"You flinched. In the kitchen. When Richard brought it up." He takes a sip. "I'm not asking what it means. I'm asking if you're okay."
I stare at him. How in the world does he read me better than anyone else?
"I'm handling it."
"That's not what I asked."
"I know." I drink my coffee. The warmth of his leg against mine is distracting in a way I refuse to acknowledge. "No. I'm not okay. But I will be."
He nods. Doesn't push. The grace of someone who knows what it's like to carry things you can't put down—not becausehe's learned the skill, but because he's never known any other way to move through the world.
We sit. Drink. The house creaks above us—settling, breathing. His shoulder drifts toward mine. Barely. A gravitational lean, unconscious or deliberate, and our arms press together the way our legs do, and I can feel his heartbeat through the point of contact. Or maybe that's mine.
"I went back to class today," he says. "First time since... everything."
"How was it?"
"Weird. Normal weird, which was the weird part. Everyone talking about papers and deadlines and who's sleeping with who, and I'm sitting there thinking about—" He stops. Shakes his head. "Different things."
"Concrete floors and zip ties?"
"Among other things." His voice drops. Quieter. He's looking at his coffee, turning the mug in his hands. "Do you remember when I had that panic attack? When everything was—when the walls were closing in and I couldn't breathe and you held my face and told me to match your breathing?"
My hands go still on my cup.
"I think about that a lot." He turns the mug. Slow circles on the marble. "More than I probably should. When things get hard—when I was sitting in class and the fluorescent lights reminded me of the facility, or when I wake up and don't know where I am for a second—I go back to that moment. Your hands on my face, then my hips. Your eyes. The way you looked at me like nothing else in the room existed except making sure I was okay." A pause. His throat works. "It's the thing that gets me through. Remembering your fingers on my jaw. The way you held on like you could keep me from falling apart just by not letting go."
The air in the room shifts. Tightens. Our legs are pressed together and his shoulder is against mine and his voice is quiet and honest and I can smell him—vanilla, honey, the faintest trace of smoke—even through the suppressants, even through the coffee, even through every chemical barrier between his body and mine.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. His fingers tighten on the mug and I watch him gather courage the way other people gather breath—in pieces, in false starts, in the stuttering rhythm of someone who wants to say something and is terrified of what happens after.
"I also think about—" He stops. Clears his throat. Takes a sip of coffee that's more stalling than thirst. "About what came after."
Silence.
"Atlas, can I ask you something?"
"You can ask me anything."
He sets the mug down. Picks it up again. Sets it down. His jaw works—the struggle visible, the words caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.
"When I... when the heat was—" Another stop. He scrubs a hand over his face. Starts over, and this time his voice is barely above a whisper. "When I begged you. When I was out of my mind and I was begging and you—" He swallows hard. "Why did you say no?"
The question hits my sternum like a blunt object. I know exactly what he's asking. His heat crashing through him, his body on fire, his eyes wide and desperate and trusting.Please, Atlas, please. And me—steady, controlled, measured—saying no.
Saying it gently. Saying it like I was doing him a favor.
"Because–” I grit my teeth. “Because I thought I was protecting you."
"From what?" His voice is so low it’s almost a whisper.
"From me.”
“You?”
“Yes, Max.” I clear my throat. “Because you’re twenty years old and you were terrified and your body was making decisions your mind hadn't caught up to yet." The coffee in my hands is too hot. I drink it anyway. "Because I'm twenty-nine. I know what I am—what I'm capable of wanting. And you didn't need another person taking something from you. You needed someone to say no. Even if it hurt." I set the cup down. "Especially if it hurt."
"I'm not as fragile as you think I am."
