Atlas – Present Day
I didn't move.
Not when the hoodie hit my desk like a slap.
Not when she slid the coffee next to it, bold white letters spelling "Vanilla Latte" like it meant something.
Not even when she said it—voice sharp, dry, and full of something I couldn't name:
> "I don't owe you anything."
And walked out.
Like it was nothing.
Like she hadn't just turned every head in the lecture hall. Like half the class wasn't staring at me. Like someone in the back wasn't literally recording with their phone. Like the professor hadn't paused mid-sentence, mouth half open.
I stared at the spot where she'd been standing. Still warm, like the space had her heat. Her scent.
Whiskey. Smoke. Vanilla.
It was suffocating.
It was addictive.
I could feel her hoodie on my desk like a goddamn scarlet letter. The coffee cup still steaming. I didn't touch it. I didn't touch anything. But I couldn't stop looking.
"She just—"
"She was wearing that dress—"
"Did you see the professor's face—"
"Atlas, are you—?"
I tuned it all out.
Noise. Static.
There was only one question echoing in my skull:
What the hell is she doing to me?
Because I wasn't supposed to care.
I wasn't supposed to notice the way her voice dropped when she was tired. The way she flicked her lighter open twice before actually lighting a cigarette. The way she looked like she didn't sleep, didn't eat, didn't care—but somehow still showed up. Still fought to breathe.
I wasn't supposed to care.
And yet here I was, holding my breath like she'd sucked the oxygen out of the room.