Her gaze flicks to the food, then back to me. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” I say, stepping inside. “Because if I didn’t, you’d survive off whatever scraps you could find. And as much as I enjoy watching you live out your struggling-college-student era, you’re pregnant, so . . .” I set the plate down on the nightstand, crossing my arms. “Eat.”

She rolls her eyes but sits on the edge of the bed anyway. “You’re really bossy.”

“And you’re really bad at taking care of yourself.”

She stares at me for a second before sighing, grabbing a piece of toast. I watch as she takes a bite, chewing slowly. Like she’s not trusting . . . the toast? Me?

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods, swallowing carefully. “Yeah. Just waiting to see if my stomach rejects this.”

“Think it’ll stay down?”

She takes another bite, slower this time. “Guess we’ll find out.”

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as she eats.

And maybe I shouldn’t be watching.

Noticing the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, how my shirt slips off one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her collarbone. How her lips part just slightly before each bite, the way her fingers toy with the edge of the toast like she’s half-distracted.

She’s not trying to do anything. Not trying to get my attention.

But fuck if she doesn’t have it anyway.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling through my nose, forcing myself to look away before my thoughts go somewhere they shouldn’t.

And I tell myself this is nothing.

That it doesn’t mean anything.

But I know that’s a fucking lie.

Fuck.

Chapter Twenty

Atlas

My weekend was . . . different, to say the least.

I don’t do overnight stays—ever. That’s just a thing. No exceptions. And yet, Blythe has been in my apartment all weekend. She worked a few hours on Saturday, but not many. Not with how little sleep she’s been getting. Was she happy when I told her that if I saw her downstairs, she’d be fired?

Nope, but at least she got to rest. I just need her to learn how to relax and then she can be at the shop full time.

Things in my place have been a little too . . . domestic? Is that the word I should use? Maybe. And I should feel uncomfortable. Should want my space back. Should be itching to get back to the way things were before she showed up.

But somehow, I’m fine with it.

‘Fine’ might not be the right word, but I choose not to dig into it.

Monday morning, the concierge showed up first thing with everything I’d arranged—clothes, shoes, whatever Blythe might need. And that was an issue.