I lean against the counter, watching for a moment. The way his brow furrows, his fingers tracing over lines he’s already drawn, something completely absorbing him in a way I rarely get to see. This isn’t the sketch of a tattoo. He’s drawing. When I get closer, I realize it’s not just a sketch. It’s a comic.

“Can I help you?” he asks without looking up.

“Just wondering what we’re supposed to do today since there aren’t any clients scheduled,” I say, watching him carefully.

“You have the day off,” he states.

“That’s what I thought, but you’re here.”

Atlas arches a brow. “I’m not working.”

I shoot him a look. “Then what do you call this?”

“Just finishing something.”

I step closer, peering over his shoulder. “That’s a comic book. Are you⁠—”

His gaze flicks to me, amusement tugging at his lips. “You are nosy.”

I cross my arms, hoping he’ll tell me why he’s doing that, but nothing. Then I just add, “No, I’m probably bored, and if we’re not working today, I might head to The Honey Drop.”

“But not to work, right?” He gives me a suspicious look.

“No, I already quit,” I remind him. “Though I could have used those hours.”

“You need me to increase your salary?” he dares to ask.

I gape at him. What is it with this man and just throwing money at me like he has too much? I should ask where he’s getting it from because, let’s be honest, he’s starting a business, and that should’ve cost him a lot.

“No, of course not. You’re paying me too much as it is.”

“That’s not true,” he states. “You’re doing the work of two people. If anything, I should be paying you more.”

“You make it up with the room, board, and insurance,” I remind him. “I’m pretty sure nobody else has housing as a benefit.”

He scoffs. “My shop, my decisions. Plus, we both know you need them.”

There’s no argument about that, I do need them, but he’s giving me too much. And I’m not just talking about the salary and benefits. I’m talking about the attention. The way he cares for me . . .

The way he sees me.

The way he notices when I’m tired before I admit it. The way he makes sure I eat, drink, rest, like I’m something worth taking care of.

The way he watches me—like I’m important. Like I matter.

It’s the way he lingers in my space, filling the quiet without saying a word. The way his voice wraps around me, pulling at something deep in my stomach. The way his touch—even the briefest brush of his fingers against my back—leaves a trail of warmth long after he’s gone.

It’s not just comfort.