Chapter 7
Atlas
The storm that the old man in town had predicted hit us that evening. It wasn't a blizzard; it was a siege. The wind howled around the Annex like a pack of wolves, rattling the windows and piling snow against the door in two-foot drifts.
Inside, the world had shrunk to a twelve-by-twelve square of firelight and warmth.
"Okay," Aurelia said, her voice serious, "if you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, but it has to be prepared differently every time, what is it?"
She was sitting cross-legged on the rug, dealing a deck of cards onto the coffee table. She wore my gray sweatpants (rolled up five times at the waist) and a tight black tank top. Her hair was in a messy braid that trailed over one shoulder. She looked ridiculous and perfect.
"Potatoes," I said instantly from the couch. I was whittling a piece of kindling with my pocket knife—a nervous habit I picked up when my hands needed to do something other than reach for her.
"Potatoes?" She wrinkled her nose. "Atlas, that is the most boring, utilitarian answer I have ever heard. You have the palate of a peasant from 18th century Ireland."
"Think about it," I countered, pointing the knife at her. "Mashed. Fried. Baked. Chips. Vodka. It's the most versatile vegetable in existence."
"Vodka isn't a food group."
"It is in Russia. And in this cabin, apparently."
She laughed, dealing me a card. We were playing Gin Rummy. The stakes were high: the loser had to shovel the walkway in the morning.
"Fine. Potatoes. I pick..." She tapped her chin, looking at the ceiling. "Truffles."
"Truffles aren't a meal, Aurelia. You'd starve."
"But I'd starve elegantly. And think of the flavor profile."
"You'd die of malnutrition in a week. But at least you'd smell expensive."
She threw a pillow at me. I caught it with one hand without looking up from my whittling.
"You're impossible," she said, picking up her hand. She frowned at her cards. "I have garbage. Absolute garbage."
"Play the hand you're dealt, Princess."
"That's easy for you to say. You count cards. I know you do."
"I don't count cards. I just pay attention."
We played in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The fire crackled. The wind screamed outside. It felt... right. Domestic. Terrifyingly domestic.
A week ago, I wanted to strangle her. Now, I knew how she took her coffee (black, two sugars). I knew she hummed when she was concentrating. I knew that when she was tired, her left eye twitched slightly.
And I knew exactly what she sounded like when she fell apart.
I shifted on the couch, adjusting my position. Every time I looked at her, my body reacted. It was Pavlovian at this point.
"So," she said, discarding a Queen of Hearts. "Tomorrow is the Solstice."
"Is it?"
"Yeah. Longest night of the year. My mom usually throws a 'Winter White' party. Everyone wears white. It looks like a cult meeting with better catering."
"Sounds fun."
"It's hell. But..." She hesitated, looking down at her cards. "I kind of miss the ritual of it. Getting dressed up. Feeling like... I don't know. Like I exist outside of sweatpants."
I looked at her. She had been wearing my clothes for days. She hadn't complained once. She had shoveled snow. She had studied until her eyes were red. She had eaten pasta with jarred sauce without a word of critique.
She deserved a win.
"We could do something," I said slowly.
She looked up. "Do what? We're snowed in, Atlas. Unless you have a secret ballroom in the basement, our options are limited."
"We have a kitchen. We have a generator. And..." I remembered the stash I had found in the back of the pantry yesterday. "We have supplies."
"Supplies?"
"Arthur stocked the main house with wine. Expensive wine. And there's a freezer full of steaks."
Her eyes lit up. "Are you suggesting a heist?"
"I'm suggesting a dinner. A real dinner. Not spaghetti. We break into the main house, raid the kitchen, and cook something that doesn't come out of a box."
"But the main house is freezing," she pointed out.
"The kitchen has a gas range. And the fireplace in the great room is massive. We light a fire, cook a meal, drink some of your dad's overpriced Cabernet."
A slow smile spread across her face. It was mischievous. It was the smile of the girl on the balcony, but softer.
"Date night?" she teased.
My heart hammered. "Team dinner," I corrected. "Celebrating the fact that you passed your anatomy quiz today."
"I got an 85. That's hardly a celebration."
"For you? It's a miracle. Take the win."
She threw another pillow at me. This time, I let it hit me.
The next evening, the "Great Cabin Heist" began.
We bundled up like we were going on an arctic expedition just to cross the walkway to the main house. The wind had died down, but the air was still frigid.
Inside the main house, it was freezing. Literally. I could see my breath.
"Okay," I commanded. "Mission parameters. I handle the fire and the meat. You handle the wine and the... whatever else goes with steak."
"Vegetables, Atlas. They're called vegetables."
