Blair Maddox (Age 19)
It had been seven years.
Seven years since I'd seen the boy with the hoodie and the perfect family and the air that smelled like hope.
And yet, the second I walked into that lecture hall—late, as always, my boots hitting the floor like gunshots—I saw him.
Atlas Reed.
I didn't know his name back then. But now I did. The entire university did.
Top of the class. Dean's favorite. Straight A's since first year. Rumors said he didn't even party. No vices, no mess. The guy who tutored for free and read Nietzsche over breakfast. Basically allergic to people like me.
But it was him. Same sharp jawline. Same storm-grey eyes behind new, sleeker glasses. Still drowning in hoodies two sizes too big—but now with biceps that stretched the sleeves. He looked… dangerous in a way I hadn't expected.
A glow-up, sure.
But it was still him.
And he still smelled like a home I never had.
He didn't look at me.
Not when I kicked open the door. Not when I sat two rows behind him and pulled out my black lipstick like I was putting on war paint. Not when I lit a cigarette outside the window during class and the professor didn't dare say a word.
He didn't turn.
But I knew he knew I was there.
Because when the professor called on him—"Atlas, what's your opinion on this clause?"—his voice was even softer than I remembered.
Calm. Deadly. Like a surgeon with a scalpel.
And for some reason, it made my throat tighten.
I took a drag and whispered under my breath.
"Of course it's you."
Because the universe? It never let me forget.