Blair
My head's pounding like a bass line.
I'm still in the same boots. Still in last night's eyeliner.
And still smelling like the inside of a bar bathroom at 3 AM.
I stroll into class five minutes late. No apology. No rush. Just the usual: whispered gasps, glares, and that one girl in the front row pretending she's better than me. She probably is.
I take my seat beside the nerd. Atlas Reed.
Still brooding. Still perfect posture. Still refusing to look at me.
I light a cigarette halfway through the professor's rant about civil liberties.
Because I can. Because no one stops me anymore.
Except today.
"Miss Maddox," Professor Langford snaps from the podium, pinching the bridge of his nose like I personally ruined his morning. "You smell like a bonfire doused in vodka. This is a classroom, not a bar."
I exhale a thin stream of smoke and smile.
Slowly.
"Oh, sorry," I say flatly, not sorry at all. "Didn't realize we were grading on hygiene now."
A few students snicker. Atlas doesn't.
Professor Langford scowls. "You're disrupting the entire row."
"I'm not the one yelling," I shrug, flicking ash into my coffee lid. "You could've just asked nicely."
He opens his mouth again, but I'm already leaning back, eyes closed, legs crossed. The cigarette dangles lazily between my fingers like a threat I'm not even trying to make.
He mutters something and moves on.
They always do.
Next to me, Atlas shifts.
Doesn't speak. Doesn't move away either.
Smart boy.
He's learning.