything she needed and let them sort it out.
Now it’s Tuesday.
And my apartment looks like a high-end boutique exploded inside it.
Boxes, bags, tissue paper—shit everywhere.
I grab another package off the counter and glance over at Blythe.
She’s sitting on the couch, arms wrapped around her middle, looking at the pile of clothes like they might come alive and swallow her whole.
“This is ridiculous,” she mutters.
“You’re welcome.” I drop the package onto the growing stack.
She shoots me a look.
“Atlas, I don’t need all this.”
“You also don’t need to keep wearing that raggedy-ass sweatshirt with those falling-apart jeans,” I counter, nodding toward it since it’s draped over the arm of the couch.
Her lips press together, and I can see the argument forming, the way her fingers tighten against her ribs like she’s bracing herself.
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my jaw.
“Look, you don’t have to wear any of it if you don’t want to. But it’s here. It’s yours. Do whatever you want with it.”
She hesitates, then glances at the bags again.
“It’s just . . . too much.”
“Too much is good.”
Her eyes snap back to mine.
I hold her gaze, let her see I mean it.
“You’re allowed to have too much.”
She doesn’t say anything.
Just exhales through her nose, looking down at her lap.
I don’t push. Just grab another package and rip it open.
I hold up the pack of hangers and nod toward the closet.
“Here. You can start dragging everything in there while I’m gone.”
Blythe crosses her arms, eyeing me like I just suggested she build a house from scratch.
“What was the code for the upstairs apartment?” she asks instead.
“You’re staying here.”
“No, I’m not taking over your bedroom.”
“You’re not,” I counter, already expecting this argument.
“Like I told you yesterday, once you stop puking your brains out and we know you won’t be needing me every night, I’ll be the one heading upstairs.”
She makes a face.
“That’s a lot of trouble. Why are you going through so much for a stranger?”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head.
“You’re no longer a stranger, Blythe. I think we know each other pretty well.”
She raises an eyebrow, skeptical.
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
I lean against the counter, arms crossed.
“I mean, every night I’m there while you’re puking your guts out, so I know you make this weird little groan when you’re about to throw up.”
Her mouth drops open.
“Excuse me?”
“And I know you hum ‘Here Comes the Sun’ under your breath when you think no one’s listening.”
She turns a shade darker.
“That is a lie.”
“It is not,” I say, enjoying this way too much.
“You did it last night between dry heaves. ‘Sun, sun, sun?—’”
“Oh my God.” She groans, burying her face in her hands.
“This is humiliating.”
I keep going.
“I also know you do that little head tilt thing when you’re trying to figure something out. And you roll your eyes exactly three times in a row when you think I’m being annoying.”
“I do not.”
“Oh, but you do so, even when you like to deny it.” I hold up three fingers.
“One. Two. Three.”
Her eyes roll dramatically.
Once. Twice. Three times.
I smirk. “See?”
She glares at me.
“I walked right into that.”
“Yeah, you did.”
She exhales, shaking her head, but there’s something different in her expression now.
Lighter. Easier. Nothing like the woman I met last week at The Honey Drop—the one who flinched at shadows and looked ready to bolt the second anyone got too close.
And fuck if I don’t like that.
“So, while you tidy up around here, I have a few things to take care of in the building,” I say, glancing at the mountain of boxes I’ll have to break down later.
She crosses her arms. “Fine, but just so you know, I’m not thrilled about this whole you’re living in my apartment now situation.”
I salute her.
“Duly noted. And I’ll make sure to bring all your stuff from upstairs.”
She mutters something under her breath, probably about me being impossible, but I don’t press.
Instead, I grab my jacket and head for the door.
The cameras Sanford had installed need to be recalibrated.
The exits need to be checked.
Reinforced. I need to make sure this place is a goddamn fortress before Winston’s people even get close.
But the truth?
I’m not just securing the place for her.
I’m making sure she has a reason to stay.
Confession time? I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.
Blythe is changing things.
Getting under my skin.
Sliding into my space in ways I didn’t expect, didn’t plan for.
I should stop it. Should remind myself that she’s temporary, a complication that will be someone else’s responsibility soon.
