Because she doesn’t have to be anyone else anymore. No more fake names, no more hiding. Blythe Timberbridge was a shield, a way to keep her safe. And sure, at some point, I loved the sound of it. I loved knowing she was my wife, even if only on fake paper.

But lately . . . I’ve craved more.

For this fake marriage to be real. Most importantly, a life with her. A future that isn’t just some cover to keep her safe. Though, I would do it all over again just to see her finally relax.

Today, she can be whoever she wants.

I just hope—when she figures it out, I’m still part of it. The still wants to be with me.

“I prefer Blythe,” she says, offering a shy smile. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be Blythe Timberbridge . . . but I never really liked Henrietta. It’s pretentious and—fake. Like something chosen out of an old money catalog.” She exhales, shaking her head. “My father came from old money, and my mother thought a name like that would give me status, privilege. Make me belong somewhere.”

She says it like she never did. Like no name, no bloodline, no carefully crafted persona ever made her feel like she was enough.

“Blythe is beautiful,” I say, unsure how to tell her I want her to keep my name. To be mine in every way. “We could make it legal. Everything legal.”

Her brows pinch slightly, her expression unreadable. Like she’s trying to piece something together, something I can’t see.

I want to know what she’s thinking.

“Are you okay?” I ask because I don’t want to guess. Not with her. Not anymore.

She lets out a soft laugh—small, breathless. “It’s surreal.” Her voice is quiet, thoughtful. “Like I don’t know what to do next.”

“What do you want to do?”

A slow breath shudders through her, and then she moves. Like she’s pulling me back, tethering me to this moment, to her. She steps closer, fingers brushing against my sleeve, and fuck, I feel it everywhere. Then she tilts her chin up, narrowing her gaze, fingertips grazing my jaw.

“You’re bleeding.”

I step back slightly, rubbing at my chin. “No. I . . . I thought I cleaned up after I changed out of my gear.”

Her expression tightens. “What happened?”

The last thing I want to tell her is that Winston bled all over me. But I also don’t want to lie.

“We fought. Things got messy.” I pause, searching her face. “Do you need me to shower?”

“No.”

Her hand slips down, fingers brushing my wrist.

“Atlas, just kiss me,” she murmurs. “I want to know everything is okay now. I want to kiss you without the fear, without the past clawing at me, telling me this is temporary. This time, I can think it could be permanent—it could be us forever.”