“Yes, it is.” Her voice doesn’t rise, but there’s no softness to it. No plea. Just fact. “You still see me as the girl who ran. The girl who was afraid. But, Atlas, I’m not just running anymore. I’m fighting. And this? This is my fight, too.”

I swallow hard. I knew this was coming. I just didn’t expect it now.

“I know you’ve been working hard and that you’re strong,” I reassure her. “And I trust you.”

She exhales, slow but uneven, like she’s releasing more than just breath. Then her hand lifts, fingertips grazing my jaw before settling against my cheek.

“Then let me help.”

Blythe has spent months reclaiming her life, piece by piece. And if I try to behave like Winston did—by taking away her choices—then I’m no better than him.

I let a beat of silence stretch between us before I lower my hand to her stomach. The warmth of her skin beneath my palm, the small movement I swear I can feel, twists something deep in my chest.

“The thing is, we’re not just fighting for you,” I murmur. “We’re fighting for her. And I need to keep her safe. I trust you, but you need to think about her too.”

Blythe’s lips part like she wants to argue, but then she closes her mouth. Her fingers drift to cover mine.

“You’re right,” she whispers. “She comes first. The best way to protect her from him is to make sure he never gets close. Not even now.”

Relief washes through me, but it doesn’t loosen my grip on her. If anything, it pulls me closer. I brush my lips against her nose, then her mouth—slow and lingering. A promise.

“After this, you can do anything you want,” I murmur against her lips.

“Even shopping for baby clothes?”

I smile just a little. “We have to start the nursery.”

Her fingers slide up my chest, teasing the collar of my shirt. “Maybe even buy a house,” she muses, “so we can have a big backyard⁠—”

“And—”

“And chickens, too,” she adds before I can finish.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Anything you want.” I kiss her again, deeper this time, letting her taste the truth in my words. “Just be a little more patient. One last push.”

“One last push,” she agrees.

And then I’m lifting her into my arms.

She gasps against my mouth, her fingers tangling in my hair as I lower her onto the bed, pressing my body over hers. The heat between us snaps, sharp and electric, like it’s been waiting for an excuse to ignite.