"What the fuck, Atlas?" Zero's in the doorway, Bane beside him. Both of them stare at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.
"He needs help," I say, keeping my voice level and controlled. "I need a cold washcloth. Glass of water. Painkillers. And bring me my phone so I can call the doctor."
They don't move.
"Now," I snap.
That gets them. Zero disappears down the hall, and Bane lingers for a second longer—hazel eyes searching my face—then follows.
The door clicks shut. I'm alone with Max, and the silence feels weighted, heavy, like the air itself is holding its breath.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under my weight, and the movement makes Max's body shift slightly toward me. Gravity pulling him closer. Or maybe something else.
I reach out and touch his forehead with the back of my hand. Jesus Christ. He's burning up—the fever worse than I thought, hotter than any fever I've ever felt. His skin is slick with sweat, clammy and wrong, like his body is trying to cook itself from the inside out. This isn't normal. This isn't just the flu.
I slide my fingers down to his neck and press gently, finding his pulse. It's racing—fast and hard under my fingertips, too fast, like his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. But it's strong. Steady.
That's something.
I check his breathing next, watching his chest rise and fall. Still shallow, still too rapid, but regular. No hitching. No struggling. He's stable. For now.
I lean closer and study his face. Max has always been guarded around us, always wearing this carefully constructed mask of indifference, walls so high I wasn't sure there was a real person behind them. But unconscious like this, the mask is gone. I can see him. Really see him. The dark smudges under his eyes that speak of too many sleepless nights. The hollows in his cheeks that weren't there when I met him three weeks ago. The way his lips are chapped and split, like he's been biting them raw. He looks young, younger than twenty, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache. And hurt. He looks hurt—not physically, not in any way I can bandage or fix, but something deeper, something that's been festering for a long time.
My hand moves before I can stop it, fingers brushing that strand of dark hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear.His skin is soft. Feverish. And that scent—I breathe in again, can't help it, can't stop myself. It's stronger now, filling the room, wrapping around me like silk, seeping into my lungs with every breath.
My body responds before my brain catches up. Heat pooling low in my stomach, blood rushing south, cock stirring against the zipper of my jeans.
No. Fuck, no.
I stand abruptly and put distance between us, crossing to the window to brace my hands against the frame. This is wrong. He's unconscious. Sick. Burning up with fever. And I'm sitting here getting hard because he smells like—like what? I don't know. I've never smelled anything like it, never experienced anything that affects me this way. It's not cologne. Not soap. Not any product I can identify. It's coming from him. From his skin. His sweat. His breath.
It's Max.
Max's eyes flutter open. I freeze and turn from the window. His eyes are unfocused, glassy, pupils blown so wide there's barely any color left—just black surrounded by a thin ring of dark brown. He blinks slow, like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds.
"Hey," I say, keeping my voice soft and gentle—the tone I use when calming spooked animals or shell-shocked clients. "You're okay. You're in my room. You collapsed in the kitchen."
I move back to the bed and sit on the edge, close enough to touch but not touching. His eyes try to find me, sweeping across my face, but they don't quite focus.
"Atlas?" The word slurs, thick, like his tongue doesn't work right.
"Yeah. I've got you."
Something flickers across his face—confusion, fear, panic. He tries to sit up. His arms shake violently, musclesstraining. He gets maybe three inches off the pillow before his strength gives out, and he falls back with a soft, frustrated sound that twists something in my chest.
"Don't." I lean forward and rest one hand on his shoulder to keep him down. "You need to rest."
"No." He tries again, pushing himself up on trembling arms. They're shaking so badly I can see the vibrations. "Need to—I have to—" His voice breaks, desperate and scared.
"You have to lie down."
"Let me go." His hands come up and push weakly at my chest. There's no strength behind it, nothing I can't easily overcome. "I'm fine. I don't need—"
"You passed out."
"I'm fine." His voice cracks. "Just let me—" He tries to swing his legs off the bed, tries to stand. Like hell.
I catch him and grab his wrists before he can get anywhere. He's so weak—there's barely any resistance at all, like trying to restrain a kitten instead of a grown man. The thought makes my chest ache. I push him back, gently but firmly, using my weight and strength to overpower him without hurting him.
