“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.