He sighs against my neck, like the same feelings are running through him. He starts to move in and out, slowly, kissing me gently the whole time. But several minutes later, the kisses are frantic and we’re both sweaty, and I am so completely and wholly in the moment, nothing else matters to me other than the fact that we’re together again, and it’s right. Everything about this is so right.

I’m exactly where I belong, being loved by Atlas Corrigan.

Chapter Twenty-Three Atlas

I should definitely go home, but it is so hard to crawl out of this bed after the last couple of hours with her. Once the couch happened, then the shower happened. Now we’re both too tired to do anything other than talk.

She’s lying on her back, her arms folded beneath her head. She’s staring at me, listening intently as I tell her about my meeting with a lawyer yesterday. “He says I did the right thing by taking him to the hospital. They were legally obligated to notify Child Protective Services. I’m not sure how I feel about that, though. It puts the power in the hands of the state, and what if they don’t think I’m the best place for him?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“I work a lot. I’m not married, so Josh will be alone some of the time. And I have no experience raising kids. They might think Tim is a better fit since he’s the biological father. They could even give him back to my mother; I’m not even sure what she did is enough to have him removed from her custody.”

Lily leans toward me and presses a kiss against my forearm. “I’m going to tell you what you told me the first time you FaceTimed me. You said, ‘You’re stressing over things that haven’t even happened yet.’ ”

I fold my lips together momentarily. “I did say that.”

“You did,” she says. She tucks herself against me, wrapping a leg over my thigh. “It’ll work out, Atlas. You’re the best thing for him, and anyone who has vested interest will see that. I promise.”

I fold myself around her, fitting her head under my chin. It’s incredible how much we’ve both changed physically since we were teens, but we somehow still fit together just as perfectly as we did back then.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” she says, pulling back far enough to look at me. “Remember our first time? What happened after that night? After my father hurt you.”

I’m not surprised she’s thinking about that, because I’ve thought about it as well tonight. This is the first time we’ve been intimate since that night that ended so terribly, so it’s hard not to compare them.

That was what her very last journal entry was about. It was painful to read, seeing how much she was hurting. I wish more than anything it could have ended better than it did.

“I don’t remember a lot from that night,” I admit. “I woke up in the hospital the next day, confused. I knew your father was the one who had hurt me, I remembered that much, but I had no idea if he did to you what he had done to me. I hit the call button several times, and when no one came to my room, I somehow hobbled into the hallway with a broken ankle. I was frantic, asking if you were okay, but the poor nurse had no idea what I was talking about.”