Page 11 of Atlas & Miles
With a sigh, I messaged him back.That’s fine. Are you able to come now? I need to run a few errands, but we can chat and do the internet thing first if that works for you.
Absolutelycame his reply almost instantly.I’ll be there in five.
I went to wash my face and put my bag away while I waited. And exactly five minutes later, a knock sounded at my front door. Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders, crossed the room, and opened it.
Miles Johnson was just as breathtaking as I’d remembered him from earlier. He was fit and muscular, taller and bigger than me—which was a majoryes-fucking-please—and his hair would feel amazing between my fingers when he took it down. His beard would feel even better scratching against my thighs and between my cheeks. And I’d bet those massive, veiny hands could map my body like they owned it, could make me see stars, constellations, full galaxies of pleasure.
But none of that was as compelling as his eyes. Deep brown and soulful with a sadness in them I wanted to soothe, Miles’s eyes told me the story of his life, played out in the flecks of gold and swirls of mocha in his irises.
I hadn’t really paid attention to him in high school. I vaguely remembered him from classes we’d had together over the years—we’d both grown up here, and Gomillion wasn’t big—but he’d never really caught my eye. Jocks weren’t my favorite people back then; Miles had never bullied me, but some of the other guys on his football team had sent less-than-kind comments my way. Or maybe it was the swim team? Wasn’t he on that, too?
Now that I thought about it, I recalled Miles working on the sets for the spring play our senior year—and possibly more prior to that. He’d been quiet and shy, barely speaking unless he needed to. Had he been lonely? Was that when his sadness started? Was that why he kept to himself?
I stepped aside a second too late to let him in, and for a moment, we stood in the entryway—which was just a corner of my living room, to be honest—and stared at each other.
God, those eyes. I wanted to drown in them. I wanted to ease the pain I saw in their depths.
I wasn’t sure what to do with that. Iwasperfectly content with dating and occasional kink scenes, and I had no indication that Miles was even into anything I was. And yet I felt drawn to him, like something magnetic was calling me closer, beckoning me deeper.
Clearing my throat, I shoved down the disquieting thought to consider later then glanced up at him. “Thanks for coming. For, you know, my internet.”
His mouth quirked up, seemingly despite itself, and I had to bite back my own smile. “I couldn’t leave you hanging like that.”
At his words, our expressions turned serious in unison, and tension sparked between us. I was going to let him talk. I’d made what turned out to be an incorrect assumption, so I was going to let him lead this conversation. I wasn’t assuming again.
“Atlas, I . . .” He crossed his arms over his chest, highlighting just how tight his black T-shirt was. Not what I should befocusing on right now, I knew that, but it was right at eye level. Sue me.
When he didn’t speak again, I decided to try to calm him down. I figured it couldn’t hurt. “Take your time.”
His shoulders lost a bit of their tension at that, and as he nodded, my heart thudded in my chest. This man was pinging all my Daddy instincts, and I hoped I would get the chance to explore that further.
But I was getting ahead of myself. He could only be here to hook up my internet and leave. I had no guarantee that he was interested in me.
Patience. Let the man speak.
“Thanks, I . . . I’m sorry for what happened back there.”
His shoulders heaved before he tried again. And it seemed the third time was the charm, because the words seemed to tumble out of him without stopping.
“You assumed correctly, actually. I should’ve just agreed to stay with you, bought you more coffee and a pastry, gotten to know you. Because, Atlas, I would’ve loved nothing more than to ask you out. You are a beautiful and gorgeous ma—wait, what terms do you prefer? Did I ask that wrong? Shit—was that insensitive?” He took a breath, halting his admittedly adorable babbling. But wait . . . what was he saying? “Please forgive me if this is rude, but can I ask what your pronouns are?”
My heart leapt. No. Way. When was the last time someone asked me that without knowing my backstory? I couldn’t remember, and that realization lit a small flame in my chest, warming me up. “Of course you can, thank you. And it’s not rude at all—it’s welcome, actually.” I smiled at him. “Right now, it’s he/him.”
His eyebrows jumped. “Right now?”
I didn’t sense any animosity in the question, just curiosity, so I smiled and gestured toward the davenport. “This will be a longerconversation than we should have standing in my entryway. How about I get us—oh, shit, I never went to the grocery store. I’ve got one water bottle we can share. That okay?”
He smiled at me, and that fire inside me grew. I couldn’t explain it, but his smiles felt like I won something. “That sounds perfect. And thank you for hearing me out.”
I nodded, quickly gathering two recently washed plastic cups and filling them with the contents of the one water bottle I hadn’t opened yet. Grocery shopping was first on the list once we got this sorted out.
I handed him his drink then sat beside him on the davenport, turning to him. I didn’t usually share this about myself so early after meeting someone, but I wanted Miles to know. And given how he’d asked for my pronouns without knowing my history, he felt like someone I could trust with this.
So I jumped right in. “I’m genderfluid. What that means for me is that my pronouns can change frequently or sometimes stay the same over days or even weeks, though that’s less common. Mine can also change depending on the setting or the people I’m around. But I use gender-neutral terms for almost all other designations, like ‘human’ and ‘person’ instead of ‘man’ or ‘guy.’”
I held my breath as I watched him process the information. He’d admitted to being attracted to me, and the feeling was definitely mutual, but his response to this would be critical in determining how—or even if—we could move forward.
Honestly, I was glad for his pause. It showed me he was taking this—me—seriously.
