Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Henrietta (Blythe)
The drive back is quiet, even tense.
The tension isn’t between us but the result of what happened with his brothers.
Atlas keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting over mine, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against my skin.
It feels like some kind of reassurance.
It’s like he’s convincing himself—or me—that everything is fine.
That, or maybe he’s just working through the tension still gripping his body, the fragments of a family dinner that never stood a chance of ending well.
The glow from the dashboard cuts through the dark, tracing the angles of his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw and the crease in his brow that hasn’t eased since we pulled away from his brothers’ house.
Atlas hasn’t said a word.
Neither have I.
Dinner was .
. . awkward. The conversations never settled.
If this had taken place during the old days where I could pretend everything was always fine, I could’ve been the life of the party.
Now . . . I don’t think I have changed much from that woman who just did what was expected from her, but I can’t be her, either.
If anything, this reunion showed me that I’m pretty lost when it comes to knowing myself.
How am I supposed to fix that?
It’s probably a problem for another day.
Malerick arrived right as the other three brothers got out of the office.
I’m not sure if that was a good or a bad thing.
He seems broodier and angrier than the other brothers.
There’s one thing I can say about the Timberbridge men.
They have similar features, but all of them carry their own brand of broody—some stormy and intense, others smoldering with an edge that never quite fades.
Surprisingly, Malerick is the one who kept the conversation going for most of the night.
He ran through the latest town gossip, Delilah correcting him every time he veered off course because her sources are better than his.
By sources, we mean the patrons who visit her coffee shop.
A place with great acoustics and where everyone likes to talk about .
. . well, everyone.
During the meal, Ledger still looked at Atlas like he’s the outsider.
Like nothing Atlas has done, nothing he’s built has been enough to belong to them.
Anything he does will never be enough to carve a space into the family.
I don’t know if either one will be able to erase the exchange they had during dinner.
I have the feeling the hate they have for their father is what blinds their common sense.
They’re similar in a way they probably haven’t noticed.
Neither one of them wants to be their father and both of them see their father in each other.
Isn’t that ironic?
They’re probably still afraid.
Not that someone is going to come and beat them up the way their father did, but that they’ll grow up to be him.
I know Atlas has spent his whole life fighting not to be like his father.
Every decision he makes, every time he steps back instead of lashing out, every single moment of restraint is proof of that.
I should tell him.
I should tell him that men like Winston—like my father—don’t sit in silence after a night like this, gripping the wheel like they’re holding themselves together.
Men like that don’t worry about becoming monsters.
They simply are and revel in it.
They don’t care what they might become.
They don’t think about it at all.
They take. They destroy.
And they sleep just fine.
Atlas is nothing like them.
I should tell him that.
I should say something.
Anything.
But the words stay locked in my throat.
Instead, I watch the way his fingers flex on the wheel, the way his shoulders stay rigid.
I should be thinking about myself, about my own safety, about how to keep my distance because this—this thing between us—whatever it is, it’s getting dangerous.
Not because he’s a threat.
Because he isn’t.
I’m becoming too dependent on him.
Not in a physical way, but emotionally.
I take a breath, shifting slightly in my seat.
He notices.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” His voice is low, rough.
I nod before I even know if I mean it.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
The whole truth is that I’m exhausted, but not from the night—from everything.
This dinner made me realize a lot of things and I don’t know what I can do to help myself.
It’s like I have one too many problems and not way to fix any because I’m too busy running away.
“Do you regret going?”
I glance at him, startled by the question.
“Do you?” I ask instead of responding.
“No,” he answers, and it sounds like a very honest no.
“I think it was necessary.”
“Necessary?” I don’t see how.
“Did you get physical with your brother when you were in the office?”
“I wanted to. I wanted to punch that stupid smirk off his face, but I controlled myself,” he states.
“Then, why do you think it was necessary?” I ask, trying to figure out what the angle is.
Did I miss something?
He hums, a second passes, then the next and suddenly he says, “They know you’re important. If I need them to protect you when I’m not around, they will. Even when they hate me, they will.”
“Where are you going?” I try not to panic, but he can’t leave me.
“Nowhere, but what if you decide to go to the bookstore, and I can’t get to you on time?”
“Oh, you’re just covering your bases.” I sigh with relief.
“Exactly.”
“So, you and Ledger really don’t get along, huh?” I ask, pushing for more even though I already know how this ends.
