That's the first thought that cuts through the fog—something is different. The bed is too big. Too soft. The sheets are expensive—high thread count, smooth against my skin. The pillow smells like cedar and leather and expensive bourbon, masculine and overwhelming.
I feel surprisingly… safe.
But–
Not my room.
Not my bed.
Not my scent.
Panic flares sharp and immediate in my chest. I force my eyes open, blinking against the darkness. The room swims into focus slowly—navy walls that absorb light instead of reflecting it, heavy blackout curtains drawn tight against what must be morning sun, expensive furniture that looks like it belongs in a catalog. Everything is shadowed and unfamiliar and wrong.
Where the fuck am I?
I try to sit up and immediately regret it. Pain lances through my skull—duller than before, not the splitting agony that made me collapse, but still there. A persistent throb at the base of my neck that radiates up into my temples. My body acheslike I've been hit by a truck, every muscle sore and tense, pulled tight like a wire about to snap. Even my joints hurt.
And I'm hot. Too hot. The sheets are sticking to my skin with sweat, clinging to my chest and back. My t-shirt is damp. My hair is plastered to my forehead. It's like I'm burning up from the inside out, fever coursing through my veins and settling deep in my bones.
"Don't."
The voice comes from my left—deep and controlled and achingly familiar. It sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fever.
I turn my head too fast. The room spins, tilting on its axis. I grab the sheets to steady myself and wait for the world to right itself.
Atlas.
He's sitting in a leather chair beside the bed, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees. He looks like he hasn't slept—five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw, hair slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it. His white dress shirt is wrinkled, sleeves rolled up to his forearms revealing tanned skin and the hint of a tattoo I've never seen before. His tie is gone. Collar unbuttoned.
Those gray eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. Like he's been watching me sleep. Like he hasn't looked away once.
"What—" My voice comes out rough. Raw. Like I've been screaming. I swallow hard and try again. "What happened?"
"You collapsed." He reaches for something on the nightstand—a glass of water, pills rattling in a prescription bottle. "In the kitchen. You've been out all night."
All night?
My brain struggles to process that. I remember coming downstairs. Remember the headache getting worse. Remember my legs giving out and the cold tile against my face.
And then nothing.
I look around again, taking in the details more carefully this time. The expensive dark wood furniture. The king-sized bed that could fit three people comfortably. The scent that's everywhere—in the sheets, in the air, soaked into the walls.
Cedar. Leather. Bourbon.
Atlas's scent.
"This is your room," I say, and it comes out more accusatory than I mean it to.
"Yes."
"Why am I in your room?"
His jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath stubble. "You needed help."
"You could've put me in my room." My voice is steadier now, gaining strength even as my body protests every movement.
"No." The word is flat. Final. Brooking no argument. "I couldn't."
