"Mm."
The coffee maker gurgles. I stare at it like it holds the secrets of the universe, hyperaware of Atlas's presence behind me. I can smell him from here—cedar and leather and that hint of bourbon that never quite fades.
God, he smells so fucking delicious. It makes my mouth water. Makes other parts of me react in ways I desperately try to suppress.
"How are you feeling?"
The question is soft. Careful. I risk a glance over my shoulder and find him watching me with those gray eyes, concern etched into the lines around his mouth.
"Fine."
"You don't look fine." He stands, and I tense, but he just moves to the sink, rinses his cup. Puts distance between us instead of closing it. "You look exhausted. And you've lost weight."
"I'm fine," I repeat, sharper this time.
He's quiet for a moment. Sets the cup in the drying rack with deliberate precision. Then: "What happened last night?"
My heart stutters. "What?"
"Zero came home drunk. Bloody." Atlas turns to face me, leaning back against the sink, arms crossed. "And this morning there's a bag of frozen peas in the trash and a bruise on his cheekbone that wasn't there yesterday."
I look away. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Max." His voice is soft. Dangerous. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He pushes off the sink and crosses toward me. I back up instinctively, but the kitchen island is behind me and there's nowhere to go. "Tell me what he did."
"Nothing. It was nothing."
"Was it like the basement?" His voice drops. "Did he hurt you again?"
"No." The word comes out strangled. "He just—he said some things. It's fine. It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
He's in front of me now. Too close. My traitorous body responds immediately. Heat flooding my cheeks. My cock stirring in my sweatpants.
I try to sidestep. "I should go—"
His hand catches my arm. Not rough, but firm. Unbreakable.
"Max. Look at me."
I don't want to. Looking at him means seeing those gray eyes, that concerned expression, the barely-leashed want underneath. Looking at him means admitting how badly I want him to close the distance.
"Look at me." Softer now. Almost pleading.
I look.
His jaw is tight. His pupils are dilated, the gray nearly swallowed by black. There's a muscle ticking in his cheek, like he's holding himself back through sheer force of will.
"I want to help you." The words come out strained. Like they're being dragged from somewhere deep. "Whatever's happening—your heat—I can..." He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "I can be there. If you want me to. If you'll let me."
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
"Atlas—"
