Page 82 of When Love Found Us
Henrietta (Blythe)
I wake slowly,warmth wrapping me in a way that feels familiar when it shouldn’t. It takes a moment to register why—Atlas. And this time, there’s no space between us. No wall of pillows. No careful distance. Just him, his arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
I don’t know how it happened. We went to bed the same as always, so how did we end up like this?
This isn’t normal. It should jolt me awake, send me scrambling for distance. But I don’t move. Sleep still clings to me, stretching the moment, softening the edges of reality. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel safe with someone beside me.
The thought sinks deep into places I don’t usually allow myself to go.
Then, piece by piece, last night comes back.
The kiss.
The way his hands gripped me like he wasn’t willing to let go.
The way I melted into it, into him.
The way neither of us hesitated.
We said we didn’t regret it.
But now, wrapped up in him, the question circles back.
Is it too soon to . . . to what?
To let myself want this? To reach for something I’m not sure I can keep? To believe, even for a second, that this feeling—this safety—won’t be ripped away the moment I start to trust it?
My fingers twitch against the sheets, but I don’t pull away. Not yet.
Atlas shifts behind me, his inhale slow and deep, pressing warm against my back. His arm tightens just slightly, fingers grazing over my stomach before stilling. A second later, his breathing evens again.
I let myself have this moment.
Just a little longer.
Then, carefully, I slip out from under his arm. He doesn’t wake, but he stirs, exhaling low—like even in sleep, he knows something is different.
I grab one of his sweatshirts from the chair and pull it over my head. The fabric hangs loose, draping over my thighs, swallowing me whole. It smells like him—warm, clean, something deeper beneath that twists low in my stomach.
I need to get out of this room.
The kitchen is quiet, the soft glow of morning filtering through the window. I go through the motions on autopilot—setting the kettle, pulling out the tin of peppermint tea, placing a mug on the counter. A routine I’ve fallen into since I got here, which I usually do while he’s cooking or during my breaks.
Once the tea is ready, I drop in a couple of ice cubes. The easiest way to avoid burning my tongue on the first sip.
The sound of the bedroom door opening sends a ripple of awareness down my spine. A second later, Atlas steps into the kitchen—barefoot, hair messy, looking like sleep hasn’t fully let him go.
His eyes find me instantly. Something flickers in his expression. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me, unreadable.
Then, finally, he nods toward the mug in my hands. “You okay?”
I force a small smile. “Yeah. Just needed tea.”
His gaze narrows. “Sure, but you usually sleep longer.”
I lift a shoulder. “Maybe I slept too well and didn’t need more?” It sounds better than ‘I felt you, and it freaked me out, so I had to leave the bed.’
Atlas moves toward the counter, reaching for ingredients to start breakfast. It’s our usual routine, but something is off. The way he moves—controlled, contained—makes my stomach knot.
