Page 121 of When Love Found Us
“It’s not about the crib,” he says, a little irritated. “There are too many colors,” he mutters, scowling at the wall. “I can’t concentrate.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Indulge me.”
“I told you, if you want, I can paint a mural,” he offers, waving the screwdriver at the wall like it’s a brush. “Something unique. A scene. But you have to make a decision.”
I pause. Because that’s actually tempting.
“What kind of scene?”
He shrugs. “Something peaceful. Something that feels like . . . us. A garden, a zoo . . . I’m not sure, what do you want, baby?”
I glance at the wall again. “What about a night sky? Stars, constellations. A full moon on one side and then on the other the lake with flowers and bunnies and . . . something peaceful and pretty.”
Atlas hums, considering. “That could work. We could add an owl or something for her. Like a guardian watching over her.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “You want our daughter’s room to have a guardian owl?”
He smirks. “What, you want a rabbit hanging on a tree instead? That’d be weird.”
I roll my eyes, nudging him with my foot where he’s kneeling beside the crib. “That’s not what I mean, but if you can make a cute owl, I’ll take it.”
“I can do anything for you, Blythe. I will do anything for you,” he states, and those words make me fall in love even more.
“The mural sounds perfect,” I whisper.
Atlas grins, looking smug. “Told you I had good ideas.”
I roll my eyes again, but my heart is so full it almost hurts.
This is our life now. Not survival. Not waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I run the parlor’s office now, not just answering phones but managing everything—schedules, artists, finances. I have control over something. Atlas works five days a week now, and only one of those days is over the weekends. We’ve built a team strong enough that he doesn’t have to do it all on his own.
And therapy?
Therapy is going better than I ever imagined.
Not perfect. Some days, I still feel like the girl who had to run. The one who disappeared to survive. The daughter who owed her parents blind obedience. Like I deserved everything Winston did to me, because that is what he made me believe—that I was worthless. But I’m learning how to exist without fear pressing into every corner of me, learning to love myself and be proud of who I am.
I’m learning how to breathe.
How to build.
How to love.
I press my hand to my belly, warmth unfurling as I feel the faintest movement beneath my palm. A slow, stretching glide. She reminds me that everything I’ve fought for—the sleepless nights, the hard choices, the moments I wasn’t sure I’d make it through—were worth it because she’s safe.
We’re safe.
“She’s moving,” I murmur, my voice barely above a breath.
His eyes drop to my stomach, darkening with something deeper than love. More than devotion. He kneels in front of me, pressing his lips to my belly, whispering something I can’t hear, but I feel it in my bones. Then his gaze lifts, locking onto mine. A slow drag of heat crawls up my spine.
I know what he wants.
I know what I want.
His fingers trace up my thighs, slow, possessive. The fabric of my skirt bunches beneath his hands, rising higher, exposing more. My pulse stumbles, my breathing going unsteady as he finds the band of my underwear and drags it down my legs.
