This time Grayce takes the bite, gums it for a bit and swallows.He flashes me a look that says,See, we can do this.
And that’s when pure panic rises within me.
Because it would be so easy to fall into this rhythm.Coffee exactly how I like it.The way his forearms look when he braces both hands on the counter and laughs.The fact that he laughs when Grayce flings strawberries like they’re confetti.
Every one of those actions that stitch a life together until it’s a secure quilt you can sleep under.
I grip the edge of the island hard enough to hurt.
“Maddie?”Atlas’s voice is soft.“You okay?”
No.Yes.I don’t know.
I force my fingers to unhook.“I’m fine.”I try on a smile that feels like a mismatched pair of socks.“I’ll make more coffee.”
“There’s plenty,” he says, and flicks a glance at my untouched mug.“Drink while it’s hot.That’s the deal.”
“I know,” I say flippantly.
He laughs, and it’s ridiculous how much I love the sound of it.“It’s a system.I pour, you drink.Tomorrow you pour, I drink.”
“You’re a system nerd.”
“Says the woman who labeled the spice drawer by cuisine.”He gestures with the spoon toward the neat little rows I color-coded last week.“Italian, Mexican, and Miscellaneous?Completely unhinged.”
Grayce bangs her hands on the tray and makes a sound like a velociraptor.She’s a tiny tyrant demanding attention, and we both look over like backup dancers waiting for our cue.She’s grinning, oatmeal in her eyelashes.
“Queen of Chaos,” I say as I move toward her with a wet cloth.“We are your humble servants.”
She pats my face with a sticky hand when I lean in to wipe her cheeks, then uses the opportunity to yank my hair.I yelp, she cackles, and Atlas watches us with an expression that I should never let myself memorize.It’s too nakedly happy and I could fall into this.I could let myself forget that the world is unkind and unfair.
I straighten, cloth clenched in my fist.“Atlas.”
He hears the change in my voice and goes still.His spoon hovers over the bowl, oatmeal dripping, then lands with a soft plop.“Yeah?”
“We can’t… do this.”The words fall out stilted, unplanned, and I’m not sure if they’re appropriate.“Last night was a mistake.”
He studies me and I study him back, trying to decode his expression.
Not angry.
Not even surprised.
Just alert.Maybe careful.
“A mistake,” he muses in a way that tells me he doesn’t believe that at all.
“An impulsive lapse.”I hate how clinical I sound, like I’m writing a case note.“We’re tired.Emotional.You’re stressed about the season.I’m—” Lost?Lonely?Ruined by the feeling of your mouth on mine?“Dealing with a lot.It was human nature for us to fall into that but truly, it’s not smart.”
He sets the spoon down and his expression is transparent.
He’s irritated.
The room shrinks to the soft humming of Grayce playing with a mushy strawberry.Atlas props his hands on the counter, muscles rippling as he tenses, but his voice is measured.“Okay.If that’s how you feel.”
I cup my face in my hands for a moment, thumb pressing hard against the bone beneath my eye until I see little bursts of light.“It’s not feelings.It’s more logic.”
His mouth crooks like I made a joke.“Those two things aren’t as separate as you want them to be.”
