Something soft settles over me.
I surface slowly, dragging myself up through layers of fog. My thoughts are syrup-thick, sluggish. There's warmth around my shoulders that wasn't there before. A weight. A blanket?
I blink. Once. Twice. The world comes into focus in fragments—amber light, dark walls, the texture of fabric under my fingers.
A figure crouched in front of me.
Gray eyes. Dark hair with silver at the temples. A face carved from concern.
Atlas.
"Hey." His voice is low. Gentle. "You fell asleep out here."
I stare at him. My brain is still catching up, still trying to piece together where I am and how I got here. The sitting area. The brothers' wing. I was going to talk to them. I was going to—
"What time is it?" My voice comes out hoarse. Cracked.
"Almost two in the morning." Atlas's brow furrows. He reaches out, and for a moment I think he's going to touch my face. Instead, his hand hovers an inch from my forehead, close enough that I can feel the heat of his palm. "You're burning up."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're burning up and you fell asleep in a chair instead of your bed." He pulls his hand back. "How long have you been out here?"
I try to remember. The dock. The cold. Coming inside. Sitting down. "I don't know. An hour? Maybe more?"
"Why didn't you go to your room?"
Because I was trying to work up the courage to knock on your door. Because I promised myself I'd face you and I couldn't figure out how. Because I'm a coward who fell asleep in a chair instead of doing the thing I said I'd do.
"I was—" I start.
A door opens.
Bane steps out of his room, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips. He stops short when he sees us—Atlas crouched in front of me, the blanket around my shoulders, the whole strange tableau.
"What's going on?" His voice is rough with sleep. Or maybe just rough. It's hard to tell with Bane.
"Max fell asleep out here," Atlas says without looking away from me. "He's burning up."
"I'm fine," I repeat. It's becoming a refrain. A lie I keep telling because it's easier than the truth.
Bane's eyes narrow. He leans against his doorframe, arms crossed over his bare chest. "You fell asleep in a chair in our hallway because you're fine?"
"I was waiting." The words come out before I can stop them. "I wanted to—I needed to talk to you."
Atlas and Bane exchange a look. Something passes between them—a silent conversation I'm not privy to.
"About what?" Bane asks.
"About everything." I push the blanket off my shoulders and sit up straighter. My body protests—joints aching, head pounding, skin too hot and too tight—but I ignore it. "About what's happening. Whathappened. What we're supposed to do now."
Another exchanged look.
"Okay," Atlas says slowly. He stands, unfolding to his full height. He's not in his usual armor—no suit, no crisp button-down. Just gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, feet bare against the hardwood. It's the most undone I've ever seen him. Human. Approachable. It makes something in my chest twist. "Let me get Zero."
"Does he have to be there?"
The question comes out sharper than I intended. Atlas's expression flickers—something like pain, quickly smoothed.
