Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Henrietta (Blythe)
I should be asleep.
Curled up in the ridiculous nest of pillows.
A nest Atlas insisted on piling around me after the last time I puked, surrounded by the first real comfort I’ve had in what feels like forever.
Instead, I’m standing in the hallway, barefoot, watching him move in the kitchen.
I don’t know what woke me—the faint clang of pans, the low hum of movement, the scent of something warm and buttery filling the apartment—but the second I opened my eyes and saw he was gone .
. . I worried.
I know, it’s ridiculous.
I shouldn’t be attached to this man at all.
And yet, here I am.
And yes, I’m one hundred percent aware that he shouldn’t be sleeping in my bed, but after waking up five times, he decided it was easier to stay close by for the next round.
Hence, the nest of pillows.
It’s been a little over two weeks since I moved into this apartment.
Since I started working at the tattoo parlor as a receptionist, keeping the books in order, scheduling clients, pretending like I don’t notice the way Atlas watches me.
Like I don’t notice the way he always makes sure there’s food in the fridge.
The way he makes sure my water bottle is full before heading to bed.
The way he just—takes care of things before I even realize they need to be handled.
It’s infuriating. And confusing and .
. . so impossibly annoying to ignore.
No, annoying is not the word.
I just want to be mad at him for making me feel all these things.
Because one thing is for sure: there’s something between us.
Something I feel every time he gets too close.
Every time, his hand lingers at the small of my back.
Every time, he nudges a plate toward me at dinner, pretending like he’s not watching to make sure I eat.
Every time he throws a casual, “You good?” my way, like it doesn’t make my stomach twist.
I should be used to this.
To solitude. To the quiet of being alone.
It’s how I’ve survived.
But something about the last couple of weeks has changed me, and I don’t think it’s good.
It’s done something to me.
I simply don’t know how to undo it.
I take a slow step forward, the floor cold under my feet, my body tense with an awareness I don’t want to have.
Atlas stands at the stove, back turned, broad and solid, muscles flexing beneath the fabric of his shirt as he works.
I should look away.
But I don’t.
Instead, my gaze catches on the ink that peeks out beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt, the dark edge of something intricate that probably runs along his back—or maybe it doesn’t.
I’ve seen his tattoos before, but I never look at them closely.
I never ask him what they mean.
And for a tattoo artist, he doesn’t have that many.
“Why are you awake, Blythe?” Atlas finally breaks the silence.
“Obviously, you woke me up. Could you be any louder?” I grumble, crossing my arms as I lean against the counter.
“You know, normal people sleep at this hour.”
Atlas doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even glance back.
Just flips something in the pan with infuriating ease, like this is just another morning, like me standing here in his kitchen isn’t messing with my head.
“I let you sleep in, sweetheart. If I waited any longer, you’d have starved.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach betrays me, twisting at the scent of toast, eggs, something buttery and rich that makes my mouth water.
“So that stomach grumble is . . . because I’m loud?”
I snort because, seriously, he’s impossible.
“Why don’t you make yourself some of that ginger tea that’s supposed to be good for . . . what was it?” he asks, frowning slightly like he’s actually trying to remember.
Which is ridiculous because he’s the one who keeps buying every single thing he reads or hears might help with pregnancy symptoms.
Ginger.
Chamomile. Peppermint.
Half of them he’s already forgotten the purpose of, but he keeps bringing them home anyway.
I don’t like that.
I don’t like any of this.
How much he cares because it makes me feel things.
I move on autopilot, grabbing the tea from the cabinet, filling the electric kettle he got me—because, of course, he got me one.
So the water boils faster for you, he’d said, like he wasn’t being the most thoughtful man on the fucking planet.
I shouldn’t care.
Not about the way he moves around the kitchen like he belongs there.
Like he belongs here.
Not about the way his voice dips when he calls me sweetheart like he knows exactly what it does to me.
Not about the fact that he’s shirtless now.
Wait.
What?
I blink, my brain short-circuiting.
When did that happen?
Because he wasn’t when I walked in, I know that for a fact because I spent way too much time staring at the way his shirt clung to his back.
Now, it’s slung over the back of a chair, leaving hard muscle and ink on full display.
And, fuck, I’m staring.
I should look away.
But I don’t.
It’s impossible to.
The tattoos stretch across his shoulders, dip along his ribs, dark ink against warm skin.
Some are intricate, carefully drawn, others look like they were added later, layered over old scars.
They shouldn’t be attractive.
Not to me.
My parents used to say tattoos were trashy.
That only people with no class would have them.
I never understood. But I believed them, the way kids believe everything they’re told—until college.
That’s when I realized my parents—and the people around them—were just judgmental assholes who had no idea what the fuck they were talking about.
They labeled people because it made them feel superior.
Because it was easier to put people in neat little boxes than to admit they weren’t better than anyone else.
Someone should tell them they’re terrible people.
That the man who they handed me to almost killed me, and this man who they would look at like a nobody is a perfect gentleman who’s cared more for me in two weeks than anyone else in my entire life.
Unfortunately, I can’t.
Not because I don’t want to give them a piece of my mind but because I’m hiding.
The last thing I want is to give my location to Winston.
Maybe one day, I’ll be able to come out of hiding and tell them that tattoos look good.
On Atlas . . . they also look dangerous.
His back flexes as he moves, muscles shifting, ink stretching with every precise movement.
I tell myself to stop looking.
I don’t.
And that’s when he catches me.
His gaze locks onto mine, and something shifts in his expression.
Something dark. Intentional.
He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease.
He just watches.
Like a predator waiting.
Measuring.
Like he knows exactly what I was thinking.
I should look away.
I don’t.
Not when he moves.
Not when he takes one slow, deliberate step forward.
Then another.
Not when the space between us disappears, and I can feel the heat rolling off him, close enough that my pulse kicks up, close enough that the air feels different.
I feel exposed.
But not afraid.
Not even a little.
I don’t know who moves first—if it’s him stepping closer or me swaying forward.
But something is happening between us.
Something I don’t know how to stop.
Something I’m not sure I want to stop.
“You good?” His voice is lower now, quieter.
I should say yes.
I should force something casual between us, something safe.
But I don’t.
Because there’s nothing safe about this.
My pulse kicks up, something unsteady thrumming beneath my ribs.
“I—” My voice catches, my throat dry.
His gaze dips, just for a second.
To my mouth.
And, fuck.
The air between us thickens, charged with something electric, something alive.
It’s not new. Not a sudden rush of attraction.
It’s been there, lingering, waiting.
The need. The want.
The urge to reach for him, fist my hands in the back of his neck, pull him in, and finally kiss him.
Atlas moves, slow and deliberate.
His fingers brush against my waist—barely there, a ghost of contact—but I feel it everywhere.
A shiver runs through me, heat curling low in my stomach.
And I swear to God if he steps any closer?—
The toaster pops.
Loud. Jarring. Snapping whatever spell had wrapped around us.
Atlas exhales, stepping back like he’s just remembered where we are.
Who we are.
Like he realizes that whatever was about to happen shouldn’t have.
He drags a hand down his face, shakes his head once, then turns back to the stove like nothing happened.
Like I didn’t just feel my entire body short-circuit.
Like I wasn’t just standing here, seconds away from making a mistake I wanted to make.
He grabs a plate, slides the food onto it, then pushes it toward me.
“Eat breakfast. I was thinking about heading to visit my brothers.”
I stare at the plate.
Then at him.
Not sure what’s more surprising—the way he’s trying to shove this aside like it doesn’t matter .
. .
Or the fact that he’s voluntarily going to see his brothers, the same ones he avoids like the plague.