Blair
I woke up to the smell of sandalwood and the softest kind of silence.
Not the kind of silence that creeps over a hangover like a knife ready to twist. But the kind that held its breath around you, like it didn't want to startle you.
My head ached. My mouth tasted like last night—alcohol, cigarettes, regret.
I didn't recognize the ceiling.
White. Clean. A small crack running diagonally like the beginning of a scar. The sheets beneath me were soft. Cotton. Fresh. They didn't smell like me. They smelled like him.
Sandalwood. Faint coffee. Something warm.
Atlas Reed.
I sat up too fast. My skull threatened to split open.
I was still wearing my dress. Black. Wrinkled. One strap halfway off my shoulder. My legs tangled in a blanket I didn't remember accepting. My boots were placed neatly at the foot of the bed. My lighter sat beside them.
On the desk across the room: a steaming cup of coffee and a bottle of water. Vanilla latte. Just the way I like it.
Next to it, a handwritten note in perfect print.
> *"Didn't know your dorm. You were passed out. Don't worry, nothing happened. You're safe.
Coffee's on the desk. Painkillers in the drawer.
A"*
I stared at it. Blankly. For maybe a full minute.
Safe.
I didn't remember the last time someone wrote that word and meant it.
My mother would've left me in a cab. My ex would've filmed me passed out and posted it on his story for laughs. Most people would've stepped over me.
He brought me here. Tucked me in. Didn't touch me.
I looked around the room—books stacked high. Law texts. Ancient philosophy. Notes scribbled in different-colored pens. A chessboard on the shelf, mid-game with himself. Two hoodies hanging from the back of his chair, and one missing from his rack.
The one I'd thrown at him.
I closed my eyes.
Shame crept up my throat, bitter and sharp.
I threw my hoodie at him. I showed up to class like a warning sign, dripping last night's sin, and all he did was… this.
I wanted to hate him for it.
For being so good. For not asking anything of me. For not needing to.
The door creaked open, soft and slow.
He paused when he saw me sitting up. "You're awake."
His voice was low. Sleep-roughened. He was wearing a plain gray shirt and joggers, hair messy from sleep, a book in his hand.
"I didn't touch your coffee," I said.
"It's fine." He walked in like it wasn't weird I was in his bed. "You were shaking."
"Yeah, well. That's kind of my brand."
He didn't smile.
"You left me your bed."
"You needed it."
"Where'd you sleep?"
He tilted his head. "Library couch."
I stared. "You're fucking kidding."
"Dead serious."
I wanted to throw something at him. Maybe the coffee cup.
"Why?"
His eyes were steady. "Because you looked like someone who needed someone not to leave."
I swallowed. Hard.
God, he was infuriating.
"You don't even like me."
"I don't have to like you to care."
That hurt more than it should've.
I looked away, down at my bare legs, my messy dress, my ruined mascara.
"You're not going to lecture me?"
"No."
"Not going to say I smell like an ashtray and whiskey?"
"I said that yesterday."
I snorted. "You're a pain in the ass, Reed."
He leaned against the doorframe. "So I've heard."
We sat there, quiet again.
Then, quietly, I said, "Thank you."
And I meant it.