Atlas knelt down, bringing himself closer to your level, but still leaving a respectful distance. His large frame, usually so imposing, seemed softened by a gentle patience you hadn't expected from anyone before. He held out a hand, palm up, an open invitation.

"It's alright, son," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble.

"Just... just come here."

But you couldn't. Your small body was rigid, a coil of fear wound tight in your belly. Your eyes, wide and darting, were fixed on his outstretched hand, not seeing a lifeline, but a potential threat. The memory of other hands, rough and cruel, still lingered like a phantom ache on your skin. Despite the clean clothes Mitzi May had put you in, despite the warmth of the speakeasy that was now supposedly your home, the cold dread of being hurt again was a palpable weight pressing down on you.

You didn't speak. Words felt stuck in your throat, thick with unshed tears and silent screams from a past you desperately wanted to forget but couldn't escape. Instead, you shuffled backward, one tentative step after another, increasing the distance between you and the man who had saved you.

The rough floorboards felt cool beneath your bare feet. Your bandaged hands, carefully wrapped by Mitzi May, throbbed a gentle reminder of the pain you'd endured before he found you.

Atlas didn't push. He didn't sigh in frustration or raise his voice. He simply kept his hand extended for a moment longer, his expression one of profound understanding, and then slowly, deliberately, lowered it.

He knew this wasn't going to be easy.

Trust, for a soul as wounded as yours, was a fragile, slow-growing thing, like a rare flower struggling to bloom in harsh soil.

He offered a small, sad smile. "Okay, son. Not today. That's alright."

He stayed kneeling for another moment, just observing you, before slowly rising to his full height. The air between you thrummed with unspoken history, with the scars you carried, and with the vast, daunting journey of healing that lay ahead.

He turned then, giving you space, the unspoken promise of his patience hanging in the air like a silent vow. You watched him go, still wary, still fragile, knowing that the path to feeling safe was going to be a very long one indeed.