He’s just a guy helping me while I find my footing. A complication in an already complicated escape. That’s all. That’s all he should be. But then I catch myself watching him when he moves around the parlor or the apartment like we belong together.

There’s the low rasp of his voice when he asks me if I’m okay, like he actually cares about the answer. Like I’m someone to be cherished. That’s something I’ve never experienced in my entire life. Not even while growing up. In such a short time, I’ve learned to trust him. And that’s dangerous because trust has never been safe for me.

I want to believe I’m still on my own path, that the only thing keeping me here is logistics and timing, that once Winston is no longer a threat, I’ll pack up and go.

But will I?

Will I ever be free of Winston?

Or am I just trading one impossible reality for another?

Because if Atlas is starting to feel like home, then leaving him might be the hardest thing I ever do. That and taking care of myself during pregnancy. I understand there’s a baby growing inside me, but the maternal instinct hasn’t kicked in yet, and I’m afraid that it never will. Maybe I’m just as cold as my mother.

While my mind is busy thinking about my present and future, the phone rings. “Timber & Ink, how can I help you?”

There’s no response on the other side, just a silence that stretches too long, prickling at my nerves. I tighten my grip on the phone and clear my throat before repeating myself. “Timber and Ink, may I help you?”

A faint rustling comes through, like someone shifting, a breath dragging too close to the receiver. Then, finally, a voice. Deep. Ragged. Wrong.

“I must’ve gotten the wrong number.” A hint of amusement curling at the edges of the words, like he knows something I don’t. And then, just as abruptly as he spoke, the line clicks dead.

I stare at the phone for a second, but don’t think much about it. The tattoo parlor is louder than usual today, music thrumming low from the speakers, the buzz of machines filling the space as Atlas works on a walk-in client. I sit behind the desk, flipping absently through the latest pregnancy book.

Am I paying much attention? Nope. I watch the way he moves, the way his hands glide over skin, precise and controlled, like the world outside of this moment doesn’t exist.

I tell myself I’m only watching because I’m bored.

But that’s a lie.

I watch him because I can’t help it.

And the worst part?

I think he knows.

Because at one point, mid-stroke, he stops what he’s doing, glances up, eyes locking with mine across the shop.