She hums, tapping a finger to her chin, playing it up like she’s really thinking it over.

“Well,” she starts, “for starters, I figured you’d be one of those guys who broods in corners, scowls at everyone, and grunts instead of speaking in full sentences.”

I arch a brow. “You did meet me at The Honey Drop. And I had had no sleep.”

She bites back a smile. “True. You did look like you hated everyone and everything.”

“Because I did without any sleep.”

She rolls her eyes, tossing a dish towel at me. I catch it easily, grinning.

“I also assumed you’d be one of those guys who thinks cooking is just heating up whatever comes in a can.”

I smirk. “I can cook, you know.”

“Yeah, you’ve made sure to show that.”

I step closer, just enough that she has to tip her head back to meet my gaze.

“What else?” I ask, my voice lower now.

She swallows, her pulse jumping at the base of her throat.

And, fuck, I like that reaction a little too much.

“Well,” she says, her voice quieter now, “I definitely wasn’t expecting you to be good at taking care of people.”

I brush my fingers against the back of her hand, watching the way she stills, the way her breath hitches.

“Good at taking care of you, you mean?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

But she doesn’t pull away either.

And maybe I’m playing with fire, and soon I’ll let myself burn. I just need to be cautious so I don’t fuck up.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Henrietta (Blythe)

I should feel trapped here.

I should be planning my escape, counting the days until I can slip away unnoticed.

Instead, I’m just aware that this is the fifth week in Birchwood Springs.

Five weeks.

Longer than I ever should’ve stayed. Longer than I ever planned to stay.

And yet, I don’t feel the urge to leave. Not in the way I used to. Not in the way I did in all the other places where I was just passing through, watching my back and wondering when I had to run again before I felt unsafe.

Now, I catch myself wondering about this town, about what it is that makes it feel like home.

I tell myself it’s the quiet atmosphere, the sleepy streets, the quaint shops I sometimes step into just to soak up the coziness of it all. I let myself believe it’s the stillness, the way time seems to slow here, giving me room to breathe for the first time in forever.

I refuse to think that home is him.

Atlas can’t be that.