Page 56 of When Love Found Us
I stare at the plate. Then at him.
Not sure what’s more surprising—the way he’s trying to shove this aside like it doesn’t matter . . .
Or the fact that he’s voluntarily going to see his brothers, the same ones he avoids like the plague.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Henrietta (Blythe)
Pregnancies are supposedto be measured in weeks.
According to the books I’ve been reading, that’s the easiest way to keep track. But lately, the only way I measure time is by how long I’ve been in Birchwood Springs. Three weeks and four days. This time, it isn’t because I feel like I’m going to get caught and I should be skipping to the next town. Nope. It’s because, for the first time in forever, I don’t want to leave.
I know I shouldn’t feel like I’m settling into something normal because this is far from normal. But this is the most relaxed and content I’ve felt in a long time, maybe in forever. Every morning, I wake up in Atlas’s apartment. His apartment that somehow—over the past twenty-some days—has become ours.
Ours.The word feels strange. Foreign. And it’s not just me assuming because we live in the same place. Not at all. That’s what he calls it:Our place, home. . . and even when I should be correcting him, I don’t.
He hasn’t moved upstairs yet. He claims he will, once I don’t need him at night.
Oh, and that part? Nights?
We’re still sharing a bed.
Technically, there’s a pile of pillows between us, like some ridiculous wall that’s supposed to mean something, but the reality is: Atlas sleeps with me.
Do I need him there? Maybe once, twice in the night, when the nausea drags me into the bathroom. But let’s be honest. I could handle the whole puking-toothbrush-mouthwash ritual on my own.
Is it nice to have someone rubbing my back, holding me after, making the whole process feel a little less awful?
Yes.
It’s the nicest thing I’ve experienced in a long time.
But every morning, I remind myself—this is temporary. I’m just passing through.
And yet . . . my shoes are by the door next to his. My prenatal vitamins sit on the kitchen counter, right beside his coffee beans. He always wakes up before me, prepares my meals, makes sure my water bottle is filled and within reach.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.
But every day, it gets harder to believe.
This morning, though . . . this morning could be different. I push back the blankets and sit up slowly, my body still adjusting to the endless changes happening inside me. The shower is warm, the steam curling around me as I follow the same ritual I’ve adopted since I got here—long enough to shake off sleep, not long enough to get lost in my thoughts.
Afterward, I towel off, pull on one of the new lounge sets from the overwhelming pile Atlas made me order, and run a brush through my hair.
I stall for a moment in the bedroom, staring at the door because I already know what’s waiting for me on the other side. And sure enough, the second I step into the kitchen, he’s there. Standing at the stove, hair still damp from his own shower, wearing a loose tee and low-slung sweatpants, moving like he’s been up for hours.
I should be surprised.
I’m not.
“Morning, sunshine,” he greets me without turning around. “We woke up a little late today, didn’t we?”
I snort, walking toward the counter. “It’s not even eight.”
“You usually drag yourself out here by seven-thirty,” he counters, sliding an egg onto a plate, then turning to grab something from the toaster.
I watch him, amused. “You keeping a schedule now?”