“He hates me the most, yeah.”
Back at the house, Nysa, who was really close with Atlas in high school, filled in the gaps—the grudges, the way Ledger refuses to let go of whatever he thinks Atlas took from him.
But she also told us something else: When they were teenagers, Atlas used to take the worst of their father’s anger, stepping in so Ledger wouldn’t have to.
He took the pain so his older brother wouldn’t miss a game or any hockey activity that would take him away from his dream.
They don’t realize it, but they were never each other’s enemy.
Just two kids caught in the fallout of a man who never should have been a father.
When we pull up to the building where the shop and apartment are, Atlas kills the engine, but neither of us moves.
The silence lingers.
A pause too long. There’s something brimming between us waiting, pressing, but never spilling over.
Maybe we need to discuss more about his brothers or maybe .
. . I don’t know, there’s so much unsaid between us.
A lot of words that we could tell, but should we?
After a long moment, he exhales, rubbing a hand down his face.
“You should get some sleep.”
“You too,” I murmur, reaching for the door handle.
I don’t expect him to follow.
Maybe tonight is the night he decides I can sleep alone, that the great wall of pillows will finally be broken.
He’ll either take the other room or move upstairs, putting space between us that I probably need.
But of course, I’m wrong.
A second later, he’s opening the passenger door and helping me down.
His hand finds mine—like it has so many times lately—and he pulls me closer so we can walk side by side.
Inside, the apartment is dim, the quiet stretching between us.
My arms curl around my body, fingers tracing over my skin in a restless, absent-minded motion.
I don’t even realize I’m doing it until Atlas notices.
“Cold?”
I shake my head.
“I’m just . . . processing.”
He doesn’t push, doesn’t fill the space with empty words.
Just nods before walking into the kitchen.
I watch as he moves—unhurried, sure of himself in a way that makes it clear this isn’t something he has to think about.
He reaches into the cabinet, pulls down two glasses, fills them with water, and then hands one to me.
I take it without thinking, fingers brushing his before curling around the cool glass.
The silence between us stretches—not awkward, not uncomfortable, but charged with something I don’t have the words for.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.
Atlas leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me.
“Doing what exactly?”
“Taking care of me.”
His jaw tenses, his expression unreadable for a beat before he shifts his weight slightly.
“I know. But I want to—I enjoy it very much.”
I blink.
The admission is so simple, so direct, that it takes me a second to catch up.
He enjoys it very much?
Something tugs at the edges of my thoughts, a feeling I don’t quite know what to do with.
I tighten my grip around the glass.
“Why?” Maybe why wasn’t right, should it be how?
How does a person enjoy taking care of a stranger the way he does?
Atlas doesn’t answer right away.
He sets his drink down, his fingers tapping once against the counter, then looks at me like he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Why? Because you’re adorable—as I said, I want to do it, and I like having you around,” he says, and then, like he’s shifting gears, he pulls out his phone.
“Speaking of want, I don’t want to assume, but . . . I think you have PTSD.”
His words land with an impact I’m not ready for, knocking something loose inside me.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
And how am I supposed to respond?
PTSD is not for people like me.
That’s for war heroes, isn’t it?
It’s for people who have done something significant.
Me? I didn’t do anything but let a man treat me like I was an object.
Not that I have any other choice.
The one time I tried to fight him years ago, I ended up in the hospital.
It was a hard way to learn a lesson.
“If you want, I can give you some names for therapists?—”
“First of all, I don’t have PTSD. Second and most important, I can’t afford that.” The response is immediate, a reflex.
A defense.
“The insurance will cover it,” he responds, not acknowledging his wrong diagnosis.
Well, at least we made that clear.
Still, I respond, “That shouldn’t be necessary.” I shake my head, already reaching for an excuse, a way out.
“I’ll grow out of whatever makes you?—”
“Blythe.” The way he says my name, a little too loud, too firm, like I’m making him angry makes me go still.
“In no way am I diagnosing you,” he says, softening his tone.
It’s like he knows I’m one wrong word away from shutting this down completely.
“I’m just saying . . . it wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone. Someone who can help you work through Winston’s abuse. The things you’re carrying. The deep soul scars you keep trying to pretend aren’t there.”
I swallow, my throat tightening, my fingers flexing around the glass.
“Your soul and mind—even your body—will appreciate it,” he concludes.
