The drive is quiet, the engine’s low hum filling the space between us. Outside, Birchwood Springs stirs awake, the streets still wrapped in morning stillness. The early light casts long shadows, turning everything soft and golden like the world is caught in that fragile moment between dreams and the promise of a new day.

Atlas doesn’t tell me where we’re going. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my knee. It feels like a reassurance that he’s with me, or . . . I’m not sure exactly why he’s doing it, but I don’t shy away from it.

Minutes slip by. The town fades behind us. He turns off the main road, the tires crunching over gravel before giving way to packed dirt. The path winds through the woods, trees crowding in like sentinels, their canopies shifting in the breeze. It feels endless. Like we could disappear into the quiet. There’s a cabin at the end and there’s nothing around it. Whoever lives there really doesn’t want anything to do with the town.

And then, finally, he slows. Stops.

A clearing unfurls before us, cradling a lake so still it looks untouched, a perfect reflection of the sky above. Hidden. Safe. The sight sends something through me, deep and aching, like pressing against an old bruise I tried to ignore for years, but I know Winston left there untreated.

Atlas kills the engine but doesn’t move to get out. Instead, he turns to me, his gaze carrying something I can’t quite name.

“I used to come here when I was younger,” he says. “When things at home got bad.”

My fingers curl against my lap. “How often?”

He exhales, but there’s no relief in it. No release. Just the rawness of his memories. “Every day.”

The admission lingers between us, settling deep. Before I can find the right words—if they even exist—he reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a small, worn box. He turns it over in his hands once, twice, like he’s steadying himself, before finally passing it to me.

I hesitate, my pulse kicking up as I flip it open.

A silver bracelet rests inside, nestled in black velvet. Simple. Elegant. But it’s the inscription that makes my breath catch.

Unbreakable, even when bent.

My fingers tremble slightly as I trace the words. “Atlas . . .”

His jaw tightens. “I had it made for you a week ago. I didn’t know when I’d give it to you, but I figured . . . now felt right.”

Something warm, something reckless and terrifying, flickers to life in my chest. “Why?”

Atlas reaches for me, his fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, lingering at my jaw. “Because I don’t want you to forget it.” His voice drops lower, roughened with something unguarded. “Because I don’t want you to feel like you have to run anymore.”