Chapter 13
Atlas
The crash echoes through the house—sharp and final, the unmistakable sound of a body hitting tile.
My fork clatters against my plate. I'm already moving, chair scraping back, legs propelling me forward before my brain fully processes the sound. Zero and Bane are right behind me. I hear their footsteps, feel their presence at my back as we all converge on the kitchen.
We round the corner and I freeze.
Max is on the floor. He's crumpled face-down on the white tile like someone cut his strings.
One arm stretches toward the counter, the other tucked beneath him.
His legs are bent at odd angles. Pills scatter everywhere—little white tablets catching the overhead lights, rolling across the tile.
Some have already disappeared under the cabinets.
He's not moving. Not even breathing that I can see.
My heart slams against my ribs.
"Shit." Bane's voice cuts through the silence. "He's really pale."
He is—too pale, gray-white, like someone drained all the blood from his face. Even his lips have lost color. My heart does this stupid stutter in my chest, this skip that I haven't felt since I was twelve years old, standing in a different kitchen, watching Mom collapse the same way.
No. Not the same. She didn't get back up. Max will get back up.
"What the fuck do we do?" Zero asks, and his voice is tight, strained. I glance at him—his jaw is clenched, hands curled into fists at his sides. Zero never sounds rattled, but this is rattled.
"Move," I say, and the word comes out harder than I mean it to. Command. Authority. The voice I use when shit hits the fan and someone needs to take control.
I'm already crossing the space between us, already dropping to my knees beside Max.
The tile is cold through my jeans. I slide my hands under his arms, grip his ribcage through his thin t-shirt, and Christ, he's light.
Too light. I can feel every rib, the sharp points of his shoulder blades, the fragile column of his spine.
How much weight has he lost in two weeks? Ten pounds? Fifteen?
I lift him carefully and pull him against my chest. His head lolls, falls against my shoulder like he's boneless but his eyes are still barely open.
"Max." My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. Edged with something I don't want to examine. "Max, can you hear me?"
He blinks, his but eyes are unfocused. Nothing.
His face is slack. A thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead, his temples. His dark hair is damp with it.
I shift him in my arms, cradle him properly.
One arm under his knees—his jeans hang loose on his frame—one supporting his back.
His head rests in the crook of my elbow, and that's when I feel it.
Heat radiating off him, even through his clothes, even through my shirt.
Fever—high enough that alarm bells start ringing in my head.
"Is he breathing?" Bane asks. He's moved closer, standing just behind me. I can hear the worry threading through his voice even though he's trying to hide it.
I look down and watch Max's chest rise and fall. Shallow, but steady. The rhythm regular even if it's too fast.
"Yeah." Thank fuck. The relief that washes through me is disproportionate, overwhelming.
I stand. Max is dead weight in my arms—completely limp, trusting me to hold him even though he's barely conscious.
His head tucked against my shoulder, dark hair falling across his forehead, strands sticking to his sweaty skin.
One piece falls across his eyes, and I have this insane urge to brush it back. I don't.
He makes a soft whimpering noise and his eyes shut, going fully unconscious.
I'm planning to take him to his room, lay him down in his own bed, call Dad and Margot, get him help. Do the responsible thing. But then I breathe in, and the world tilts sideways.
The scent hits me like a freight train—like a fist to the solar plexus, like every nerve ending in my body lighting up at once. Vanilla and honey and something darker underneath. Smoke. Burnt caramel. Something sweet and rich and utterly intoxicating.
It fills my lungs, seeps into my bloodstream, crawls through my veins and settles somewhere deep in my hindbrain.
What the fuck.
My arms tighten around Max—instinct, possessive, protective. Mine. The thought slams into me with the force of a hurricane, primal and undeniable, coming from somewhere deep and ancient and completely beyond my control.
Mine. Mine. Mine. I don't understand it, don't know where it's coming from or why Max—Max, of all people—smells like this. But I can't let him go. Won't let him go.
"Atlas?" Zero's watching me, eyes narrowed, ice-blue and sharp. He's reading me the way he always does when something's off. "You good?"
