Page 92 of When Love Found Us
Instead, I say, “Do you ever think about what will happen after?”
Atlas turns his head, watching me. “After?”
“When this is over.” I keep my eyes on the town below, lights scattered like tiny beacons against the dark. “When Winston’s gone. When I don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, just charged with something I can’t name or describe. He’s thinking, turning over the words the way he does when he wants to be sure. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. Certain. “The most important question is: What do you want to happen?”
His answer pulls my gaze to him, catching me off-guard. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
What do I want?
Why did I ask that? The sonogram would have been a safer subject. Not this. Not us. Because that’s what I’m really asking, isn’t it? It’s about our future, my future.
For years, all I thought about was survival. Getting away. Breaking free. And now that I have . . . now that I can finally breathe without looking over my shoulder . . . what do I do with that?
“I think about it,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s hard to believe in something I’ve never had.”
Atlas shifts beside me, turning just enough that his knee brushes mine. A touch that feels intentional. His voice is softer now, threaded with something I can’t name.
“You’ll have it. Anything you want, you’ll get it, Blythe.”
I search his face. “How do you know?”
His gaze never wavers. “Because you deserve it.” Then, he says, “And because I’ll make it happen.” It sounds like a promise.
His words don’t just land—they sink. They settle somewhere deep, lodging in my chest like they’ve always belonged. My throat tightens, something swelling behind my ribs. I blink hard, fighting the sting.
Because I believe him.
Atlas moves first. His hand finds mine, our fingers threading together—warm and sure, like he means it. I squeeze, and he squeezes back. It feels almost like a promise, like . . . and then as I’m trying to figure out the meaning, I feel it. A flutter.
I freeze.
Atlas stills beside me.
My breath catches, and I yank my hand away, pressing both palms to my stomach. There. Again. Faint movement, like a light kick.
Atlas’s brows pull together. “Blythe?”
I can’t speak.
I can’t breathe.
Without thinking, I grab his hand and press it against my stomach. Waiting. Feeling. Seconds stretch. Nothing. My pulse pounds. Then—there it is. Another flutter.
Atlas inhales, like the air just punched into his lungs. His fingers tighten against me, his whole body going still.
I watch him—watch the moment hit him, just like it’s hitting me.
The baby.
His throat bobs. His palm stays pressed to me, waiting, feeling. His eyes lift to mine, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen this expression on him before.
Awe.
Fear.
Wonder.
