Chapter 4
KAI
Atlas arrives at the library at exactly three o’clock.
I know because I’ve been watching the door for the last ten minutes, pretending to help the librarian organize files while actually just thinking about him. Which is ridiculous. I’m thirty-three years old. I shouldn’t be this nervous about a guy I just met.
But then he walks in, and I remember why I’m nervous.
He’s wearing a dark blue Henley that fits him perfectly, and his hair is still slightly damp like he showered before coming here. He’s made an effort. That detail shouldn’t matter, but it does.
“Hey,” he says, and his smile is genuine. Not the performing one he wore at the party two days ago.
“Hey. Thanks for coming.”
I lead him to the back room where I’ve set up the recording station.
The space is small, but it works—wall-to-wall shelves filled with books, memory sticks, organized files.
The books provide perfect insulation for recordings, dampening the sound, and creating a cocoon of privacy.
There’s a door that closes completely, giving us isolation from the rest of the library.
“So this is where the magic happens?” Atlas asks, looking around at the shelves, the equipment tucked into corners, the organized chaos of my work.
“This is where I organize the magic,” I correct. “The real magic happens in the booth or in people’s living rooms or on park benches.” I glance at him. “Wherever people feel safe enough to share their stories.”
He catches that, the reference to the party. His cheeks flush slightly, and he looks away, but not before he smiles.
“Okay, so what do you need me to do?” he asks.
I pull up a chair next to mine. The space is tight, but usually it’s just me here, so it’s not a problem. With two of us, it’s definitely a lot cozier. Atlas takes a seat, our shoulders almost touching.
“I need to go through these recordings, listen to them, add metadata—names, dates, topics, that kind of thing. It’s tedious but necessary. And honestly, it’s nice to have someone else here. Makes it less lonely.”
We settle into the work. I start a recording—an older woman talking about opening the first restaurant in Pine Ridge in 1987. Her voice is warm, nostalgic. Atlas listens intently, taking notes on the form I’ve created. His handwriting is neat, precise. Artistic, even.
“She has such a clear memory of everything,” he says when it ends. “The colors, the smells, the people. It’s like she’s right back there.”
“That’s what I love about this work,” I say. “People’s memories are so specific. So vivid. It’s like stepping into their world for a moment.”
We work through several more recordings.
A man talking about building his house by hand, the mistakes he made, the pride he felt when it was finished.
A teacher discussing the evolution of Pine Ridge High School over three decades.
A woman recounting her wedding day with such detail and joy that Atlas laughs out loud.
“She’s so happy,” he says. “Even just talking about it decades later, she’s so happy.”
“She’s in love.”
Our eyes meet for a moment; the charge between us kicks up my pulse. He looks away first, but he’s smiling.
We continue working, but the energy has shifted. There’s an awareness between us now. When our hands brush reaching for the same file, neither of us pulls away immediately. When I lean over, I let my shoulder linger against his.
Just testing his reaction. The uptick in his breathing tells me he’s as affected by me as I am by him.
“This one’s interesting,” I say, queuing up another recording. “It’s a man talking about his first day working at the hardware store. I think it might be your father, actually.”
Atlas leans in closer to listen. I can smell his shampoo—a clean and citrusy scent. I have to force myself to focus on the recording.
The voice fills the small room, talking about being seventeen and terrified of messing up. Talking about learning from his own father. Talking about the pride he felt the first time he helped a customer solve a problem.
“That’s Dad,” Atlas confirms, his voice soft.
“This was recorded about ten years ago, but he was remembering being seventeen.”
“He never told me this stuff. About how nervous he was starting out.”
“People don’t usually tell their kids those things,” I say. “They show them the confident version. The version that’s figured it out.”
Atlas is quiet for a moment. “Is that what I’m doing? Showing everyone the confident version?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stands up and walks over to the shelves, where he runs his finger along the spines of the books. The movement creates distance between us, and I feel the loss immediately.
“I think I’ve been doing it for so long, I forgot there was another version,” he says finally.
I stand up too, drawn toward him like a magnet. The room suddenly feels even smaller, more intimate, the books surrounding us creating a world that’s just ours.
“You could record a message,” I suggest. “If you wanted—just for yourself, for your parents, or to hear your own voice telling the truth.”
