I grab one of his sweatshirts from the chair and pull it over my head. The fabric hangs loose, draping over my thighs, swallowing me whole. It smells like him—warm, clean, something deeper beneath that twists low in my stomach.

I need to get out of this room.

The kitchen is quiet, the soft glow of morning filtering through the window. I go through the motions on autopilot—setting the kettle, pulling out the tin of peppermint tea, placing a mug on the counter. A routine I’ve fallen into since I got here, which I usually do while he’s cooking or during my breaks.

Once the tea is ready, I drop in a couple of ice cubes. The easiest way to avoid burning my tongue on the first sip.

The sound of the bedroom door opening sends a ripple of awareness down my spine. A second later, Atlas steps into the kitchen—barefoot, hair messy, looking like sleep hasn’t fully let him go.

His eyes find me instantly. Something flickers in his expression. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me, unreadable.

Then, finally, he nods toward the mug in my hands. “You okay?”

I force a small smile. “Yeah. Just needed tea.”

His gaze narrows. “Sure, but you usually sleep longer.”

I lift a shoulder. “Maybe I slept too well and didn’t need more?” It sounds better than ‘I felt you, and it freaked me out, so I had to leave the bed.’

Atlas moves toward the counter, reaching for ingredients to start breakfast. It’s our usual routine, but something is off. The way he moves—controlled, contained—makes my stomach knot.

“Did you sleep okay?” I ask, testing the air between us.

He hesitates just for a second before pouring his coffee. “Yeah.”

Lie.

I hear it in his voice, see it in the way tension sits heavy in his shoulders. Something is wrong. But I don’t ask. I’m not brave enough. What if it’s about me? About Winston? The idea grips me hard. I don’t want to run. Not yet. I’m not ready to leave this place—or Atlas.

But maybe I should.

I have enough money to disappear anywhere. Maybe Canada. It would be harder for Winston to find me, right?

I take another sip of tea, forcing the thought away.

Atlas leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me. “What’s on your mind?”

I huff a quiet laugh. “That’s my line.”

He doesn’t smile. Just keeps looking at me like he’s searching for something.

My pulse stumbles.

Before I can say anything, the doorbell rings.

Atlas stills. Every muscle locked tight.

Then, just as quickly, he moves. The spatula clatters onto the counter—abandoned mid-motion—before he strides toward the front door without a word. I watch as he checks the peephole, his jaw tensing before he unlocks the door and pulls it open.