Apparently, Winston used to control what she wore, so explaining that all I was doing was giving her options was . . . challenging, to say the least.

What should have been a simple task turned into a goddamn tug-of-war, one I barely won. In the end, we managed to order enough clothes to cover her for the pregnancy and beyond.

Something about stretch fabrics and usefulness later convinced her to get a few pieces that they brought.

Did I understand any of that? Nope. I just told Teddy Bradley, the concierge, to make sure Blythe had everything she needed and let them sort it out.

Now it’s Tuesday.

And my apartment looks like a high-end boutique exploded inside it.

Boxes, bags, tissue paper—shit everywhere.

I grab another package off the counter and glance over at Blythe. She’s sitting on the couch, arms wrapped around her middle, looking at the pile of clothes like they might come alive and swallow her whole.

“This is ridiculous,” she mutters.

“You’re welcome.” I drop the package onto the growing stack.

She shoots me a look. “Atlas, I don’t need all this.”

“You also don’t need to keep wearing that raggedy-ass sweatshirt with those falling-apart jeans,” I counter, nodding toward it since it’s draped over the arm of the couch.

Her lips press together, and I can see the argument forming, the way her fingers tighten against her ribs like she’s bracing herself.

I sigh, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “Look, you don’t have to wear any of it if you don’t want to. But it’s here. It’s yours. Do whatever you want with it.”

She hesitates, then glances at the bags again. “It’s just . . . too much.”

“Too much is good.”

Her eyes snap back to mine.

I hold her gaze, let her see I mean it. “You’re allowed to have too much.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just exhales through her nose, looking down at her lap.

I don’t push. Just grab another package and rip it open.

I hold up the pack of hangers and nod toward the closet. “Here. You can start dragging everything in there while I’m gone.”

Blythe crosses her arms, eyeing me like I just suggested she build a house from scratch.

“What was the code for the upstairs apartment?” she asks instead.

“You’re staying here.”

“No, I’m not taking over your bedroom.”

“You’re not,” I counter, already expecting this argument. “Like I told you yesterday, once you stop puking your brains out and we know you won’t be needing me every night, I’ll be the one heading upstairs.”

She makes a face. “That’s a lot of trouble. Why are you going through so much for a stranger?”

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “You’re no longer a stranger, Blythe. I think we know each other pretty well.”