Atlas
I should've stayed in the library. Or taken the long way home. Or, better yet, never existed anywhere near Blair Maddox's orbit.
But here I am. Knoxley University's campus is dead silent—everyone either asleep or passed out—and I'm walking down the east path with my head low and my mind full of torts and caffeine.
And then I hear it.
That engine.
Low. Growling. Alive.
I look up just in time to see headlights barreling toward me, fast and hot, like some hellish comet on wheels. The world slows. My pulse spikes.
I jump back.
The Ducati misses me by inches.
The tires scream, and for a split second, I taste gravel in my mouth and death in the back of my throat.
Books fly. My headphones rip out. My spine slams the pavement.
Then, silence.
Except the engine—it's not gone.
It circles back.
Of course she circles back.
The bike skids to a stop right in front of me, purring like it's proud of what it did.
Boots hit the ground. Black leather gleams under the moonlight.
And then she pulls the helmet off.
Blair Maddox.
Hair so thick and dark it falls in waves down to her knees. Eyes like secrets she'll never let you earn. Red-tipped cigarette between her lips, like it belongs there more than air.
She looks at me like I'm the one in her way.
"Oops," she says, casual. Almost bored.
I stare. Still on the ground. "You almost ran me over."
"Almost," she repeats, voice full of smoke and sin. She blows a slow exhale and grins. "You're not dead. Take the win."
I narrow my eyes, heart still beating somewhere in my throat. "Are you always this reckless or am I just special?"
She hums. Looks me up and down, amused.
Then, without warning, extends a hand.
Black nails. Silver rings. Warm skin.
I hesitate, then take it.
Her grip is strong, confident. She pulls me to my feet like she does this often—pulling people out of wreckage she caused.
"You good, Professor Spreadsheet?" she asks, brushing imaginary dust off my hoodie. "Didn't mean to fry your brain."
She's called me that for three semesters. It's her way of making fun of the fact that I answer questions, get straight A's, and don't chase her like everyone else does.
"I'm fine," I say, brushing myself off. "Unlike your driving record."
Blair laughs, head tilted back, hair swaying like a dark curtain.
And for a second—just a second—she looks free.
Then she blinks, like the moment didn't happen, and turns.
Back to the bike. Helmet under her arm.
"Try not to die next time, Atlas," she calls over her shoulder, finally using my name. Her voice has that mocking lilt, like she already knows she'll keep showing up in my path. Uninvited. Inevitable.
And then she's gone.
The engine screams. Smoke kisses the pavement.
And I'm left standing in the night, still shaken, still alive, wondering what the hell just hit me.
And why I can't stop watching her go.