I got the fire going in the great room first. It was a massive stone hearth, big enough to roast a pig in. I piled logs high, using a copious amount of starter fluid because I was impatient. Within ten minutes, a roaring blaze was fighting back the chill in the room.
I dragged the heavy leather sofa closer to the hearth, creating a warm island in the sea of cold air.
In the kitchen, Aurelia was raiding the wine cellar. She came back holding two bottles of dusty red wine that probably cost more than my tuition.
"1998 Chateau Margaux," she announced, presenting the bottle like a trophy. "This is a crime, Atlas. My father was saving this for a senator."
"Good," I said, unwrapping the steaks I’d thawed. "Senators have bad taste. We’ll appreciate it more."
We cooked together. It was chaotic and messy and perfect.
I manned the cast-iron skillet on the gas range, searing the steaks with garlic and rosemary. Aurelia was in charge of the sides. She found potatoes (ironic) and roasted them with duck fat she found in the pantry.
She was wearing a dress.
She had snuck back to the Annex to change while I was building the fire. It was a slip dress—cream silk that shimmered in the firelight. She had thrown a chunky, oversized cardigan over it for warmth, letting it hang off one shoulder. She was barefoot.
She looked like an angel who had just rolled out of bed.
"Stop staring at the chef," she scolded, catching my eye as she whisked a sauce. "You'll burn the meat."
"I never burn the meat," I said, my voice lower than intended.
She paused, the whisk stilling in her hand. Her eyes met mine. The air in the kitchen grew heavy, thick with the smell of rosemary and lust.
"Is that a promise?" she whispered.
I stepped closer to her. I couldn't help it. I was a moth, and she was the flame.
I reached out and took the whisk from her hand, setting it on the counter. I placed my hands on the edge of the counter, trapping her between my arms.
"I promise," I murmured, leaning down until my nose brushed hers. "I'm very precise."
Her breath hitched. She smelled like vanilla and expensive wine.
"Atlas," she breathed.
"Yeah?"
"The potatoes are burning."
I cursed and spun around. Smoke was indeed rising from the oven.
She laughed—a full, throaty sound that echoed in the empty house.
I grabbed a towel and pulled the tray out. They were crispy, but salvageable.
"See?" I said, tossing the tray onto the stovetop. "Caramelized. Intentional."
"You're a terrible liar," she grinned. "But you're a decent cook."
We ate in the great room, sitting on the floor in front of the fire, using the coffee table as our dining table.
The steak was perfect (rare). The potatoes were crunchy (burnt). The wine was... well, I’m a beer guy, but even I knew this stuff was liquid gold. It tasted like velvet.
We talked. Not about school. Not about hockey. Not about her family.
We talked about everything else.
"So," she said, swirling her glass. "If you weren't a hockey player... what would you be?"
I chewed on a piece of steak, thinking. I had never really thought about it. Hockey was the ticket out. It was the only plan.
" carpenter," I said finally. "Or a mechanic. I like fixing things. I like working with my hands. Building something that lasts."
She nodded, looking at the fire. "I can see that. You have... capable hands."
I glanced at my hands. Scarred. Rough. Stained with grease and ink.
"What about you?" I asked. "If you weren't a ballerina?"
She went quiet. She took a long sip of wine.
"I wanted to be a writer," she admitted softly.
"A writer?"
"Yeah. Poetry. Short stories. I used to fill notebooks when I was a kid. But my mother found them."
"What did she do?"
"She burned them," Aurelia said simply. "She said St. James women don't write fantasies. We live in reality. And reality requires discipline, not daydreaming."
I felt a surge of rage so hot it rivaled the fire.
"That's... evil," I said.
"It was practical," she shrugged, though her voice wobbled. "She was right. Writing doesn't pay the bills. Or build influence. Ballet does. Ballet is visual. It’s prestigious."
"Do you still write?" I asked.
She looked at me, surprised. "No."
"Liar," I said gently. "I've seen the notebook. The blue one. You keep it under your pillow in the loft."
She flushed pink. "You went through my stuff?"
"I was making the bed," I lied. "It fell out. I didn't read it. But I saw it."
She looked down at her glass. "It's just... thoughts. Scribbles. It's nothing."
"I bet it's not nothing," I said. "I bet it's brilliant."
She looked up at me then. Her eyes were shimmering. Not with tears, but with something brighter. Hope?
"Why are you so nice to me tonight?" she asked. "It's confusing."
"I told you," I said, leaning back against the sofa. "We're a team. Teammates build each other up."
"Is that all we are?" she asked. "Teammates?"
The question hung in the air. Heavy. Loaded.
