Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Henrietta (Blythe)
Pregnancies are supposed to be measured in weeks.
According to the books I’ve been reading, that’s the easiest way to keep track.
But lately, the only way I measure time is by how long I’ve been in Birchwood Springs.
Three weeks and four days.
This time, it isn’t because I feel like I’m going to get caught and I should be skipping to the next town.
Nope. It’s because, for the first time in forever, I don’t want to leave.
I know I shouldn’t feel like I’m settling into something normal because this is far from normal.
But this is the most relaxed and content I’ve felt in a long time, maybe in forever.
Every morning, I wake up in Atlas’s apartment.
His apartment that somehow—over the past twenty-some days—has become ours.
Ours. The word feels strange.
Foreign. And it’s not just me assuming because we live in the same place.
Not at all. That’s what he calls it: Our place, home .
. . and even when I should be correcting him, I don’t.
He hasn’t moved upstairs yet.
He claims he will, once I don’t need him at night.
Oh, and that part? Nights?
We’re still sharing a bed.
Technically, there’s a pile of pillows between us, like some ridiculous wall that’s supposed to mean something, but the reality is: Atlas sleeps with me.
Do I need him there?
Maybe once, twice in the night, when the nausea drags me into the bathroom.
But let’s be honest. I could handle the whole puking-toothbrush-mouthwash ritual on my own.
Is it nice to have someone rubbing my back, holding me after, making the whole process feel a little less awful?
Yes.
It’s the nicest thing I’ve experienced in a long time.
But every morning, I remind myself—this is temporary.
I’m just passing through.
And yet . . . my shoes are by the door next to his.
My prenatal vitamins sit on the kitchen counter, right beside his coffee beans.
He always wakes up before me, prepares my meals, makes sure my water bottle is filled and within reach.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.
But every day, it gets harder to believe.
This morning, though .
. . this morning could be different.
I push back the blankets and sit up slowly, my body still adjusting to the endless changes happening inside me.
The shower is warm, the steam curling around me as I follow the same ritual I’ve adopted since I got here—long enough to shake off sleep, not long enough to get lost in my thoughts.
Afterward, I towel off, pull on one of the new lounge sets from the overwhelming pile Atlas made me order, and run a brush through my hair.
I stall for a moment in the bedroom, staring at the door because I already know what’s waiting for me on the other side.
And sure enough, the second I step into the kitchen, he’s there.
Standing at the stove, hair still damp from his own shower, wearing a loose tee and low-slung sweatpants, moving like he’s been up for hours.
I should be surprised.
I’m not.
“Morning, sunshine,” he greets me without turning around.
“We woke up a little late today, didn’t we?”
I snort, walking toward the counter.
“It’s not even eight.”
“You usually drag yourself out here by seven-thirty,” he counters, sliding an egg onto a plate, then turning to grab something from the toaster.
I watch him, amused.
“You keeping a schedule now?”
He glances over his shoulder, gives me a look that says, Isn’t it obvious?
And I sigh because it’s unfair, the way he looks in the morning—calm, relaxed, so at ease in his own space.
In our space? I need to stop thinking about that, or I’ll spiral into a place where I might end up wanting to kiss him—again.
We definitely don’t want a repeat of that.
Nope.
He gestures toward the kitchen island.
“Sit, it’s time to eat, sweetheart.”
“I can make my own breakfast, you know.”
Atlas raises a brow, setting the plate down in front of me before going back for my tea.
“You could, but you might not.” He smirks as he hands me the mug.
“So . . . let’s not get into that and just have breakfast.”
I stare at him, then at the perfectly cooked eggs, toast, and sliced fruit.
“You know I’m fully capable of feeding myself, right?”
“Sure.” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “But how do I know you’ll do it properly? We can’t have the peanut go hungry because you forgot to add more protein or . . .”
I narrow my eyes, taking a slow sip of tea.
“I think I can prepare a balanced diet.”
Atlas shrugs, but there’s something too smug in his expression.
“I know from experience that if I let you to your own devices, you’ll grab a granola bar, sip some tea, and call it a meal.”
I pause, eyeing him.
“That’s oddly specific.”
He narrows his gaze.
“That’s exactly what you did three days ago when I went out of town.”
Damn it.
I should’ve known he wouldn’t let it go.
