They labeled people because it made them feel superior. Because it was easier to put people in neat little boxes than to admit they weren’t better than anyone else. Someone should tell them they’re terrible people. That the man who they handed me to almost killed me, and this man who they would look at like a nobody is a perfect gentleman who’s cared more for me in two weeks than anyone else in my entire life.

Unfortunately, I can’t. Not because I don’t want to give them a piece of my mind but because I’m hiding. The last thing I want is to give my location to Winston.

Maybe one day, I’ll be able to come out of hiding and tell them that tattoos look good. On Atlas . . .  they also look dangerous.

His back flexes as he moves, muscles shifting, ink stretching with every precise movement.

I tell myself to stop looking.

I don’t.

And that’s when he catches me. His gaze locks onto mine, and something shifts in his expression. Something dark. Intentional.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease.

He just watches.

Like a predator waiting. Measuring.

Like he knows exactly what I was thinking.

I should look away.

I don’t.

Not when he moves.

Not when he takes one slow, deliberate step forward. Then another.

Not when the space between us disappears, and I can feel the heat rolling off him, close enough that my pulse kicks up, close enough that the air feels different.

I feel exposed.

But not afraid.

Not even a little.

I don’t know who moves first—if it’s him stepping closer or me swaying forward. But something is happening between us.

Something I don’t know how to stop.

Something I’m not sure I want to stop.

“You good?” His voice is lower now, quieter.

I should say yes.

I should force something casual between us, something safe.

But I don’t.

Because there’s nothing safe about this.

My pulse kicks up, something unsteady thrumming beneath my ribs. “I—” My voice catches, my throat dry.

His gaze dips, just for a second.

To my mouth.

And, fuck.

The air between us thickens, charged with something electric, something alive.

It’s not new. Not a sudden rush of attraction. It’s been there, lingering, waiting. The need. The want.

The urge to reach for him, fist my hands in the back of his neck, pull him in, and finally kiss him.

Atlas moves, slow and deliberate.

His fingers brush against my waist—barely there, a ghost of contact—but I feel it everywhere. A shiver runs through me, heat curling low in my stomach.

And I swear to God if he steps any closer⁠—

The toaster pops.

Loud. Jarring. Snapping whatever spell had wrapped around us.

Atlas exhales, stepping back like he’s just remembered where we are. Who we are.