"Max." My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. Edged with something I don't want to examine. "Max, can you hear me?"
He blinks, his but eyes are unfocused. Nothing.
His face is slack. A thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead, his temples. His dark hair is damp with it.
I shift him in my arms, cradle him properly. One arm under his knees—his jeans hang loose on his frame—one supporting his back. His head rests in the crook of my elbow, and that's when I feel it. Heat radiating off him, even through his clothes, even through my shirt. Fever—high enough that alarm bells start ringing in my head.
"Is he breathing?" Bane asks. He's moved closer, standing just behind me. I can hear the worry threading through his voice even though he's trying to hide it.
I look down and watch Max's chest rise and fall. Shallow, but steady. The rhythm regular even if it's too fast.
"Yeah." Thank fuck. The relief that washes through me is disproportionate, overwhelming.
I stand. Max is dead weight in my arms—completely limp, trusting me to hold him even though he's barely conscious. His head tucked against my shoulder, dark hair falling across his forehead, strands sticking to his sweaty skin. One piece falls across his eyes, and I have this insane urge to brush it back. I don't.
He makes a soft whimpering noise and his eyes shut, going fully unconscious.
I'm planning to take him to his room, lay him down in his own bed, call Dad and Margot, get him help. Do the responsible thing. But then I breathe in, and the world tilts sideways.
The scent hits me like a freight train—like a fist to the solar plexus, like every nerve ending in my body lighting up at once. Vanilla and honey and something darker underneath. Smoke. Burnt caramel. Something sweet and rich and utterly intoxicating.
It fills my lungs, seeps into my bloodstream, crawls through my veins and settles somewhere deep in my hindbrain.
What the fuck.
My arms tighten around Max—instinct, possessive, protective.Mine. The thought slams into me with the force of a hurricane, primal and undeniable, coming from somewhere deep and ancient and completely beyond my control.
Mine. Mine. Mine. I don't understand it, don't know where it's coming from or why Max—Max, of all people—smells like this. But I can't let him go. Won't let him go.
"Atlas?" Zero's watching me, eyes narrowed, ice-blue and sharp. He's reading me the way he always does when something's off. "You good?"
"Fine." The word comes out clipped, too sharp. "His room—" No. Not his room. The thought stops me cold. Not that room, not the one that used to be ours, not the space that still carries the ghost of cheap perfume and one-night stands. Not somewhere that smells like strangers.
My room. The decision makes itself, bypasses logic entirely and comes from that same primal place that's screamingmine.
I turn and head for the stairs, Max limp and burning in my arms, that scent wrapping around me like a drug I didn't know I needed.
"Where are you going?" Bane calls after me, his footsteps following, quick and confused.
"My room."
"What? Why?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because I don't know why, can't articulate it. I just know that the thought of putting Max anywhere else—anywhere I can't see him, can't reach him, can't protect him—makes something violent and possessive twist in my chest. He needs to be somewhere safe, somewhere I can watch him, somewhere I can keep him.
My room.
I take the stairs quickly. Max's weight barely registers—he's so small in my arms, so fragile. His head rests against my shoulder, face pressed to my neck, and each breath he takes is hot against my skin. Zero and Bane follow. I can hear their footsteps on the stairs, feel their confusion radiating off them in waves. Questions they want to ask. Concerns they don't know how to voice.
I push open my door with my shoulder—it swings wide, hitting the doorstop with a soft thud—and carry Max inside. My room is darker than the rest of the house. I've always preferred it that way. Navy walls that absorb light instead of reflecting it, blackout curtains I keep drawn during the day because I work late and sleep later. King-sized bed with charcoal linens that cost more than most people's monthly rent because I'm particular about thread count and weight.
The room smells like me. Like cedar and leather and the bourbon I drink when I can't sleep. Now it's going to smell like him too. The thought sends a jolt of satisfaction through me.
Good.
I cross to the bed and lay Max down carefully, like he's made of glass, like rough handling might shatter him into pieces I could never put back together. His head sinks into my pillow—the one I slept on just last night. He looks impossibly small in my bed, swallowed by the sheets. His dark hair stark against the charcoal fabric, his pale skin almost glowing in the dim light.
Beautiful. The thought comes unbidden, unwanted. I shove it away, bury it deep. This isn't about that. Can't be about that. This is about keeping him safe. That's all.
