Chapter 10
Atlas
Inotice a shift the next day.
At first, I tell myself I’m reading too much into it. Damien has always been a little closed off, a little sharp around the edges, and there are days when he pulls inward more than usual. That’s not new. That’s part of him.
This feels different.
It starts small. He doesn’t sleep well the night after the gym.
I know because I stay over, and even though he pretends he’s out, his breathing never settles into a steady rhythm.
Every time I shift, he tenses slightly like he’s aware of everything around him.
Once, around three in the morning, he wakes up abruptly, like he’s been dropped back into his body mid-fall.
“Hey, hey.” I soothe him as he figures out where he is. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” He nods like that’s enough and turns onto his side, facing away from me.
He doesn’t fall back asleep for a long time.
I don’t push, because we’re not actually partners.
This becomes the pattern.
He’s there, he’s present, but something about him feels…tight. Coiled. Like he’s bracing for something he won’t name.
During the day, it shows up in flashes. We’ll be walking down the street and suddenly he slows, just slightly, his gaze cutting across the crowd like he’s scanning faces without meaning to. He does it fast, controlled, but once I notice it, I can’t stop noticing it.
At the grocery store, he flinches when someone drops something two aisles over.
At the coffee shop, he shifts so his back is always to the wall.
He laughs it off every time I glance at him, but the reactions come too quickly to be intentional.
The next game, I’m benched, stuck on the sidelines, forced to watch instead of play, which is already making me restless. Damien is on the ice, sharper than usual, faster, like he’s trying to outrun something.
But it’s not just that. Every time there’s a break in play, his eyes go to the crowd.
Not casually. Not like he’s looking at the fans or checking the scoreboard.
It’s deliberate, like he’s searching for someone.
The first time I catch it, I tell myself I’m imagining things. By the third, I know I’m not.
Something’s wrong.
And he’s not telling me what it is.
I don’t bring it up right away. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know how to mention it without him shrinking away from me.
Every time I think about asking, I hear his voice in my head from a few weeks ago.
Keep it casual. No expectations.
Asking questions like that doesn’t feel casual. It feels like crossing into something deeper than he’s ready to give me. So instead, I go to the hospital.
Grace is asleep when I get there, which is rare enough that I don’t want to wake her. My mom is sitting in the chair by the window, reading something on her tablet. She looks up immediately when I step into the room.
“There you are,” she says, smiling softly. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“Had practice,” I say.
She nods, setting her tablet aside. “How are things?”
It’s a simple question, but it doesn’t feel like it.
I lean against the wall near the foot of Grace’s bed, crossing my arms loosely. “Good,” I say automatically.
My mom raises an eyebrow. “Try again.”
I exhale slowly.
She just waits long enough that I start filling the silence myself.
“Something’s off,” I admit finally.
Her expression shifts slightly, more focused now. “With...?”
“Damien.”
“What kind of off?”
I hesitate, trying to put it into words without sounding like I’m overreacting.
“He’s…jumpy,” I say. “Not all the time. Just…small things. Loud noises, crowds. He keeps looking over his shoulder like he’s expecting something to happen.”
My mom listens without interrupting, in that intense therapist way of hers.
“He’s not sleeping,” I add. “Or at least not well. And at the last game, he kept watching the crowd like he was looking for someone.”
That part feels heavier when I say it out loud.
My mom leans back slightly in her chair, considering that. “Has he always been like this?” she asks.
“No,” I say immediately. “Or if he was, it wasn’t this obvious.”
She nods slowly. “Has something happened recently that could have triggered it?”
I think about the gym.
About the phone call.
About the way he looked when he came back inside.
“I don’t know,” I say.
That’s the truth. I have pieces, but not the whole picture.
My mom studies me for a second longer. “Do you know anything about his past?”
I shake my head. “Not really. He had a shit dad.”
Her brows pull together slightly. “You’ve been seeing each other for a while now, haven’t you?”
There’s something in the way she says it that makes me shift uncomfortably. “Yeah.”
“And you don’t know if he’s experienced abuse or trauma?”
The word sits heavy in the room.
Abuse.
I open my mouth.
Close it again.
“We don’t really talk about the past,” I finally say.
And saying it out loud makes something twist in my chest. She’s right. We spend almost all of our time together. We sleep in the same bed. We know how the other person takes their coffee, how they move on the ice, how they react to certain things.
