But then I think of that moment—when I felt the baby move under my palm. That tiny flutter. That quiet, undeniable proof of life.

And something cracked open inside me.

I thought I was already protective of Blythe and the baby. But now?

Now it’s more. It’s deeper.

It’s something I don’t have words for yet.

And I have no right to it.

No claim. No real place in this, not in a way that matters. And how the fuck do I ask for something I don’t even deserve? It’s just like wanting to claim Therese as my mother. I never could because I wasn’t hers, even when at the end she told me I was her son as much as the other four. They say history repeats itself, and fuck if that isn’t true.

For weeks, my focus has been on one thing—keeping her alive. Keeping her safe. Every move, every decision, every breath I’ve taken has been about her survival.

But now?

Now, I have to face the fact that this isn’t just about protecting her.

This is about them.

Her and the baby’s future.

And fuck if I don’t want to say: Our baby.

The thought slams into me like a sledgehammer, leaving cracks in places I didn’t know were breakable.

Ours.

Mine.

But I’m not a part of this—not really. Not yet. And what the fuck do I have to do to become someone important? To be more than just the man standing in the doorway, waiting for permission to matter?

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slow, but it does nothing to calm the pulse hammering in my veins.

“Atlas?” Blythe’s soft voice drags me out of my trance.

I turn.

She’s standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of my sweatshirts, the sleeves swallowing her hands, her hair damp from the shower. She looks . . . nervous. Like she doesn’t know if I’m actually going to walk into that room with her.

And that? That fucking guts me.

I close the distance between us in two steps, reaching for her, my fingers threading into her hair as I cup the back of her neck. “I’m here,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I mean for it to be. “Just waiting for Simone to arrive so I can help her.”

She exhales like she’s been holding it in. Like she was wondering if I would want to be a part of this moment. “Okay.”

She laces her fingers through mine and pulls me into a kiss.

Soft at first. Searching. A breath shared between us, hesitant, but unmistakable ours. Then she presses closer, her free hand sliding up my chest, curling into my shirt like she needs something to hold onto. Like, maybe she needs me.