Chapter 12
Atlas
Itry asking about Sebastian twice. The first time is gentle. The second time is gentler.
Neither works, unfortunately.
The conversation dies the second the name comes up, Damien’s entire body going tight like I touched a bruise.
“He was a toxic ex,” Damien finally says one night while standing in my kitchen. “That’s all.”
The answer is too rehearsed. Too clean. I try to keep my temper under control. Damien’s been so fragile lately, and I want to make sure he feels completely safe with me. But knowing there’s some man out there who’s making my boyfriend this scared makes me want to tear into some throats.
I lean against the counter, watching him carefully. “That’s not all.”
Damien’s jaw tightens. “Atlas…”
“I just want to know what I’m up against.” I run my hands through my hair.
Damien takes my face in his hands. “Nothing. No one.”
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Damien nods once, relieved and guilty at the same time, because he just lied to my face and thinks I believed it.
Not about Sebastian being toxic. That part I believe completely.
But there’s more to it. Something ugly enough that Damien physically can’t make himself talk about it yet.
And after the nightmare, after the panic attack, after the way he shook in my arms at four in the morning…
I’m not going to corner him into reliving it right now.
I can’t risk him throwing up more walls and shutting me out. Not right now.
But to my surprise, he doesn’t pull away. Damien starts staying at my apartment almost every night. At first, it happens naturally. One overnight turns into two. Then I open my bathroom drawer one morning and realize half my counter space is full of Damien’s stuff.
His toothbrush, his expensive facewash, and the stupid hair products he pretends not to care about, even though his curls look professionally moisturized at all times, are right next to my sink.
His clothes are tangled with mine in the laundry basket. His hoodie is draped over the back of my couch. A pair of his sweatpants is folded badly on the chair in my room. One day I open my closet and realize he’s quietly started hanging his clothes beside mine.
Like he belongs here.
The realization should probably scare me. Instead, it makes something warm settle in my chest.
Because the apartment feels better with him in it.
Less empty.
More alive.
Even when he’s being difficult.
I come back from the hospital exhausted after spending six straight hours with Grace during one of her rougher treatment days. By the time I unlock my apartment door, my entire body feels heavy. I smell food and stop immediately.
That’s new.
The apartment is warm and dimly lit, soft music playing quietly in the kitchen. I step inside slowly, still holding my keys, and find Damien standing at the stove in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt that definitely belongs to me.
For a second, I just stare at him.
He glances over his shoulder. “Hey. That took longer than I expected. Is Grace okay?”
I blink once. “You can cook?”
Damien shrugs. “I have many skills.”
I drop my stuff on the floor and lean against the doorway. “Why…?”
“You looked exhausted when you left this morning.”
A big, goofy smile spreads across my face as I watch Damien, who’s now blushing furiously under the warm lights.
“You made me dinner.”
He looks away from me. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You like me.”
“Stop.”
“But you look so cute with the towel over your shoulder, like a little chef.”
Damien rolls his eyes, but I can see the faint pink creeping into his ears already. The sight nearly kills me. I walk into the kitchen and wrap my arms around his waist from behind before he can escape.
He huffs. “You’re sweaty.”
I kiss the side of his neck anyway. He hums and pats my arm.
“Thank you, honey,” I murmur.
He laughs. “It’s not a big deal, Atlas.”
I squeeze him a little tighter, and he relaxes against me. Damien spends so much of his life trying to seem untouchable, but the second we’re alone he turns soft in my hands, like he was made for affection but never got enough of it.
“How are you today?” I murmur against his skin.
He nods once. “Better.”
I kiss him one more time before finally letting him go long enough for us to eat.
Dinner ends up being stupidly domestic—wine and pasta over light jazz music, while Damien makes fun of the way I hold a fork like he didn’t grow up surviving on instant noodles and stale Pop-Tarts. By the second glass of wine, the tension in his shoulders eases for the first time all week.
That feels like a victory.
He’s quieter tonight, but not in a bad way—more relaxed than withdrawn, leaning into my side while we sit on the couch after dinner with half-finished glasses of wine. A hockey game plays quietly on the television. Neither of us are actually watching it.
Damien is stretched across the couch with one leg thrown over mine, his curls slightly messy, his expression soft around the edges from the alcohol and exhaustion.
I brush my thumb slowly against his knee.