And somehow, I don’t know anything about the parts he hides from the world.
“That’s…unusual,” my mom says carefully.
I shrug like it doesn’t matter. “It’s not that kind of thing.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly. “What kind of thing is it?”
I look away.
I don’t have a clean answer for that.
My mom watches me for a second, then lets it go. “Based on what you’re describing,” she says slowly, “it could be a trauma response.”
My attention snaps back to her immediately. “What do you mean?”
“He’s hyperaware of his surroundings,” she explains. “He’s having trouble sleeping. He’s reacting to stimuli in ways that suggest his nervous system is on high alert.”
The words settle heavily. “That sounds bad.”
“It sounds like he’s not feeling safe,” she says.
Damien always looks like he’s in control. Always.
The idea that he might feel unsafe…I push that thought down before it can spiral.
“What do I do?” I ask.
My mom’s expression softens slightly. “You don’t force anything,” she says. “If he hasn’t told you what’s going on, there’s probably a reason for that.”
I nod.
“You give him space to come to you,” she continues. “But you also make it clear that you’re there for him. Consistently. Calmly.”
I lean back against the wall again, processing that.
“And if it’s something like flashbacks,” she adds gently, “you need to be careful.”
I look at her. “Careful how?”
“Don’t overwhelm him,” she says. “If he’s triggered, he’s not fully in the present. He might not react the way you expect.”
I think about the bathroom at the gym.
The way he looked right before he shut down.
The way he leaned into me like he needed something to hold onto.
My chest tightens. “So I just…wait?”
“Not passively,” she says. “Be present. Be steady. Let him set the pace. And be gentle with him right now.”
The words settle into something firm and unmovable.
Because I’m not sure I’ve ever been gentle with him.
Not really.
Not when things get heated.
Not when I tease him just to see how he reacts.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
My mom gives me a small smile. “You care about him.”
It’s not a question.
I don’t respond.
Because I don’t know how to without admitting something I’m not ready to say out loud. Instead, I glance over at Grace, still asleep, her sketchbook resting beside her on the bed. Then I look back at my mom.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say.
My phone buzzes at 11:47 p.m. I’m halfway through brushing my teeth when Damien’s name flashes across the screen.
That alone is unusual enough to make me pause.
Damien isn’t a texter unless he has something specific to say.
Most of our conversations happen in person, usually because he hates typing and thinks emojis are emotionally manipulative.
Tonight’s message is three words:
come over. now.
Then, immediately after:
i need you.
I can practically hear his thought process through the typing—fast, impulsive, emotional enough to send the message before overthinking it. Something tightens in my chest.
I text back before I can think too hard about it:
on my way
The typing bubble appears for a second.
Then disappears.
No reply.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside Damien’s apartment door. I barely knock before it swings open.
Damien looks wrecked.
His curls are damp like he showered recently, his hoodie hanging half open over gray sweatpants that sit low on his hips. His eyes are glassy enough that I know he’s been drinking, but underneath the alcohol, there’s something else.
Something frayed.
The second he sees me, relief flashes across his face so quickly I almost miss it.
Then he grabs the front of my jacket and pulls me inside.
The door barely shuts before his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is desperate.
It’s needy in a way Damien almost never allows himself to be. My back hits the door hard enough to rattle it while his hands fist in my shirt like he’s afraid I’m going to disappear if he loosens his grip.
“I missed you,” he says against my mouth.
The words hit me straight in the chest. And God—I fold instantly.
Every rational thought leaves my body the second Damien kisses me. My hands slide to his waist automatically, pulling him closer while he presses into me hard enough that I can feel how tense he still is underneath the alcohol.
He kisses like he’s trying to drown something, pulling off my clothes like they offend him.
Usually, I’d let him. Usually, I’d kiss him back until neither of us could think straight anymore.
But tonight, my mom’s voice echoes in the back of my head.
Be gentle with him right now.
I force myself to pull back slightly.
Damien immediately follows me, chasing the kiss with a frustrated sound.
“Hey,” I say softly, one hand sliding up to his jaw. “Talk to me.”
His expression shutters immediately. “Nothing’s wrong.”
I almost laugh at his obvious lie. “Damien.”
“I’m serious.”
I caress his face, making him meet my eyes. “So am I.”