POV: Blair Maddox
I begged an old lady for gas.
Not even kidding.
Hair in a mess, heels in one hand, the other clutching my side like I'm about to faint. "Ma'am," I'd said, voice all breathy and tragic, "my boyfriend and I ran out of gas. He's useless. I can't even feel my legs."
She gave me a full damn jerry can and a protein bar.
Atlas didn't even speak the whole time. Just stood behind me looking guilty for existing.
We filled the tank in silence.
We rode back in silence.
And now I'm standing in front of my dorm, trying not to throw up the two sips of cheap gas station coffee I managed to steal before we left.
"I guess this is it," I say, leaning against my bike.
Atlas nods, hands in his pockets, hoodie up, eyes low. "You okay?"
I grin, sharp. "What, after my first night ever not dying? I'm thriving."
He doesn't laugh.
God, why doesn't he ever laugh?
I squint at him. "You regret it?"
He meets my eyes. "No."
That shouldn't hit like a bullet. But it does.
I scoff, looking away. "Cool. Don't go writing love songs about it."
He reaches into his hoodie and pulls out the half-empty bottle of whiskey I stashed in there last night. "You forgot this."
I take it with a smirk. "I forget a lot of things."
I'm halfway up the steps before he says, "Blair?"
I turn. "Yeah, Professor?"
He pauses. "You don't always have to be the loudest person in the room."
"And you don't always have to disappear into silence."
He doesn't reply.
I watch him walk off, tall and quiet, the wind messing with his stupid soft hair. He doesn't look back.
I walk into my dorm still smelling like whiskey and regret.
And for once, I don't care who stares.