Sheila barely slept.
Not because of the scrimmage. Not because of Carter. Not even because of the constant tension that had begun to feel like part of her bloodstream.
It was the way Atticus had looked at her in the hallway.
Honest.
Unfiltered.
Dangerous in a way she didn’t want to define.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling of her apartment as early morning light filtered through half-closed blinds. Her laptop sat open on her desk across the room, performance data still glowing on the screen, unfinished annotations blinking patiently like they expected her to return.
Work had always been her anchor. Numbers didn’t lie. Patterns didn’t manipulate. Performance graphs didn’t blur emotional boundaries.
People did.
She pushed herself out of bed, forcing routine to take ov
