Blair's POV
The sun's too bright.
The ocean's louder than it needs to be. And my head hurts like hell.
I groan and push myself up, sand sticking to my legs, my arms, my everything. My black dress is wrinkled, my boots are somewhere behind me, and I taste last night's smoke in my mouth.
But he's still asleep.
Atlas Reed.
Curled on his side, one hand under his cheek, the other half-buried in the sand. His brows are smooth for once, not scrunched like they usually are when he's thinking hard about some philosophical tragedy or trying not to look at me in class.
And he looks—gorgeous.
Stupidly gorgeous.
The sun catches on his lashes. His lips are slightly parted. His chest rises and falls slowly under that T-shirt I've never seen him wear before—blue, a little worn out, fits him too well.
I should look away.
But I don't.
Because for the first time since I met him, he's not avoiding me. He's not judging me. He's just… still. Peaceful. And real.
And maybe I'm tired. Maybe I'm hungover. Maybe I'm completely losing my mind—
But my heart stutters. Just once. Quick. Hard.
I stare at him, and I realize:
I like him.
Not in the fun, reckless, he's-hot-so-let's-break-him kind of way.
Not in the flirt-and-ditch way I've treated a hundred guys before.
I like him in the way that makes your chest feel tight. That makes your throat burn and your hands shake.
That makes you scared.
Because I don't do feelings.
I do parties. I do whiskey. I do cigarettes and empty dorms and jokes that cut too deep.
But Atlas? Atlas is none of that.
He's what I never got to have.
And suddenly, I'm terrified.
I brush the sand off my legs, stand up, and walk toward the water before he wakes up.
Because if he looks at me right now—
He'll know.
And I don't know what the hell I'd do if he knew.