What I’m feeling right now is irrational—the urge to yell at him, to push back because how dare he call me out on something that might not even be true.
But I know he’s right.
There are wounds Winston left behind, ones no one can see because they’re buried in the deepest corners of my mind.
I just don’t know if I’m ready to admit it, or if I’ll ever be.
I should look away. I should run.
Instead, I step closer.
I don’t know why.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
Maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe it’s everything pressing down on me, or maybe it’s the way Atlas’s always there, in a way no one else has ever been.
But suddenly, I’m standing right in front of him.
Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him.
Close enough to catch the glimpse of something in his eyes—something he’s been holding back.
Atlas stands perfectly still, almost like he’s waiting for something.
For what, I don’t know.
For me to acknowledge something?
To step back? To close the distance?
I don’t know who moves first.
Maybe both of us.
Suddenly, my fingers brush against his.
Barely there, the lightest contact that sparks something.
A flame?
Atlas tenses—not in a bad way.
Like he’s holding something back.
Like he’s fighting himself.
I should pull away.
I should.
But I don’t.
Instead, I let my fingers linger for half a second longer.
Just long enough to memorize the warmth of his skin.
And then Atlas’s gaze drops to my mouth, his focus turning intent, almost reverent.
My breath catches, anticipation curling through me like a tide pulling me under.
For a beat too long, neither of us moves, caught in something we shouldn’t acknowledge.
Suddenly, all those unsaid words push to the surface, fighting for a way out.
My throat tightens with the urge to speak, but before I can, his fingers graze my jaw—slow, careful.
His touch lingers, like he’s memorizing this, like he’s giving me the chance to pull away.
Then, with a breath that carries everything we haven’t said, he closes the space between us.
The anticipation builds, stretching thin until it feels unbearable.
And then his lips press to mine—firm, certain, unraveling something inside me.
A subtle shift. His mouth parts, his tongue sweeping against mine in a slow, coaxing stroke that sends a shiver down my spine.
My fingers tighten in his shirt, holding on as the kiss deepens, consuming and impossible to resist.
A quiet sound escapes me—surprise, need, something I can’t control—and he takes it, deepening the kiss, tasting me like he’s been waiting for this far too long.
His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head just enough to take more, to let me feel the full extent of him.
The world fades—nothing exists beyond the press of his body, the slow drag of his tongue against mine, the warmth unfurling low in my stomach.
This feels like an exchange.
Confessions of things neither of us dares to say, but both of us feel.
By the time he pulls back, my breath is uneven, my lips tingling, and he doesn’t go far—just enough to let his forehead brush mine, his fingers still buried in my hair.
When he speaks, his voice is rougher than before, low and warm against my skin.
“Should I apologize for the kiss?”
That slow, teasing smile of his lingers just out of reach, his breath mingling with mine.
My heart trips over itself, still catching up to what just happened.
I swallow, my fingers flexing against his chest, before I find my voice.
“Would you mean it?”
His thumb skims the curve of my jaw, a quiet amusement flickering in his gaze.
“Not for a second. I’ve been wanting to do this for a while. Do you regret it?”
Do I?
I exhale slowly, my fingers still curled into his shirt as if letting go might make this moment slip away.
There’s something about him—something that keeps me from drifting too far into the shadows of my own mind.
“No, I don’t.”
Then, softly, I say, “Thank you.”
I don’t know what I’m thanking him for.
For the kiss? For everything?
For not letting me feel alone?
I don’t know what to say because there’s so much, and everything is too tangled in my head.
Anything I say would be meaningful, though.
His fingers trail through my hair, his touch grounding.
“Will you think about the therapist?” he asks.
“I don’t want to pressure you or anything. But I just hate seeing you . . . afraid.”
Ah, the fear.
Will therapy help me shake it?
Will I find courage if I talk it through?
“Let me think about it,” I say.
He nods, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles.
“It’s been a long day. Are you ready to go to bed?”
I hesitate, then nod again.
He doesn’t say anything else.
Instead, his fingers curl around mine and pulls me toward the bedroom.
As we walk, so many questions swirl in my head.
Is this temporary? How long until he decides I’m not convenient?
That I’m no longer worth the effort?
Nysa mentioned he’s never wanted to settle, and I .
. . I’m more trouble than something someone wants to choose to keep.
What scares me more is the thought of letting myself want more.
The thought unsettles me, just as much as the possibility of losing him.