Like that’s ever going to happen.

Every second of the day, I try not to think about her, but it never lasts. Inevitably, she slips into my thoughts, into the quiet spaces in my mind, and when she does⁠—

It’s the most beautiful fucking distraction.

I lose myself in her everything.

The way she tilts her head when she’s trying to figure something out. The way she mutters under her breath when she’s frustrated. The way she hums when she’s cooking, completely unaware that I’m watching.

She’s already under my skin, and the worst part is that every day, I get closer to fucking everything up.

Because if I let myself give in—if I stop pretending I don’t want her, that I don’t already have her in every way that matters—I could fail her in the worst way.

I could get distracted.

I could miss something.

And if I miss something, Winston wins.

If I slip, if I let my guard down, she loses more than just me.

She loses the chance at the life she’s fighting for.

And fuck, if it doesn’t scare me to think about what happens to her if I fail—what happens to the baby she’s carrying. If I let myself go there, if I let myself think about what happens to me if I lose them. I shut that thought down immediately.

I have to remind myself that I don’t have them.

They’re not mine.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Blythe says, pulling me out of my head.

“Am I?” I frown because I hadn’t noticed.

“Yep. Too quiet.” She doesn’t look at me as she says it, just keeps chopping whatever’s on the cutting board with precise, focused movements.

“You like to cook, don’t you?” I lean against the counter, watching her, letting my voice dip just a little, pushing the edges of flirtation.

She nods, her lips pressing together like she’s considering her words. “I should hate it because he always expected the perfect meal. It was never about what I wanted—just what he demanded.” Her hands slow, and she finally looks at me. “But while I was in the kitchen, I felt calm. Like I could forget everything else and just be . . . me.”

Something about that hits in a way I don’t like.

Because I know what it’s like to crave escape, to find it in the simplest, most mundane routines.

“I never asked,” I say, reaching for a dish towel just to give my hands something to do. “Did you work before you escaped?”