Chapter 3 #2
It’s probably the softest kiss I’ve ever given. I’m not normally gentle. I bring men back to my apartment and devour them. I need the rush, the heat, the friction of feeling alive. But I just carefully guide Atlas’s mouth with mine.
The camera goes off immediately.
Atlas doesn’t pull away; he responds. His hands come up to cup my face, careful not to cage me. His mouth is warm and plush against mine, and he tastes like peppermint.
I pull back first, breathless. Nervous.
Atlas blinks once. Then again. His cheeks are pink and he’s looking at me with a dazed expression. A faint flush is creeping up his neck, and he looks just a little less put-together than usual.
It’s…unexpected.
“Holy shit,” the photographer breathes. “That was perfect.”
I step back, dropping my hand.
“Got some great shots,” he adds, already flipping through the images on the camera screen. “That’s exactly what we needed.”
Joanna looks satisfied.
Atlas runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Great.”
The rain pounds the pavement outside the studio. I probably should have checked the forecast before walking here this morning. Shit.
I stand under the awning for a moment, watching it fall, deciding whether I care enough to call a cab.
“Please tell me you didn’t walk here.”
I glance over my shoulder.
Atlas is jogging up behind me, jacket half on, hair already falling out of whatever the stylist did with it earlier. He looks relaxed again, like the shoot didn’t bother him, like he can just step out of that kind of attention without carrying any of it with him.
“I walked here,” I say.
“In this?” He gestures toward the rain.
“It wasn’t raining earlier.”
He looks out at the street, then back at me. “Let me drive you home.”
My first instinct is to say no.
I don’t like needing anything from anyone, and I don’t accept help when I don’t have to.
But the rain is steady, the kind that soaks through in minutes, and I don’t feel like dealing with it tonight.
“Fine,” I say.
His expression shifts, something lighter settling in his posture. “Car’s this way.”
Atlas’s car isn’t what I expected.
It isn’t spotless or polished or carefully maintained for appearances. It looks used, lived-in, like it belongs to someone who doesn’t spend time worrying about what it says about him.
There’s a hoodie thrown across the backseat, a couple of empty water bottles rolling on the floor, and a stack of sketchbooks pushed against the passenger side. Papers are tucked between the pages, some of them slipping out at the edges, curling slightly.
Then I notice the several knitted hats strewn across the car.
Different colors, different sizes, some folded neatly, others shoved into the corner like they were tossed there without a second thought. One of them has a pom-pom that looks absurd enough to hold my attention longer than it should.
Atlas catches me looking as he gets in.
“What?” he asks.
I pick up one of the hats, turning it slightly between my fingers. “You have a secret knitting fetish I should know about?”
He laughs, the sound easy and unfiltered, like I said something genuinely unexpected.
“No,” he says, shaking his head as he starts the car. “My sister makes those. She gets bored and doesn’t know when to stop.”
I set the hat back where I found it. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
He glances at me briefly before pulling out into traffic. “Yeah. She’s younger.”
That tracks. I lean back in the seat, watching the rain streak across the windshield. “How’s your family going to feel about you dating me?” I ask.
The question is casual on the surface, but I’m paying attention to how he answers.
Atlas doesn’t hesitate for long. “My dad probably would’ve had something to say about it,” he says, his voice steady. “But he’s dead, so I don’t have to listen to him anymore.”
There’s no dramatic shift in tone, no hesitation, just a statement laid out like a fact.
I study him for a second. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, one hand resting loosely on the wheel. “Don’t be. He was a piece of shit.”
The bluntness of it lands heavier than anything else he’s said today. I look away, back toward the windshield, because I understand that weight more than I should.
Images surface without warning.
A hand raised too quickly.
A voice that never needed to be loud to be threatening.
The kind of house where you learn early what not to say, what not to do, how to move in ways that don’t draw attention.
And beyond that…
Something colder.
Less forgiving. A different kind of control, one that doesn’t pretend to care about anyone at all.
I shut it down before it can go any further.
“Yeah,” I say quietly.
“I’ve been the man of the house for a while,” Atlas adds after a second. “It’s not as dramatic as it sounds. Just means I handle things.”
There’s more there. I can hear it but he doesn’t explain it, and I don’t ask. I lean back slightly, studying him from the corner of my eye. I’ve always assumed Atlas moved through the world without friction. He talks easily, laughs easily, lets people in without thinking twice about it.
I never considered that he might have had to earn that. That it might not come naturally. It makes him feel more real, less like a person built entirely out of ease and confidence.
I didn’t expect that to matter.
The car stays quiet for a minute, the rain filling the space where conversation could go.
Then Atlas clears his throat slightly. “Can I ask you something?”
I glance at him. “You’re going to anyway.”
He huffs out a quiet breath, something close to a smile touching his lips. “Fair.” He hesitates for a second, which is unusual for him. “Why are you so… uncomfortable with touch?” he asks.
He doesn’t phrase it like an accusation. He just wants to understand.
I don’t overthink the answer. “My dad was also a piece of shit.”
Atlas doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details or look at me like he’s trying to piece together answers I didn’t offer. He just nods once, like my response was enough.
“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment.
I shrug slightly. “Don’t be.”
He doesn’t argue.
Instead, his hand moves—slow enough that I can see it coming—and rests lightly on my knee. I expect myself to pull away, but I don’t. The contact is steady—not intrusive, not testing. Just there. And for some reason, it doesn’t set me off.
It doesn’t make my shoulders tighten or my chest lock up. It feels warm…and safe.
The rest of the drive passes without much conversation. By the time we pull up outside my building, the rain has slowed but the streets are still slick, reflecting the city lights in broken lines.
Atlas shifts the car into park, but doesn’t turn it off immediately. “Hey,” he says.
I look at him. “Yeah?”
He looks back at me shyly. “Today…” he says, then adjusts slightly. “At the shoot. The way I was touching you…was that okay?”
There’s no defensiveness in it. He just wants to know.
I lean back in the seat, considering for a second. “Yes,” I say. “It was fine.”
Some of the tension leaves his posture. “Good.”
I watch him for a second longer.
Then...
“You’re a terrible kisser, though.”
The words come out before I think about them.
He turns his head toward me slowly, like he’s not sure he heard me correctly. “Did Damien Harrow just make a joke?”
I open the door before he can say anything else. “You wish.”
I step out into the damp air and shut the door behind me, not waiting to see his reaction.
I can feel it anyway.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, I don’t immediately regret sharing a moment with him.
That’s new.
I don’t let myself sit with that feeling long enough to figure out why.