And yet . . . my shoes are by the door next to his. My prenatal vitamins sit on the kitchen counter, right beside his coffee beans. He always wakes up before me, prepares my meals, makes sure my water bottle is filled and within reach.

I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.

But every day, it gets harder to believe.

This morning, though . . . this morning could be different. I push back the blankets and sit up slowly, my body still adjusting to the endless changes happening inside me. The shower is warm, the steam curling around me as I follow the same ritual I’ve adopted since I got here—long enough to shake off sleep, not long enough to get lost in my thoughts.

Afterward, I towel off, pull on one of the new lounge sets from the overwhelming pile Atlas made me order, and run a brush through my hair.

I stall for a moment in the bedroom, staring at the door because I already know what’s waiting for me on the other side. And sure enough, the second I step into the kitchen, he’s there. Standing at the stove, hair still damp from his own shower, wearing a loose tee and low-slung sweatpants, moving like he’s been up for hours.

I should be surprised.

I’m not.

“Morning, sunshine,” he greets me without turning around. “We woke up a little late today, didn’t we?”

I snort, walking toward the counter. “It’s not even eight.”

“You usually drag yourself out here by seven-thirty,” he counters, sliding an egg onto a plate, then turning to grab something from the toaster.

I watch him, amused. “You keeping a schedule now?”

He glances over his shoulder, gives me a look that says, Isn’t it obvious?

And I sigh because it’s unfair, the way he looks in the morning—calm, relaxed, so at ease in his own space. In our space? I need to stop thinking about that, or I’ll spiral into a place where I might end up wanting to kiss him—again. We definitely don’t want a repeat of that. Nope.

He gestures toward the kitchen island. “Sit, it’s time to eat, sweetheart.”

“I can make my own breakfast, you know.”

Atlas raises a brow, setting the plate down in front of me before going back for my tea. “You could, but you might not.” He smirks as he hands me the mug. “So . . . let’s not get into that and just have breakfast.”

I stare at him, then at the perfectly cooked eggs, toast, and sliced fruit. “You know I’m fully capable of feeding myself, right?”

“Sure.” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “But how do I know you’ll do it properly? We can’t have the peanut go hungry because you forgot to add more protein or . . .”

I narrow my eyes, taking a slow sip of tea. “I think I can prepare a balanced diet.”