Atlas
She smells like smoke.
Not the clean kind. Not the soft curl of sandalwood or incense. No.
She smells like the inside of an ashtray—burnt, bitter, and stubborn.
Like a war just ended on her tongue.
And something else.
Vodka. Maybe tequila. Maybe whiskey. Maybe all three.
Sharp, dangerous scents. She wears them like perfume.
I don't look up right away. I know it's her.
That smell announces her like a storm does thunder.
She drops into the seat next to mine in Constitutional Law like we've always sat this way. Like we didn't nearly collide yesterday. Like she didn't nearly kill me.
And then stop.
And offer me her hand like it was some twisted kind of power play.
Now she's here.
Wearing a black dress that fits like a second skin and boots that stab the floor with every step. Leather. Heels. Knee-high. The kind of outfit that doesn't whisper "notice me"—it orders it.
She doesn't speak. She just leans back in her chair, tips her head, and exhales slowly. A cloud of smoke she's probably still breathing from the night before.
I glance over, just once.
Her lipstick is a little smudged. Her eyeliner, dramatic and cruel. Her eyes—half-lidded but far from tired—scan the room like she owns it. And somehow, she does.
Blair.
Everyone knows her name. They chant it in frat basements and curse it in bathrooms. Professors flinch when they call attendance. Boys lie about having touched her. Girls lie about never wanting to be her.
I've studied war strategies less carefully than I've studied the way she moves.
And now she's here.
Close enough to touch.
Wearing sin like silk and looking like regret with red lips.
She doesn't acknowledge me. Not a glance. Not even a smirk.
But I know she knows I'm watching.
Because when the professor walks in, she turns ever so slightly—so only I can hear—and says:
"You survived."
Then crosses her legs. Slowly. Deliberately.
And I forget every single word I've ever read in a law book.