“I understand more than you think.” His voice dips, something raw bleeding into his words. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel powerless? To grow up in a house where survival comes first?”

I look at him then. Really look. And for the first time, I see it.

The way his hands curl into fists. The tension in his shoulders that never fully disappears. The way his past sits just beneath his skin, waiting to surface.

This isn’t just about me.

Atlas knows what it’s like to be powerless.

He’s lived it.

He leans in just enough that I can feel his warmth in the cold air between us. “But here’s the thing, Blythe—you’re not powerless. You left. You got out. That’s more than a lot of people can say.” His voice hardens. “You’re not weak. So stop acting like it.”

The words hit like a slap, but not in a cruel way. In a way that forces the panic back, makes it lose its grip on my throat.

I drag in a shaky breath, pressing my hands against my stomach. The fabric of my hoodie bunches under my fingers, grounding me in something real. Something alive.

Mine. And now, someone else’s.

Atlas watches me, waiting. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push. Just waits.

Then, without another word, he starts the car.

“Buckle up,” he mutters, flicking the headlights back on. “We’ve got time for a short stop before I head to the shop.”

I fumble for my seatbelt, not even sure why I listen.

Maybe because I don’t have it in me to fight anymore.

Or maybe—just maybe—because Atlas is the first person who’s made me believe I don’t have to do this alone.

Not today.

Not yet.

Chapter Sixteen

Henrietta (Blythe)

The engine hums as he pulls out of the parking lot, the streetlights streaking shadows across his face. He doesn’t tell me where we’re going.

When Atlas turns onto a quiet road lined with trees, something in me twists.

The cemetery.

A chill skates down my spine, and I shift in my seat, uneasy. “Why are we here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just parks the truck, steps out, and comes around to open my door. There’s no urgency, no explanation—just the silent expectation that I’ll follow. When I hesitate, his hand extends toward me, palm up, patient.

I stare at it, then at him.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

And, against my better judgment, I place my fingers in his. Even though I tell myself I don’t need it, I let him help me down.

“We’re visiting someone,” he finally says. Then, with a glance toward the empty passenger seat, he shakes his head. “Remind me next time to bring extra flowers.”