I know, it’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t be attached to this man at all. And yet, here I am.

And yes, I’m one hundred percent aware that he shouldn’t be sleeping in my bed, but after waking up five times, he decided it was easier to stay close by for the next round. Hence, the nest of pillows.

It’s been a little over two weeks since I moved into this apartment. Since I started working at the tattoo parlor as a receptionist, keeping the books in order, scheduling clients, pretending like I don’t notice the way Atlas watches me.

Like I don’t notice the way he always makes sure there’s food in the fridge. The way he makes sure my water bottle is full before heading to bed. The way he just—takes care of things before I even realize they need to be handled.

It’s infuriating. And confusing and . . . so impossibly annoying to ignore. No, annoying is not the word. I just want to be mad at him for making me feel all these things.

Because one thing is for sure: there’s something between us.

Something I feel every time he gets too close.

Every time, his hand lingers at the small of my back. Every time, he nudges a plate toward me at dinner, pretending like he’s not watching to make sure I eat. Every time he throws a casual, “You good?” my way, like it doesn’t make my stomach twist.

I should be used to this.

To solitude. To the quiet of being alone. It’s how I’ve survived.

But something about the last couple of weeks has changed me, and I don’t think it’s good. It’s done something to me. I simply don’t know how to undo it.

I take a slow step forward, the floor cold under my feet, my body tense with an awareness I don’t want to have.

Atlas stands at the stove, back turned, broad and solid, muscles flexing beneath the fabric of his shirt as he works.

I should look away.

But I don’t.

Instead, my gaze catches on the ink that peeks out beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt, the dark edge of something intricate that probably runs along his back—or maybe it doesn’t.

I’ve seen his tattoos before, but I never look at them closely. I never ask him what they mean. And for a tattoo artist, he doesn’t have that many.

“Why are you awake, Blythe?” Atlas finally breaks the silence.

“Obviously, you woke me up. Could you be any louder?” I grumble, crossing my arms as I lean against the counter. “You know, normal people sleep at this hour.”