And I doubt we will anytime soon. Not when there’s so much happening. Winston still looms over us, a threat we can’t ignore. We have to be focused, careful. Now isn’t the time to get lost in whatever this is between us. Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself. Maybe I’m still afraid. Afraid of trusting this. Afraid of believing I could have something real without it being ripped away.

A creak from the rooftop hatch pulls me from my thoughts. Footsteps follow, unhurried, familiar. Atlas steps through, his hair damp, his hoodie hanging loose over broad shoulders, his sweatpants low on his hips. He looks at me, then at the blanket I’ve wrapped myself in, and his mouth tips up just slightly. That almost-smile. The one I’ve started collecting, tucking away like something rare.

“You stole my favorite blanket.”

I lift my brows. “It’s not your favorite if I steal it all the time.”

His smile deepens, just a little. God, he’s so beautiful.

He walks over and eases down next to me, stretching his long legs out. Close, but not touching. Waiting, like he always does.

I should say something.

Ask him if there’s any news. If Sanford and his team have found anything while scouting the town. Maybe I should keep the conversation safe. Ask him if we’re going to the sonogram tomorrow or if he found a way to have Simone come with the equipment. He doesn’t want me going to places where there’s a chance people can break into the CCTV. His team can hide me, but what if they don’t hide my face on time? What if I’m detected before they can erase the footage with me on it?

Instead, I say, “Do you ever think about what will happen after?”

Atlas turns his head, watching me. “After?”

“When this is over.” I keep my eyes on the town below, lights scattered like tiny beacons against the dark. “When Winston’s gone. When I don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, just charged with something I can’t name or describe. He’s thinking, turning over the words the way he does when he wants to be sure. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. Certain. “The most important question is: What do you want to happen?”

His answer pulls my gaze to him, catching me off-guard. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

What do I want?

Why did I ask that? The sonogram would have been a safer subject. Not this. Not us. Because that’s what I’m really asking, isn’t it? It’s about our future, my future.