Page 92 of Atlas
Then, quietly, he walks away.
And I break, not in a painful, falling-apart kind of way, but in the way a person softens when they’re seen exactly as they are.
I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and press the coffee to my lips. It’s perfect, and exactly how I always order it, with a hint of vanilla syrup.
Even when I can’t find the words, Atlas seems to hear what I don’t say.
I wake to the scent of him. It’s a subtle hint of leather and smoke and something warm, like cedar, but it wraps around me before I even open my eyes.
For a second, I think I’m still outside. Still under the tree with the night pressing down around me. But then my fingers shift, brushing against sheets instead of grass, and I feel the weight of a blanket tucked around my shoulders.
I blink slowly into the dark room. I reach for the lamp on the nightstand and click it on. The glow floods the room, soft and golden, and my breath catches in my throat.
Atlas is asleep in the chair by the window.
His arms are folded across his chest; his head tipped back against the wall. One leg is stretched out in front of him, the other bent just enough to suggest he didn’t mean to fall asleep. There’s a book resting on the arm of the chair,mybook, the spine splayed open like he’d been rereading the parts I’ve underlined.
He must’ve carried me inside and tucked me in. My heart twists in my chest.
The sight of him hits me hard, not because he looks good (he always does), but because of what itmeans. Because he didn’t leave me out there. Because he came to check on me and then took care of me.
Hestayed.
Even when I didn’t ask him to.
Especially when I didn’t ask him to.
I sit up slowly, the blanket falling from my shoulders, and I just watch him. Letting myself take in every quiet detail. The crease between his brows. The slight twitch of his fingers like he’s dreaming.
I move quietly, careful not to wake him. The blanket slips from my shoulders as I stand, and I gather it in my hands, walking it over to where he sleeps.
He looks uncomfortable in that chair, he’s too tall for it, and his neck is tilted at an awkward angle, but there’s something peaceful in his face. His chest rises slow, steady breaths, his lashes casting soft shadows over his cheekbones.
I drape the blanket over him, tucking it around his arms and shoulders. He doesn’t stir.
I should stop there.
But I don’t.
I hover a moment longer, my heart thudding wildly, a war raging behind my ribs. My head is screaming at me to walk away, to leave this thing alone before it ruins us both again.
But my heart?
My heart begs for one stolen second.
He’ll never know.
So I lean down, slow and hesitant, until my lips brush his.
It’s feather-light, barely a kiss at all. Just a breath of contact, a silent confession he’ll never hear. I linger there, like I can pour everything I never said into that one moment. Like I can give him this tiny part of me without ever having to explain it.
And then I pull back.
Only, before I can take a step, his hand shoots out and closes around my wrist.
I gasp, startled, and meet his eyes.
He’s awake.