I looked at her. The firelight danced on her skin. Her lips were stained red from the wine. She looked soft and open and waiting.
"Aurelia," I warned. "The rules."
"Screw the rules," she whispered. "It's the Solstice. The longest night. Doesn't that mean we get a pass? Just for tonight?"
She set her glass down. She crawled across the few feet of rug separating us. She moved like a predator. Like a cat.
She stopped between my spread legs, resting her hands on my knees.
"Atlas," she said. Her voice was a purr. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't think about it every time you look at me."
I groaned, my head falling back against the sofa cushion. "You know I can't say that."
"Then show me," she challenged.
She reached for the hem of my shirt.
I caught her wrists.
"Aurelia. Stop."
"Why?"
"Because you're drunk on expensive wine and adrenaline. And tomorrow morning, you're going to regret this."
"I won't," she insisted. "I'm not drunk, Atlas. I'm... clear. For the first time in my life, I'm clear."
She pulled against my grip. She was strong. Dancer strong.
"I want you," she said. "I want you to touch me. Everywhere. I want you to ruin me so I can't go back to being perfect."
That broke me.
The idea of ruining her... of marking her... of taking all that pristine, polished perfection and making it messy and mine...
I released her wrists.
I grabbed her face in both hands and pulled her to me.
The kiss was nuclear.
It wasn't like the pond. The pond was frantic. This was deep. Slow. Consuming.
I tasted the wine on her tongue. I tasted the desperation.
She climbed into my lap, straddling me. The silk dress rode up, exposing her thighs. My hands found her skin—hot, smooth, soft.
I groaned into her mouth, my hands sliding up her back, under the cardigan, under the straps of the dress.
"Atlas," she moaned, grinding down on me.
I was hard instantly. Painfully hard.
I broke the kiss, burying my face in her neck. I bit her. Harder this time. Leaving a mark.
"Mine," I growled against her skin.
"Yours," she gasped. "Only yours."
I reached down and grabbed the hem of her dress. I pulled it up. She lifted her arms, letting me strip her.
She was wearing nothing underneath.
Just skin. Firelight. And perfection.
I stared at her. My breath caught in my throat. She was a masterpiece.
"Beautiful," I whispered.
She smiled—a shy, hesitant smile that made my heart ache.
"Touch me," she begged.
I did.
I touched every inch of her. I mapped her body with my hands. I learned the curve of her ribs, the dip of her spine, the softness of her breasts.
I laid her back on the rug, the fire warming our skin. I hovered over her, looking down into her blue eyes.
"Are you sure?" I asked, my voice rough. "Once we do this... there's no going back. I can't be your employee anymore. I can't be your friend."
"I don't want a friend," she said, reaching up to trace the scar on my eyebrow. "I want you."
I kissed her again. And then I stopped thinking.
The sex was slow. Agonizingly slow.
I wanted to savor her. I wanted to make it last.
I worshipped her body. I kissed my way down her neck, her chest, her stomach. I made her writhe. I made her beg.
When I finally entered her, she cried out. Not in pain, but in relief.
"Atlas," she sobbed, wrapping her legs around me.
We moved together in the firelight. It wasn't just friction. It was connection. It was two lonely people finding the matching piece of the puzzle.
I watched her face the whole time. I watched her come undone. I watched the walls crumble.
And when I came, spilling myself into her, I felt something shift in my chest. A lock clicking shut.
I collapsed on top of her, my face buried in her hair.
We lay there for a long time, listening to the fire pop and the wind howl.
"Atlas?" she whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Happy Solstice."
I laughed, a low rumble against her neck. I kissed her shoulder.
"Happy Solstice, Princess."
I rolled off her, pulling her into my side. I grabbed the blanket from the sofa and pulled it over us.
We fell asleep there, on the floor of the great room, in the freezing cold house, kept warm by the fire and each other.
I woke up hours later. The fire had died down to embers. The room was freezing.
Aurelia was curled into me, fast asleep.
I looked at her face in the dim light. She looked peaceful. Younger.
I felt a sudden, sharp pang of fear.
I was in love with her.
It wasn't a crush. It wasn't lust. It was the real, terrifying, life-ruining thing.
I was in love with Aurelia St. James.
And I knew, with a sickening certainty, that this was going to destroy me. Because when the snow melted... when the semester started... when her father came back...
She would go back to her tower. And I would go back to the ice.
I tightened my arm around her, holding on while I still could.
Just for tonight, she had said.
But I knew, staring into the dark, that tonight wasn't enough. A lifetime wouldn't be enough.
And that was the tragedy of it. I had finally found the one thing worth fighting for, and I was already fighting a losing battle.