The only reason he even knows I skipped lunch is because I left the granola bar wrapper on my desk and never stepped out of the shop.
“In my defense?—”
“A granola bar is not lunch,” he cuts me off.
I stab a piece of egg with my fork, refusing to give him the satisfaction of being right.
“You’re very nosy.”
He grins like this is some kind of game.
Like he likes knowing these things about me.
Which should feel intrusive.
But coming from him?
I like it.
“Will you ever let me cook?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Maybe we can cook dinner later today.” The “maybe” doesn’t sound convincing at all.
I huff because I already know how this will play out if, by any chance, I do get to cook.
He’ll hover. He’ll “assist.” And before I know it, he’ll take over completely while I stand there watching him do it all.
I take a bite of watermelon.
He watches me like it matters that I’m eating.
Like I matter.
And this—this is why breakfast, or any meal, feels different with him.
He waits until he’s sure I’m eating before plating his own food; standing across from me like this is just normal.
Like this thing we’re doing—existing in the same space, sharing meals, sharing mornings—isn’t something temporary.
Like it means something and is becoming permanent, that last part scares me a lot, but I try not to think about it much, or I’ll run away.
And that’s something I can’t afford.
I don’t mean it financially because the salary he’s giving me is really good and I don’t need to spend money at all, but .
. . what if I leave town and that’s when Winston finds me?
Once Atlas is done eating, I start washing dishes.
It’s the one compromise I managed to win.
At least this way, I get to do something around here instead of letting him take care of everything.
By the time I step downstairs, Atlas is already in his station, hunched over his desk, digital pencil in hand.
I lean against the counter, watching for a moment.
The way his brow furrows, his fingers tracing over lines he’s already drawn, something completely absorbing him in a way I rarely get to see.
This isn’t the sketch of a tattoo.
He’s drawing. When I get closer, I realize it’s not just a sketch.
It’s a comic.
“Can I help you?” he asks without looking up.
“Just wondering what we’re supposed to do today since there aren’t any clients scheduled,” I say, watching him carefully.
“You have the day off,” he states.
“That’s what I thought, but you’re here.”
Atlas arches a brow.
“I’m not working.”
I shoot him a look.
“Then what do you call this?”
“Just finishing something.”
I step closer, peering over his shoulder.
“That’s a comic book. Are you?—”
His gaze flicks to me, amusement tugging at his lips.
“You are nosy.”
I cross my arms, hoping he’ll tell me why he’s doing that, but nothing.
Then I just add, “No, I’m probably bored, and if we’re not working today, I might head to The Honey Drop.”
“But not to work, right?” He gives me a suspicious look.
“No, I already quit,” I remind him.
“Though I could have used those hours.”
“You need me to increase your salary?” he dares to ask.
I gape at him. What is it with this man and just throwing money at me like he has too much?
I should ask where he’s getting it from because, let’s be honest, he’s starting a business, and that should’ve cost him a lot.
“No, of course not. You’re paying me too much as it is.”
“That’s not true,” he states.
“You’re doing the work of two people. If anything, I should be paying you more.”
“You make it up with the room, board, and insurance,” I remind him.
“I’m pretty sure nobody else has housing as a benefit.”
He scoffs.
“My shop, my decisions. Plus, we both know you need them.”
There’s no argument about that, I do need them, but he’s giving me too much.
And I’m not just talking about the salary and benefits.
I’m talking about the attention.
The way he cares for me .
. .
The way he sees me.
The way he notices when I’m tired before I admit it.
The way he makes sure I eat, drink, rest, like I’m something worth taking care of.
The way he watches me—like I’m important.
Like I matter.
It’s the way he lingers in my space, filling the quiet without saying a word.
The way his voice wraps around me, pulling at something deep in my stomach.
The way his touch—even the briefest brush of his fingers against my back—leaves a trail of warmth long after he’s gone.
It’s not just comfort.
It’s something deeper.
Something I shouldn’t want because .
. . well, the reasons are many, but the biggest one is that soon, I’ll have to let that go.
I don’t know how I’ll deal with that.
But I know this—when I look back, he’ll be one of the best memories.
And that might be the worst part of all.
Because memories don’t hold you at night.
They don’t make your pulse stutter with a look.
They don’t stand too close, smelling like soap and something undeniably him, making it impossible to breathe.
But he does.
And I don’t know how I’ll ever forget that.