Atlas has been training again. Cassian dragged him back into it, hauling him to a private gym every morning, pushing him until every movement became instinct again. Lethal, efficient. Some nights, I catch him in the living room, moving through drills like it’s muscle memory, his focus unshaken. He fights like a man who’s had to survive before. A man who knows he might have to again.

Malerick checks in more now. Not just for Atlas. For me. And I don’t know what to do with that. With the careful ways he makes room for me, the quiet gestures that make it feel like I belong here, like I’m not just passing through.

Delilah and Nysa do it too. They bring food, invite me to their dinners, and let me linger on the edges of their easy conversations. Simone, Nysa, Galeana, and Delilah have formed a tight friendship—almost like a sisterhood. I watch them, wishing I could step inside that space. But I don’t let myself. If I get too comfortable, if I let my guard down even a little, I know what will come next.

My divorce is still tangled in legal hell. But our lawyer thinks we have leverage. Winston won’t let this turn into a scandal—he’s too controlled for that. He’ll try to handle me the way he always has. Quietly. Privately. Like something to be dealt with behind closed doors, out of sight, out of mind. The key is that we can set up the divorce process without him catching me. They have found enough documentation to show he was abusing me.

That’s a win for us.

In these three weeks, there’s been a lot of progress. I even started therapy.

It’s been only three sessions. I confess that I haven’t opened up completely. Not about the worst things. But I’m trying. There’s a lot I have to unload, and then I need to understand the difference between what’s fear and what’s survival. Figuring out what I want when this is over. If this is ever over.

But the biggest shift? Atlas and me.

We move closer without acknowledging it, drawn by something we don’t name. Maybe we don’t need to. I feel it in the way his hands linger when he touches me, in the quiet moments that stretch a little longer than they should. He kisses me like he means it, like he’s memorizing something only we understand. At night, we tangle together, his arm draped over me, his breath warm against my skin. But that final line? We haven’t crossed it.