But then I think about the weekend.
How easy it was to be around her.
How she didn’t take up space the way I expected her to.
How she folded into my world like she was always meant to be there.
The way she hummed while she read that pregnancy book I got her, completely unaware I was watching.
The way she rolled her eyes at me but still reached for the toast I made her.
The way my name sounded softer when she was half-asleep, mumbled through exhaustion.
And that’s probably a problem.
But not one I’m willing to fix.
By the time I head upstairs, the apartment is quiet.
I knock once, then let myself in.
I don’t ask permission.
I don’t wait.
She’s standing by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the street below.
Something about her posture makes my stomach tighten.
I know that stance. She’s probably cataloging details, memorizing exits, mapping out a way to disappear.
She’s thinking about running, even if she’s not ready to run.
I lean against the counter, watching her carefully.
“Something interesting out there?”
She stiffens slightly, then turns.
Her face is unreadable, carefully blank, but her eyes—her eyes give her away.
She’s not just looking.
She’s searching. For an escape.
For a threat. I push the phone box across the kitchen counter toward her.
No preamble. No explanation.
She blinks at it. Then at me.
“What’s this?”
“A phone.”
“I can see that.” She narrows her eyes.
“Why?”
“So I don’t lose my fucking mind when I can’t find you.”
Her lips part slightly, caught off guard, but then she recovers fast, shaking her head.
“I don’t need it.”
“Yeah, you do.”
She exhales through her nose, crossing her arms tighter, defensive.
“I’ve gone this long without one.”
“You didn’t have me watching your back before.”
That makes her pause, but I don’t stop.
“And maybe you don’t need it,” I add, voice calmer now, “but I need you to have it. It’s for my peace of mind.”
Her mouth snaps shut, but the frustration in her eyes is clear.
“This gives you a little more freedom,” I say, leveling my tone.
“Say you’re at a bookstore, and if I need to reach you, I can call. I don’t have to be there.”
She studies me, like she’s trying to decide if this is control or actually freedom.
I don’t know how to convince her she needs it.
But I do know what she hates—being watched.
Being tracked. Feeling like she’s still a possession instead of a person.
She’s looking at this phone and seeing a leash.
I take a slow step toward her.
Then another.
Close enough to see the way her breath catches.
The way her pulse jumps at the base of her throat.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t be standing this close.
I shouldn’t be noticing the way my shirt hangs on her, swallowing her up.
How it makes her look small, soft .
. . and I stop myself right there because ‘mine’ is not where I should go.
I shouldn’t be wondering what she looks like under it.
“You don’t have to call me or even text me,” I murmur.
“But if something happens and I can’t find you? If Winston gets closer?” My jaw locks.
“I need to be able to reach you.”
She swallows hard, gaze flicking between the phone and my face like she’s still assessing the risk.
“I won’t track it,” I add, softer this time, as I place a hand on the box.
“If you’re afraid I’ll keep tabs on you, I won’t—unless you ask me to.”
Her shoulders loosen—just barely—but I catch it.
I’m not surprised that she needed to hear that.
Learn that I won’t be keeping tabs on her the way he probably used to do it.
A breath escapes her, and then her fingers close around the box.
Her hand grazes mine.
Neither of us moves.
There’s a beat—a moment—where the air around us shifts, stretching tight.
The world narrows to nothing but her skin against mine.
The warmth of it. The quiet pull of something I should be ignoring but can’t.
Her lashes lower, and her throat bobs as she swallows, and for a second—just a second—I think she pushes herself on her tiptoes and might lean in.
Though I shouldn’t want her to, I so fucking want her to do it.
Do it, I think .
You can’t possibly want this, fucker.
Oh, but I so fucking want it.
Just a taste—a nibble.
Why the fuck do I?
She steps back first, breaking whatever just passed between us, as she grabs the phone.
I take the win without pushing.
She doesn’t say thank you, only nods once, and turns away toward the bedroom.
And I tell myself I should just be grateful that she took it.
That thank fuck we didn’t kiss and make this complicated.
This was good.
For now, it should be enough.
So then, why is it that I feel like I’m missing something, that I lost something I didn’t even have before?