Atlas
She walks in smelling like whiskey and smoke, and the whole class forgets how to breathe.
I hear the shift before I see her—heads turning, murmurs rising, fingers twitching toward phones. Even Professor Whitaker stumbles over a word on the board.
And then Blair Maddox saunters through the door like she owns the air.
Black dress. The same one from the party. Knee-high heeled boots tapping rhythmically on linoleum. Makeup smudged like war paint, hair still wild from last night's rooftop wind, the ends brushing down past her thighs like silk-drenched sin.
And she's wearing my hoodie.
Correction: she was wearing my hoodie.
She shrugs it off—slow, deliberate—and the scent of stale alcohol and cigarettes floods the room. Heads snap toward her. Even the guy who never looks up from his laptop is staring now. I can smell her from here. A potent cocktail of recklessness. Tequila, probably. Maybe whiskey. Cigarettes—definitely. She smells like a hangover and bad decisions, and I think she's never looked more alive.
And then—
Thump.
She tosses the hoodie straight at me.
It hits my desk. Slides across the surface. Folds in on itself like it's ashamed of being part of this.
A paper cup follows. Vanilla latte, still warm. Extra cream. No sugar. My usual.
I didn't tell her that.
She doesn't say sorry. Blair Maddox doesn't apologize.
Instead, she says, "I don't owe you anything."
Eyes on me. Lips stained with last night's lipstick. Voice bored. Almost cruel.
And then she walks away like she didn't just detonate a nuclear moment into a room full of witnesses.
Phones are already out. I hear the whispering.
"Is that Blair Maddox?"
"Same dress?"
"Was that his hoodie?"
"Oh my god, she threw it at him—"
"She brought him coffee?"
My jaw ticks, and I don't look at anyone.
I pick up the hoodie. It's cold. Smells like her now—ash and sharp vanilla, the ghost of smoke clinging to the collar.
I should be angry. I should throw it back.
But I don't.
Because the truth is—I sat next to her on a rooftop last night, and I didn't leave until she fell asleep. Because she was shaking, and crying, and mumbling things in her sleep that made my chest ache.
Because the truth is, I left her the hoodie because I didn't know if she had a jacket. Because the wind was cruel. Because I didn't want her to wake up alone and cold.
Because I care.
And I hate that I care.
She sits two rows ahead of me. Slouched in her chair like she owns the world. Legs crossed, twirling a pen between fingers still stained with black ink or eyeliner or both. Her head tilts back, exposing her throat. No shame. No explanation. Just that same maddening defiance that wraps around your neck like a silk noose.
She doesn't look back. Not once.
But I see her fingers curl tighter around her pen. Her shoulders tense just slightly.
She knows I'm watching.
I always am.
I pull the coffee closer. Vanilla, just like she said.
I take a sip.
It's perfect.
And I hate her a little more for it.