Like he realizes that whatever was about to happen shouldn’t have.

He drags a hand down his face, shakes his head once, then turns back to the stove like nothing happened.

Like I didn’t just feel my entire body short-circuit.

Like I wasn’t just standing here, seconds away from making a mistake I wanted to make.

He grabs a plate, slides the food onto it, then pushes it toward me. “Eat breakfast. I was thinking about heading to visit my brothers.”

I stare at the plate. Then at him.

Not sure what’s more surprising—the way he’s trying to shove this aside like it doesn’t matter . . .

Or the fact that he’s voluntarily going to see his brothers, the same ones he avoids like the plague.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Henrietta (Blythe)

Pregnancies are supposed to be measured in weeks.

According to the books I’ve been reading, that’s the easiest way to keep track. But lately, the only way I measure time is by how long I’ve been in Birchwood Springs. Three weeks and four days. This time, it isn’t because I feel like I’m going to get caught and I should be skipping to the next town. Nope. It’s because, for the first time in forever, I don’t want to leave.

I know I shouldn’t feel like I’m settling into something normal because this is far from normal. But this is the most relaxed and content I’ve felt in a long time, maybe in forever. Every morning, I wake up in Atlas’s apartment. His apartment that somehow—over the past twenty-some days—has become ours.

Ours. The word feels strange. Foreign. And it’s not just me assuming because we live in the same place. Not at all. That’s what he calls it: Our place, home . . . and even when I should be correcting him, I don’t.

He hasn’t moved upstairs yet. He claims he will, once I don’t need him at night.

Oh, and that part? Nights?

We’re still sharing a bed.

Technically, there’s a pile of pillows between us, like some ridiculous wall that’s supposed to mean something, but the reality is: Atlas sleeps with me.

Do I need him there? Maybe once, twice in the night, when the nausea drags me into the bathroom. But let’s be honest. I could handle the whole puking-toothbrush-mouthwash ritual on my own.

Is it nice to have someone rubbing my back, holding me after, making the whole process feel a little less awful?

Yes.

It’s the nicest thing I’ve experienced in a long time.

But every morning, I remind myself—this is temporary. I’m just passing through.