Page 91 of Atlas
Her cheeks are flushed pink and her eyes sleepy as she falls against my chest. I wrap my arms around her, pulling the sheets over us. And for the first time in days, I relax. Rue is in my arms, right where she belongs.
Rue
I wake with a start and realise straight away I’m not at home. Yesterday comes flooding back and I groan, rolling onto my side to see Atlas’s side empty. I sigh with relief.Thank God. And then I push to sit, looking around for my clothes.
I grab my jeans and pull them on, I whip off Atlas’s shirt, right as the door swings open and he waltz’ in with a smile. It fades when he spots me half dressed.
“Morning,” I almost whisper as I pull my top on.
He places a tray on the bed and the smell of pastries hits me, making my stomach growl out loud with hunger. “I got us breakfast,” he says, his eyes full of mistrust.
“I’m gonna grab something with Kasey,” I say, picking up my shoes. “Thanks though.”
I head for the door, and he steps in front of me, blocking my exit. “Wait, what’s going on?”
I stare down at the floor. “Thanks for looking after me last night, Atlas, but that’s all it was. I was drunk.”
“You asked me to hold you,” he snaps.
“Again, I was drunk.”
“You came on my jeans,” he snaps, and I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment. “You practically begged me to fuck you.”
I bristle at his words. “And you’re so easy when a woman begs,” I snap.
He relents, sighing. “I just thought . . . yah know, maybe we’d turned a corner.”
“You nearly had sex with your ex,” I snap.
“But I didn’t.”
“Only because you were interrupted,” I yell. He stills. “Anita told me that you only stopped because Tom arrived.”
“Everything I said last night was true. I am falling for you.”
His words cause more pain, and I inhale sharply, placing a hand over my chest. “We’re over.” I rush from the room, slamming the door behind me.
The air is cooler now, laced with the hush of late evening. Crickets chirp somewhere in the long grass, and the tree above me rustles every so often, its branches swaying gently like it knows how fragile I feel.
I sit cross-legged on the grass, my palms pressed flat to the earth like I’m trying to ground myself. Everything is still. But my mind is racing.
I should feel better. I should feel something more than hollow. But there’s a quiet ache behind my ribs that hasn’t let up since I left his bed.
I don’t regret it. Not really. I just don’t know what itmeans. If it was comfort or connection, if it was a goodbye or if I was just too drunk to remember all the hurt.
I hug my knees to my chest, watching the dark outline of the club through the trees. There’s laughter from inside. Music. Clinking bottles and the occasional roar of a bike engine.
None of it feels like mine.
Then I hear footsteps, soft ones, deliberate. I don’t look up. I already know who it is.
Atlas doesn’t say a word.
He just kneels beside me and sets three things on the grass: a blanket, thick and worn, a coffee mug, steaming, and a book,mybook, the battered copy ofThe Night CircusI’ve read a hundred times, the one with my scribbles in the margins and the loose spine I once tried to fix with tape.
I blink down at the items, my chest tightening.
He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t even try. Just lingers there for a beat, like he’s making sure I’m really okay.
