3. Eloise
Over the next week, I oscillate between bubbling excitement for Atlas to move in and a gnawing terror at the intensity of my feelings for him.
What had once been a simple childhood crush has transformed into a powerful surge of longing, coupled with an emotion so profound and overwhelming that I’m reluctant to even label it.
On Thursday evening, I hurry home from school, quickly change clothes, and eat dinner in a rush. It's the first day this week that Atlas is free to move his stuff. Of course, Sage and Ian have other plans, and the other two Hot brothers found excuses not to help, so it's just the two of us.
While I'm in the kitchen washing my dinner plates, I hear the key turning in the lock. I put on a smile and walk into the living room to greet my new roommate. Atlas strolls in with a stack of boxes and a charming smile.
His gaze sweeps over me as I linger in the doorway, dressed in my favorite black yoga pants and a bright pink t-shirt. Normally, I’d feel self-assured, but with Atlas Hot about to move in, I’m suddenly back to feeling like an unsure thirteen-year-old.
"Where should I put my things?" Atlas inquires, snapping me out of my daze as I realize I've been caught staring.
I roll my eyes and place a hand on my hip. "Sage’s old room," I volley back.
My pulse pounds as I help him carry the first load inside. His black firefighter t-shirt clings to him, slightly damp with sweat. "Thanks for helping," he offers, barely breaking a sweat.
"I can’t believe your brothers and Sage all cut out on us," I mutter as I drop one of his boxes on the foot of the bed.
“Luckily, I don’t have too much.” Atlas laughs, his gaze meeting mine in a way that makes me feel warm and a bit dizzy. I laugh, too, even if it sounds like a nervous giggle.
The apartment is a minefield of memories from when Sage lived here. I’ve grown good at ignoring the empty spaces on shelves, the faint outlines where picture frames once hung, and a dog bed still in the corner. I wonder if Atlas notices the same things I do.
We're carrying another load to the spare bedroom, trying not to brush too close. But the narrow hallway means lots of squeezing by, and our hands graze more than once. Each time, we jump apart like teenagers caught kissing in a gymnasium. It's electrifying and mortifying.
"Thanks for the help," Atlas says to me. When I look up and catch the intensity in his eyes, I almost feel like melting then and there.
“You don’t have much here,” I observe, glancing around and questioning if this is truly all he has.
“I left most of my belongings in my garage while my house is being remodeled,” he explains.
By the time we’re done, I’m not sure if my breathlessness is from the heavy lifting or Atlas's effect on my heart.
I search my mind for something to say and finally come up with, “I hope you don’t feel claustrophobic in this small room.”
“It’s not bad at all.” He glances over at me and smiles. “Plus, I don’t have to worry about you eating my new shoes.”
I snort and turn to drop a box on the foot of his bed. It unfortunately hits the end and slips off, spilling his clothes and some very personal items everywhere.
“I’m so sorry.” I feel my cheeks heat as I stare down at his black boxer shorts.
For a moment, we both just stand there, stunned. The next moment, he scrambles to gather up the mess. “No problem.”
After I help him pick up his things, I need to get away before I jump his bones. "Want a quick tour?" Not exactly my best idea. It’s not exactly hard to find your way around the five-hundred-square-foot apartment.
“Sure," he replies and follows me around the tiny apartment.
When we walk down the narrow hallway, our shoulders accidentally brush against each other, and I barely resist the urge to jump as if I just touched a hot plate. The unexpected contact and my stupid reaction spark a moment of awkwardness between us.
We pause at the door nestled between our bedrooms. "We have to share the bathroom." I gesture toward the modest room, glad I straightened up and made room for his stuff.
“That won’t be a problem.” The look he gives me turns my insides to mush. I’m in so much trouble here.
After the tour, Atlas asks if I want to watch a little TV, but I refuse, knowing I need a little extra sleep tonight. “Tomorrow is my last day at school, so it’s going to be extra busy,” I tell him a while later. “I’m going to bed a little early.”
“Good night,” he tells me as I rush down the hall like my hair’s on fire.
* * *
When my alarm jolts me awake, the urge to hurl it against the wall is almost irresistible. I’m a groggy, muddle-headed, sleep-deprived grouch, shrouded in a fog of confusion. Half the night was spent staring at the ceiling, my mind spiraling into endless questions about what Atlas was up to, while the remaining hours were consumed by trying to banish the steamy fantasies that tormented my restless thoughts.
With sheer determination, I drag myself out of the warm cocoon of my bed, managing to get ready in record time since I hit the snooze button far too many times. My movements are hurried and mechanical, driven by the ticking clock.
As I step into the hallway, it takes mere seconds for the realization to dawn on me that I am hopelessly out of my depth. My heart skips a beat when I see Atlas dancing around the kitchen, clad only in low-slung sweatpants while singing to the earbuds stuck in his ears.
My feet are glued to the floor, immobilized by the sight. His broad, muscular shoulders taper down to a narrow waist, each muscle defined and chiseled with precision. He looks like a sculpture brought to life, exuding a heat that seems to radiate throughout the room. Holy cow. I’m in so much trouble here.
My heart does enough thumping and pounding to drown out the whole world as I force my feet to move. I can’t believe I didn’t consider the possibility of running into him nearly naked when I agreed to let him move in.
I watch him fumbling with the coffee maker, blissfully unaware of me and the crisis he’s causing to my nervous system. My cheeks flush hot. My mouth goes dry. I take a deep breath and stroll over to him. “Good morning.”
He pulls out an earbud and gives me a bright smile. “Morning,” he mumbles, and that’s all it takes. I’m an embarrassed bundle of nerves. “Want some coffee?”
"No, thank you," I squeak out, suddenly aware of how utterly screwed I am. “I’m running late,” I call over my shoulder as I rush out the door. That was a close one.