He turns to look at me. “I want to. But I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of saying it out loud. Of making it real.”
I step closer. “It’s already real, Atlas. You’ve been living it. Recording it just means you stop pretending.”
He looks at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he stands up straighter. He’s only a few inches away now. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“Okay,” he says. “I want to do it.”
The frog in my throat prevents me from speaking but I don’t move away. Neither does he.
“Atlas,” I say, my voice lower now. “I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“That I’ve been thinking about kissing you since the party.”
His breath catches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. “I’ve been thinking about it since you joined me at the Bookshelf Café.”
I reach out and push him gently backward until his back hits the bookshelves. The books press against him, and he gasps slightly. Then I kiss him.
It’s soft and slow and deep and fast all at the same time, like we’re trying this kissing thing for size but already can’t get enough. His hands come up and grip my shoulders, pulling me closer, and I can feel his heart racing against my chest.
When we break apart, he’s breathless.
“You,” he starts, “kiss good.”
“You too.”
I kiss him again, and this time his hands move down my back, pulling my shirt up slightly. My skin is hypersensitive to his touch. I want more. I want everything.
“Is the door locked?” he asks against my lips.
“It is now,” I say, reaching over to flip the lock without breaking contact.
I pull back just enough to look at him. His hair is disheveled, his lips are swollen from kissing, his eyes are dark with want.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” I say.
“I don’t want to stop.”
“Can I taste you?”
His eyes become darker than I’ve seen them in the short time we’ve spent together.
“Fuck. Yes.”
I drop to my knees and reach for his jeans. He doesn’t stop me, but his breathing is ragged as I unbutton him and pull down the zipper. I ease his jeans and underwear down his thighs.
He’s already hard, and the sight of him makes my mouth water. I look up at him, holding his gaze as I take him in my mouth.
He makes a sound—half gasp, half moan—and his hand comes down to grip my shoulder. I work slowly, deliberately, paying attention to every sound he makes, every involuntary thrust of his hips. His other hand grips the bookshelf behind him for stability.
“Kai,” he breathes. “That’s … oh god.”
I build the pace gradually. His hips start moving with me, and I can feel the tension building in his body. He’s close. So close. His breath catches, his fingers dig into my shoulders, and then he’s coming undone beneath me with a gasp that turns into my name.
He helps me up, and we switch positions. He pushes me against the shelves, and the books dig into my back. He kisses me hard, then drops to his knees.
The way he touches me with confidence and care drives me wild. It’s not faking or performing. He takes his time, pays attention to every reaction, adjusts based on what makes me respond. He’s Atlas.
My Atlas, my brain offers, but I try to push it aside. I have no claim to this man other than this stolen moment and any others he’s willing to give me.
I watch him, my hand in his hair, and I think about how rare this is. How rare it is to find someone who shows up like this. Willing to be vulnerable. Willing to give.
He takes me deeper, and I have to grip the bookshelf to keep from losing my balance. The pleasure is building, radiating through my entire body. I’m close. I want to warn him, but the way his tongue works me is sinful.
I come with an intensity that makes stars appear behind my eyes.
He swallows, then pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s smiling that Atlas smile I’m growing to crave.
I pull him back up.
“That was incredible,” he says.
“I don’t disagree.”
We stand like that for a while, just breathing the same air, being close and grinning at each other. Eventually, we separate enough to fix our clothes. The reality of what just happened is sinking in.
“So,” I say, trying to sound casual and probably failing. “When are you heading back to Denver?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know, actually.”
I look at him, surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it. My life in Denver is … it’s not what I told people it was. Maybe I should tell my parents. Maybe I should stay here for a while. Figure things out.”
“That’s a big decision.”
“I know. But being here, talking to you … it made me realize I can’t keep running from the truth. And maybe Pine Ridge isn’t where I’m supposed to be forever, but right now, it feels like the right place to be.”
I step closer and take his hand. “I think that’s brave.”
“I think I’m terrified.”
“I understand,” I say. “But brave and terrified aren’t mutually exclusive.”
He squeezes my hand. “I still want to record that message for my parents. The real one. The honest one.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
We walk across the road to the Community Center and the recording booth in the Airstream, and this time when Atlas presses the red button, he knows exactly what he’s going to say.