I should pull away, should tell him I don’t need this, don’t want this—but his touch isn’t suffocating this time. It’s . . . careful. His grip firm enough to hold me upright, but not caging. Like he’s reminding me, we’re together in this, even when I keep fighting it.

I blink up at him, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

His brows draw together, concern etching into the lines of his face, but there’s something else in his expression, too—something almost teasing. “You’re gonna make me carry you out of here, aren’t you?”

A breath escapes me, half a scoff, half a laugh, wobbly at the edges.

“I’m fine,” I lie, the words barely more than a whisper. My voice doesn’t hold, the edges too frayed, stretched too thin. “Just . . . a little nauseous.”

His hands stay on me a beat longer than they need to, his thumb grazing my wrist, a touch so fleeting it could’ve been accidental. But what if it wasn’t . . . and why did I like it?

Atlas exhales, eyes scanning my face like he’s not convinced, like he’s memorizing the cracks. But he doesn’t push.

Instead, he smirks, an exasperated kind of affection shaping his mouth. “Alright, but if you pass out, I’m catching you. And I will make a big deal out of it.”

I roll my eyes, but the corner of my lips betrays me, tugging up just the slightest bit.

And I hate how much I need this—this tiny, ridiculous moment where everything feels normal. Even when it’s all fake.

Simone watches me carefully before schooling her expression back into something neutral. She keeps her tone light, professional, as she reminds Atlas about their agreement. There’s nothing left to discuss—nothing I can bear to stand in this room and listen to.

I turn away, grabbing my clothes with jerky movements, barely aware of the fabric sliding over my skin. I don’t care that I’m almost naked in front of him. I just need to be done. The hoodie catches as I yank it over my head, my fingers fumbling as I shove them through the sleeves. My sneakers feel too tight when I shove my feet inside, and I rush through tying the laces, my fingers clumsy, shaking.

I straighten, but I don’t look at Atlas.

I can’t.

The moment we step outside, the air hits me like a slap, sharp and biting. The cold should clear my head, should shock me back into my body, but it doesn’t.

“Why is it so cold here?” I complain.

He shrugs. “The weather is being very New Englandy,” he states, as if that makes sense. It doesn’t, but I don’t say anything.

I need more space.