The tension in the apartment didn’t dissipate immediately. Sheila’s hands still trembled slightly from the argument, her chest tight with the residue of anger and frustration. Atticus stood only a few feet away, eyes dark and unreadable, but the edge in his posture had softened. The storm outside mirrored the quiet turbulence inside, rain drumming steadily against the windows as if keeping time with their racing hearts.
Sheila sank back onto the couch, burying her face briefly in her hands. “I… I just don’t want to lose control,” she admitted quietly, her voice muffled.
Atticus moved closer, crouching slightly so he could meet her gaze. “You won’t,” he said softly, his tone deliberate, careful. “I won’t let you lose control. And I’m not leaving you—not now, not ever.”
Her eyes peeked up
