Chapter 2 #2
I mean, don’t actors do this all the time?
Pretend to be dating their co-star for publicity, share a few kisses and photos, and then poof, it’s all over.
I can do that. But I’m not really a casual dater.
I go out with people because I feel a connection with them.
I sleep with them because I want to be even closer.
I don’t know how I’m going to handle this.
What if I like this dating thing a little too much?
I shake my head and push the thought away immediately. No. I’m not going there. I don’t even know what that would mean, and it’s not like I’m sitting around fantasizing about him.
It’s just…he’s different.
Everything about him stands out once you start paying attention.
The way he moves is controlled, like every step is deliberate.
The way he talks is short and sharp, like he doesn’t waste words on anything unnecessary.
Even the way he looks at people feels like he’s already decided whether they’re worth his time.
And I am obsessed with being worth his time.
And then there are the things he doesn’t realize anyone notices—the way his shoulders tense when someone gets too close, the way his jaw locks when the room gets too loud, the way he shuts down, just slightly, when situations get overwhelming.
I’ve picked up on all of it. I don’t know why, but I have. And now I’m supposed to pretend to be with him?
I let out a quiet laugh and shake my head again. “Yeah. Sure. That won’t be complicated at all.”
My brain doesn’t move on to something else. It keeps replaying every interaction I’ve ever had with him. It keeps circling back to boundaries, to the idea of kissing, to?—
I grip the wheel tighter.
Oh my God, I want to drown. Why did I even ask him about that?
At the next red light, I close my eyes for a second because I already know the answer. I asked because I needed to know. If we’re doing this, I don’t want to mess it up or cross a line he isn’t okay with.
And instead, I got:
Why would I care about that?
I groan softly, dropping my head back against the seat. “Love that response.”
Damien doesn’t do things casually. Everything about him is calculated, measured, controlled. So if he agreed to this arrangement that quickly, there’s a reason for it.
I glance at the envelope sitting next to the contract. It has to be the money, like he said. I understand that. I really do.
My jaw tightens slightly, because I didn’t ask him about it. I didn’t push, didn’t say anything that might open that door, mostly because I don’t want to answer the same questions about why I’m willing to consider this.
I exhale slowly, loosening my grip on the wheel before my hands start to ache. “Yeah,” I murmur. “We’re probably in this for the same reason. It’s just the money.”
The hospital comes into view a few minutes later, glowing against the darkening sky. Something in my chest eases the second I see it. This is familiar, something I don’t have to think about.
I pull into the parking garage and shut off the engine, sitting there for a moment before I move. The contract sits on the seat beside me, folded and waiting.
I stare at it briefly, then look away. “Later,” I mutter.
Right now, I need something that makes sense—something real, something that doesn’t come with cameras or contracts or expectations.
The hospital feels the same every time—clean, sharp, and a little too bright, like everything inside is trying just a bit too hard to convince you that everything is going to be okay.
I push through the glass doors, nodding automatically at the front desk as I head toward the elevators. I don’t even have to check in anymore. They all recognize me now, which is something I haven’t quite gotten used to.
“Atlas!”
I barely make it three steps before someone calls my name. Two nurses look up from the station, both smiling like I just made their shift by showing up. One of them—Jenna, I think—waves me over.
“There he is,” she says, leaning on the counter. “We were wondering if you’d show up tonight.”
I grin, slipping into the version of myself they expect. “What, and ruin my perfect attendance record? Never.”
The other nurse laughs. “Grace has been asking for you all afternoon.”
“Yeah?” I push off the counter and start toward the elevators again. “Then I’m definitely late.”
“You always are,” Jenna calls after me.
I glance back over my shoulder. “I like to build suspense.”
They laugh as the elevator doors slide shut behind me, cutting off the noise of the lobby. The silence that follows is immediate, almost heavy, but the smile stays on my face out of habit.
The elevator dings on the third floor and I step out, moving toward Grace’s room without thinking.
I knock lightly before entering.
“Come in!”
“Alright,” I announce as I push the door open, “who’s ready to be dazzled?”
“You look like shit.”
I stop mid-step.
Grace sits up in bed, arms crossed and eyebrows raised like she’s personally offended by my existence. A purple hat that she knitted herself hides her bald head. She’s thirteen, dealing with leukemia, and still manages to be the most intimidating person in the room.
I blink at her. “Wow. First of all—language.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s not a bad word.”
“Shit is literally a swearword.”
“Are you trying to police how I feel? Somebody cancel him.” She leans back against her pillows.
I snort before I can stop myself, the tension in my chest easing just a little. “Good to see you too, Gracie.”
I cross the room, and she squints at me as I get closer, like she’s analyzing every detail.
“You look tired,” she says, her tone softening slightly. “And your hair’s doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where it sticks up in the back like you got electrocuted.”
“You’re mean today.”
She shrugs and smiles.
I lean down carefully so she can hug me, mindful of the IV line taped to her arm. She squeezes tight, like she always does, and for a second everything else falls away.
“Hey, bug,” I murmur.
“Hey,” she says into my shoulder.
When I pull back, I smile. “You’ve been causing trouble, I hear.”