He glances at me immediately. “What? You’re staring at me.”
“I’m appreciating you.”
“That’s embarrassing.”
“I think making homemade pasta for me is more embarrassing.”
He groans softly and drops his head back against the couch cushions. “I was trying to be nice.”
“Yeah, it worked too well. Now I know you want me.” I lean over and kiss him before he can keep complaining.
Damien kisses me back immediately, warm and slow from the wine buzz settling over both of us.
“I always want you,” Damien mumbles against my mouth.
And then I’m halfway on top of him while he grabs fistfuls of my shirt and kisses me like he’s trying to climb inside my bloodstream.
How’d that happen?
“You taste like wine,” I murmur, grabbing his ass.
“Stop talking.”
I laugh softly.
Damien uses the distraction to pull my shirt over my head.
“So forward. You could at least make me dinner first.” I pull him closer by the belt loops of his pants. “Oh, wait…”
“You’re so fucking annoying.” He’s smiling now.
Actually smiling.
He’s just happy enough in this moment that he forgets to hide it. That realization hits me hard enough that I almost stop kissing him, just so I can look at him longer.
Instead, I drag him closer. The couch quickly becomes a mess of tangled limbs and discarded clothing. Both of us are warm and flushed while the city lights glow through the windows around us.
The wine leaves everything soft around the edges. Everything feels more intense, warmer.
Of course, the kissing leaves us wanting.
I press Damien over the arm of the couch, his toned back on full display for me. I drag my hand down his spine.
“Spread your knees, baby.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own.
Damien immediately obeys, arching his back like he’s trying to impress me. It works.
I fuck him hard, my hips beating into him like I can convince him he’s mine forever if I do this for long enough.
Damien starts moaning my name, over and over again like a prayer, until I come apart.
Later, when Damien is stretched naked beneath me, I kiss down his throat and listen to the quiet sounds he makes whenever I touch him somewhere sensitive.
“You’re clingy lately,” I murmur teasingly.
Damien immediately tightens his legs around my waist. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”
The confidence in his voice makes me grin against his skin.
“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “I really do.”
That earns me a look—a softer one than I’m prepared for. The room goes quiet for a second, something heavier slipping briefly between us.
Then Damien pulls me back down into another kiss before either of us can think too hard about what that means.
And for tonight, that’s enough.
Damien is carrying two bouquets of flowers through the hospital parking garage like he’s heading to a funeral instead of meeting my family. He looks deeply uncomfortable.
I’m trying very hard not to laugh.
“Why are you holding them like that?” I ask while we walk toward the elevator.
Damien glances down at the flowers with mild irritation. “Like what?”
“Like they insulted your mother.”
He scrunches his nose like an angry rabbit. “They smell weird.”
“They’re flowers. They’re supposed to smell like that.”
Damien frowns.
I grin.
Damien narrows his eyes at me before shifting the bouquets awkwardly in his arms again. One is bright and cheerful, for Grace. The other is softer, full of pale pink and white flowers that he apparently spent twenty minutes choosing because he wanted my mom to think he had “good intentions.”
That phrase almost killed me earlier, because Damien has never had any good intentions when it comes to me.
“You know,” I say casually, “most people are nervous about meeting the family because they want to make a good impression.”
Damien shoots me a look. “I do want to make a good impression.”
“You look like you’re about to fight somebody.”
“That’s just my face.”
I laugh.
The truth is, Damien looks beautiful today—dark jeans, black sweater, silver jewelry glinting softly under the parking garage lights. His curls are slightly messy because he kept running his hands through them during the drive over while pretending he wasn’t nervous.
He absolutely is nervous.
“You’re overthinking this,” I tell him.
“I’m not funny.”
I blink once. “What?”
“I’m serious,” Damien says. “Grace likes you because you’re all sunshine and…and jestercore.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“She’s thirteen. She’s probably going to think I’m weird. Or lame.”
“You are weird.”
He glares at me.
“But Grace is also weird,” I continue. “So it works out.”
Damien exhales sharply through his nose. “I’m so not cool, though.”
“Aren’t you a professional hockey player?”
“Yeah, but so are you. That’s normal for her.”
I bump my shoulder lightly against his as the elevator doors open.
“You’re freaking out for no reason,” I tell him gently. “Grace is going to love you.”