She inspects the splits in his knuckles, cleaning the blood with calm precision.Atlas watches her like she’s an animal he doesn’t understand—beautiful, dangerous, unpredictable.
“You hit hard,” she murmurs.
He huffs a laugh.“Yep.”
“And make terrible decisions.”
He lifts a shoulder.“Yep.”
“And think your pain tolerance means you don’t have to take care of yourself.”
Atlas’s lips twitch.“You’re bossy.”
“You need bossy.”
I swear his pupils dilate.
She finishes wrapping his hand, then stands—and he stands too, towering over her.
Too close.
I feel it in my jaw.
Wren steps back and turns toward me.“He’s fine.But if he fights like that before Friday’s game, he won’t be.”
Atlas’s gaze drops to her hips.“I fight how I fight.”
“And I treat what you break,” she fires back.
He grins, slow and dangerous.“That what you’re into?Fixing broken things?”
Before I can intervene, Wren narrows her eyes.“Only if they’re worth fixing.”
Atlas’s nostrils flare.
He’s never been handled like this.
Hell, neither have I.
She starts to walk away, but I catch her wrist—gently, carefully, like she’s made of glass I shouldn’t touch.
“Good work,” I say quietly.
Her eyes meet mine.
Electric.
“That brawl could’ve gone bad,” I add.“You diffused it.”
Her voice softens.“It’s my job.”
“It’s more than that.”
She inhales sharply.
Shit.
I let too much slip.