"Fine." The word comes out clipped, too sharp. "His room—" No. Not his room. The thought stops me cold. Not that room, not the one that used to be ours, not the space that still carries the ghost of cheap perfume and one-night stands. Not somewhere that smells like strangers.
My room. The decision makes itself, bypasses logic entirely and comes from that same primal place that's screaming mine.
I turn and head for the stairs, Max limp and burning in my arms, that scent wrapping around me like a drug I didn't know I needed.
"Where are you going?" Bane calls after me, his footsteps following, quick and confused.
"My room."
"What? Why?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because I don't know why, can't articulate it.
I just know that the thought of putting Max anywhere else—anywhere I can't see him, can't reach him, can't protect him—makes something violent and possessive twist in my chest. He needs to be somewhere safe, somewhere I can watch him, somewhere I can keep him.
My room.
I take the stairs quickly. Max's weight barely registers—he's so small in my arms, so fragile.
His head rests against my shoulder, face pressed to my neck, and each breath he takes is hot against my skin.
Zero and Bane follow. I can hear their footsteps on the stairs, feel their confusion radiating off them in waves.
Questions they want to ask. Concerns they don't know how to voice.
I push open my door with my shoulder—it swings wide, hitting the doorstop with a soft thud—and carry Max inside.
My room is darker than the rest of the house.
I've always preferred it that way. Navy walls that absorb light instead of reflecting it, blackout curtains I keep drawn during the day because I work late and sleep later.
King-sized bed with charcoal linens that cost more than most people's monthly rent because I'm particular about thread count and weight.
The room smells like me. Like cedar and leather and the bourbon I drink when I can't sleep. Now it's going to smell like him too. The thought sends a jolt of satisfaction through me.
Good.
I cross to the bed and lay Max down carefully, like he's made of glass, like rough handling might shatter him into pieces I could never put back together.
His head sinks into my pillow—the one I slept on just last night.
He looks impossibly small in my bed, swallowed by the sheets.
His dark hair stark against the charcoal fabric, his pale skin almost glowing in the dim light.
Beautiful. The thought comes unbidden, unwanted. I shove it away, bury it deep. This isn't about that. Can't be about that. This is about keeping him safe. That's all.
"What the fuck, Atlas?" Zero's in the doorway, Bane beside him. Both of them stare at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.
"He needs help," I say, keeping my voice level and controlled. "I need a cold washcloth. Glass of water. Painkillers. And bring me my phone so I can call the doctor."
They don't move.
"Now," I snap.
That gets them. Zero disappears down the hall, and Bane lingers for a second longer—hazel eyes searching my face—then follows.
The door clicks shut. I'm alone with Max, and the silence feels weighted, heavy, like the air itself is holding its breath.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under my weight, and the movement makes Max's body shift slightly toward me. Gravity pulling him closer. Or maybe something else.
I reach out and touch his forehead with the back of my hand.
Jesus Christ. He's burning up—the fever worse than I thought, hotter than any fever I've ever felt.
His skin is slick with sweat, clammy and wrong, like his body is trying to cook itself from the inside out.
This isn't normal. This isn't just the flu.
I slide my fingers down to his neck and press gently, finding his pulse. It's racing—fast and hard under my fingertips, too fast, like his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. But it's strong. Steady.
That's something.
I check his breathing next, watching his chest rise and fall. Still shallow, still too rapid, but regular. No hitching. No struggling. He's stable. For now.
I lean closer and study his face. Max has always been guarded around us, always wearing this carefully constructed mask of indifference, walls so high I wasn't sure there was a real person behind them.
But unconscious like this, the mask is gone.
I can see him. Really see him. The dark smudges under his eyes that speak of too many sleepless nights.
The hollows in his cheeks that weren't there when I met him three weeks ago.
The way his lips are chapped and split, like he's been biting them raw.
He looks young, younger than twenty, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.
And hurt. He looks hurt—not physically, not in any way I can bandage or fix, but something deeper, something that's been festering for a long time.