“Obviously,” she says. “What else am I supposed to do in here? Sit quietly and be inspirational?”
“Please don’t ever be inspirational.”
“I won’t. That sounds boring.”
“Good.”
She grins, satisfied with that answer.
I drag the chair closer to her bed and sit, stretching my legs out in front of me. “So,” I say, nodding toward the sketchbook on her tray, “what’ve you got for me today?”
Her entire face lights up. “Okay, wait—you have to see this one first,” she says, flipping it open quickly. “I tried something different with the shading, and I think it actually worked.”
She turns it toward me, and I lean in to look.
It’s good—really good. A girl standing on a cliff, hair whipping in the wind, waves crashing below. The shadows are clean, the proportions solid, and there’s actual movement in it, not just lines on paper.
“Grace,” I say slowly, “this is?—”
“I know, right?” she cuts in. “It’s way better than the last one.”
I laugh. “Okay, yes, but also—it’s really good.”
She shrugs like it’s nothing, but I catch the small lift in her shoulders.
“I’ve been practicing,” she says.
“Clearly.”
I flip through a few more pages. Every drawing is different—different styles, different subjects, some rougher than others—but they’re all hers. They’re all good.
“You could sell these,” I say.
She snorts. “Who’s going to buy drawings from a bald thirteen-year-old?”
I don’t even hesitate. “People who have eyes.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re just saying that because I’m sick.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.”
“Liar.”
“Brat.”
She grins, and just like that we fall into an easy rhythm, teasing each other while arguing over which drawings are her best and which ones she’s definitely redoing because the hands look weird.
For a while, it feels normal—about as normal as this can be. I forget about the contract sitting in my car, forget about Damien, forget about everything outside this room.
Then the door opens.
Mom walks in, balancing a tray of food and a cup of coffee. Her face softens the second she sees me. “Atlas,” she says.
“Hey, Ma.” I stand and take the tray from her before she drops it. “What’d you get?”
“Something Grace won’t eat,” she says dryly.
“Rude,” Grace calls from the bed.
“You know it’s true.”
I set the tray down and lean in to kiss Mom’s cheek. She smells like coffee and something faintly floral—familiar, grounding.
“How was practice?” she asks quietly.
“Long,” I say. “Coach is punishing us for the loss.”
“Your next game will go better.” She places a hand on my shoulder. “You look exhausted.”
I glance between her and Grace. “So you’re both being mean today.”
“It’s not our fault you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
“I hate both of you.”
“Love you too,” they say in unison.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
Mom watches me for a moment, something shifting in her expression. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Grace groans. “If you’re going to have a serious conversation, I need snacks.”
“You have snacks,” Mom says.
“Not good ones.”
“I’ll get you something after,” I promise.
She points at me. “You better.”
I follow Mom into the hallway, letting the door close softly behind us. The atmosphere shifts immediately. It’s heavier out here than it is in Grace’s room.
She wraps her arms around herself, still holding her coffee.
“What’s up?” I ask.
She hesitates before exhaling. “It’s time again.”
I already know what she means—the next payment, the next round, the next reminder that this doesn’t stop.
“And?” I ask, even though I can hear it in her voice.
She looks down. “I’m a little short. I thought I had enough, but some things came up and I just…” Her voice trails off.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
“I can figure something out,” she adds quickly. “I’ll call?—”
“I’ve got it.”
She looks up immediately. “Atlas?—”
“I’ve got it,” I repeat.
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to do that. You already?—”
“I want to.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I got it.”
She studies me, really looking at my face this time. “You can’t keep doing this. It’s too much.”
“It’s not.”
“It is. You have your own life, your own responsibilities?—”
“You and Grace are my responsibilities,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words hang between us, heavier than I expected.
Her expression softens, though the worry doesn’t leave her eyes.
“How much?” I ask.
She hesitates, then tells me. I don’t react, even though it’s a lot. It’s more than a lot.
But it’s not impossible.
Not anymore.
“I’ll cover it,” I say.
Her head snaps up. “Atlas, no.”
“I can.”
“That’s too much money.”
“I know.”
“Then how?—”
“I’m getting a bonus,” I say.
It’s not exactly a lie, but it’s not the full truth, either.
She frowns. “A bonus?”
“Yeah. Team stuff. Performance, PR, whatever.”
“And it’s enough?”
“And more.”
She searches my face. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know,” I say. “I want to.”
Silence stretches between us before her shoulders finally sag. “Atlas…” she whispers.
I pull her into a hug before she can say anything else. “I’ve got it,” I murmur. “Okay? I’ve got us.”
She holds on tight, like she’s afraid everything might fall apart if she lets go.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“Always.”
Because there’s no version of this where I don’t take care of them.
No version where I let my mom carry this alone.
No version where Grace doesn’t get what she needs.
I pull back and force a lighter tone. “Come on. She’s going to start a riot if we stay out here too long.”
Mom laughs softly, wiping at her eyes. “Yeah, she will.”
We head back into the room together, and when I sit down beside Grace again, listening to her talk and complain and show me another drawing, everything else fades out.
The contract. Damien. All of it.
Because this is the reason I’m going to say yes.