His hands catch me before I collapse, his grip strong but not punishing, one hand curling around my arm, the other pressing against my back as I double over, choking on the bile rising in my throat. Heat rolls over my skin, my stomach flipping as I retch, my entire body trembling from the force of it.

Humiliation washes over me in thick, suffocating waves.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to disappear, to shrink into nothing, to not exist in this moment where I am weak and exposed and utterly helpless. I hate this. Hate how my body betrays me, hate that I can’t even leave with dignity, hate that I have to stand here with him witnessing all of it.

His grip tightens just enough to keep me upright, and I wait for it—the recoil, the disgust, the moment he pulls away like I’m something to be scraped off his shoe. But it doesn’t come.

Instead, his voice is quieter than before. “Blythe, are you okay?” It’s so soft, almost caring—disarming.

I shake my head, swallowing hard, my throat raw. What are you doing? This guy can just snap you like a twig and destroy you faster than Winston did.

“I’m fine.”

It’s a lie.

A flimsy, useless lie.

But I need him to believe it.

I need to get out of here before this spirals into something I can’t control. Before he decides I’m a problem that needs fixing before, he starts asking questions I can’t afford to answer. Before he becomes just another man standing between me and my escape.

Atlas doesn’t move.

He doesn’t let go.

His grip is firm but careful, keeping me upright without making me feel caged in. It’s the restraint that unsettles me the most. The consideration. I don’t trust it.

“Blythe.” His voice is lower now, less of a command, more of an offering. “You’re not fine.”

“I am,” I whisper.

His jaw tenses, his fingers flex slightly where he’s holding me up. “You just threw up all over my shop.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, humiliation licking at my skin like fire. “I’ll clean it.”

“That’s not the point.” He exhales through his nose, then shifts his grip, not releasing me but not holding on tighter either. “Come upstairs.”

My pulse spikes. “No.”

“We need to talk.” His voice is calm, too calm like he already knows I’m going to lose this fight.

I try to step back, but my legs aren’t cooperating, my body still weak and shaky. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s a lot to talk about.” He studies me, gaze sweeping over my face, my posture, like he’s trying to piece something together that I’m desperate to keep him from seeing. “You’re sick⁠—”