I want to believe him. I do. But doubt creeps in, whispering what-ifs, reminding me that Winston is relentless and we’re running out of time.

I inhale slowly, focusing on what I can control. “Who is Cassian?” I turn toward the door, wondering why he didn’t even introduce himself. It’s like he was in a hurry.

Atlas watches me for a long second before answering. “An old friend. You could say he was my partner while I was working for the high-intelligence organization,” he responds, taking a breath. “He’s now part of the team keeping an eye on Birchwood Springs. Someone Sanford trusts.”

I blink. A team? Why does this town need one? Should I ask? Maybe that’s a question for another day—a day when I’m not the reason for the extra security.

Instead, I shake my head. “And you? Do you trust him?”

His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t look away. “Yeah. I trust him to have my back when shit hits the fan. We’ve saved each other’s lives a few times.”

The words should be reassuring. They aren’t. Because all I hear is he’s saved Atlas’s life. Which means Atlas has been in situations where he needed saving.

I glance down, my hands tightening into fists before I can stop them. I won’t be weak. I won’t fall apart. I’ve survived too much already to break now.

I lift my chin. “Is there anything else you’re hiding?”

His jaw flexes.

“There can’t be any more lies,” I say, my voice quiet but firm. “You have to trust that I won’t fall apart, just like I’m trusting that you’ll keep me safe.”

Atlas stills, something shifting in his expression. His eyes search mine, unreadable for a beat before something softer—something real—settles there.

“I do trust you.” His voice drops, quieter now, but there’s something deeper underneath. “That’s why I spent part of the night trying to get ahead. But apparently, it’s not ahead enough.”

A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “Is that even a term? Ahead enough?”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “We can make it one. But that’s not the point of this conversation, is it?”

Before I can answer, his fingers brush against mine—slow, intentional. Testing? I’m not sure exactly what, but I don’t pull away.

His hand moves over mine, his touch warm, grounding—something that calms the plethora of emotions and thoughts running through me. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t force it. Just waits.

I let him take my hand.

He laces our fingers together, his thumb tracing absentmindedly over my knuckles like he’s memorizing the shape of them.

“Come with me,” he says, voice softer now. “I want to show you something.”