Atlas's POV
They're talking about her again.
They never stopped.
"She's sleeping her way through law school."
"I heard the professor's been giving her special grades."
"Did you see her coming out of his dorm? She's such a mess."
Everywhere I go, I hear it. Words that stab like knives.
I should say something. I should yell, defend her, shut them all up.
But she doesn't seem to care.
And maybe that's what hurts the most.
Blair Maddox walks across campus like she's untouchable. Sunglasses on. Black leather jacket thrown over a blue silk dress that clings to her like a second skin. Boots clicking on concrete like a warning shot. She smirks at the stares. Tosses her hair like she's above it. Smells like smoke and defiance.
But I've watched her too long not to notice the cracks.
The way her fingers tremble slightly when she lights a cigarette.
The way she doesn't meet anyone's eyes for longer than a second.
The way she laughs too loud. Too fake.
She's performing. Always.
Like if she just keeps pretending nothing can touch her… maybe it won't.
I find her leaning against her bike near the parking lot. Smoke curls from her mouth like it belongs there. Like she was born of it. Her helmet's dangling off the handlebar. Her hair is messy, her lipstick smudged, but she's breathtaking. And tired. God, she looks tired.
I approach her slowly, trying to pretend I'm not holding my breath.
"Blair," I say.
She doesn't even look up. "What? Here to check if the rumors are true?"
Her voice is dry. Hollow. Mean on purpose.
"No." I hesitate. "I didn't say anything about what happened. I wouldn't."
She finally glances at me, pulling her sunglasses down just enough to show her eyes. Bloodshot. Red-rimmed. Dangerous. "Gold star for you."
"I mean it."
"You think I care?" She flicks ash onto the pavement. "They've been talking about me since I was thirteen. Let them talk."
"You shouldn't have to deal with that alone," I murmur.
She stares at me. Like she's trying to decide whether to hit me or laugh in my face. Then she asks, "Ever run away from home, Atlas?"
I blink. "No."
She hums like she expected that. "Of course not. You're a good boy. Bet your mom still packs your lunches and kisses your forehead."
I don't respond.
She exhales smoke. "Let's go."
"…Go where?"
"Away."
My eyebrows pull together. "You mean like… now?"
She throws a leg over her bike. "Now. Right now. No class, no whispers, no rules. Get on."
"I can't— I have class."
She looks over her shoulder, grinning. "Exactly."
I hesitate. For maybe five seconds.
Then I do something I never do.
I break the rules.
I swing my leg over the bike behind her. My hands hover awkwardly until she grabs them and places them on her waist like she's done it a thousand times. She smells like smoke and vanilla and trouble. The engine roars to life beneath us.
And just like that, we're gone.
Flying down the highway with the wind in my ears and her laughter echoing in my chest. She leans forward like she's chasing something she'll never catch. Or maybe running from something that's always behind her.
I don't know where we're going.
But for the first time in years, I don't care.
Because Blair Maddox said run, and I ran.
With her.