It’s something deeper. Something I shouldn’t want because . . . well, the reasons are many, but the biggest one is that soon, I’ll have to let that go.

I don’t know how I’ll deal with that.

But I know this—when I look back, he’ll be one of the best memories.

And that might be the worst part of all. Because memories don’t hold you at night. They don’t make your pulse stutter with a look. They don’t stand too close, smelling like soap and something undeniably him, making it impossible to breathe.

But he does.

And I don’t know how I’ll ever forget that.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Atlas

She won.

Blythe won the whole ‘I’m cooking tonight’ argument.

Probably because I got caught up downstairs, working on my project, and didn’t realize how late it was. Creating is the only thing that pulls me out of my own head, and maybe that’s why I’ve been pouring so much time into this comic book lately. Maybe I shouldn’t be trying to finish it now, not when everything feels . . . unsettled.

Is that the right word?

Probably.

Everything’s up in the air—her husband, his people, the way we’re keeping an eye on them while my lawyer figures out how to get her divorce settled without putting her at risk. It’s going to be a challenge, but it’ll get done.

It has to get done. Though I dread that last part, because once it is . . . then what?

She’ll leave?

And I don’t want her to go.

I don’t want to think about her packing a bag and walking away, slipping back into a world where I can’t reach her.

It’ll be best if she stays. Maybe in two years, we could leave this town together. Put down roots somewhere else. Boston. Seattle. Some city where my family doesn’t exist, where there’s nothing to pull me back to a past I don’t want.

But that’s not a decision for today.

Right now . . . right now, I’m holding back.

The same way I’ve been holding back since . . . I don’t even know when my attraction for her began. Could it be from the day she showed up at my door, dripping in secrets and exhaustion, wearing defiance like armor?

I knew better than to let her stay. I knew better than to get involved.

But the second she looked at me with those wide, wary eyes—the second she flinched at my voice but still squared her shoulders like she was daring me to push her—I felt like I needed to protect her like I needed to . . . I was done for.

That was three weeks and four days ago.

And now?