I shouldn’t be noticing the way my shirt hangs on her, swallowing her up. How it makes her look small, soft . . . and I stop myself right there because ‘mine’ is not where I should go.

I shouldn’t be wondering what she looks like under it.

“You don’t have to call me or even text me,” I murmur. “But if something happens and I can’t find you? If Winston gets closer?” My jaw locks. “I need to be able to reach you.”

She swallows hard, gaze flicking between the phone and my face like she’s still assessing the risk.

“I won’t track it,” I add, softer this time, as I place a hand on the box. “If you’re afraid I’ll keep tabs on you, I won’t—unless you ask me to.”

Her shoulders loosen—just barely—but I catch it. I’m not surprised that she needed to hear that. Learn that I won’t be keeping tabs on her the way he probably used to do it.

A breath escapes her, and then her fingers close around the box. Her hand grazes mine. Neither of us moves.

There’s a beat—a moment—where the air around us shifts, stretching tight. The world narrows to nothing but her skin against mine. The warmth of it. The quiet pull of something I should be ignoring but can’t.

Her lashes lower, and her throat bobs as she swallows, and for a second—just a second—I think she pushes herself on her tiptoes and might lean in.

Though I shouldn’t want her to, I so fucking want her to do it.

Do it, I think.

You can’t possibly want this, fucker.

Oh, but I so fucking want it.

Just a taste—a nibble.

Why the fuck do I?

She steps back first, breaking whatever just passed between us, as she grabs the phone. I take the win without pushing.

She doesn’t say thank you, only nods once, and turns away toward the bedroom.

And I tell myself I should just be grateful that she took it. That thank fuck we didn’t kiss and make this complicated. This was good.

For now, it should be enough.

So then, why is it that I feel like I’m missing something, that I lost something I didn’t even have before?

Chapter Twenty-One

Henrietta (Blythe)

I should be asleep.

Curled up in the ridiculous nest of pillows. A nest Atlas insisted on piling around me after the last time I puked, surrounded by the first real comfort I’ve had in what feels like forever.

Instead, I’m standing in the hallway, barefoot, watching him move in the kitchen.

I don’t know what woke me—the faint clang of pans, the low hum of movement, the scent of something warm and buttery filling the apartment—but the second I opened my eyes and saw he was gone . . . I worried.