POV: Atlas
She's still asleep when I wake.
Half-sprawled across the cheap motel bed, tangled in the sheets, hair wild like a storm cloud down her back. One arm flung over her eyes. The other reaching—barely—for my side of the mattress.
She didn't let go of me last night.
Not when she was drunk and laughing.
Not when she kissed me like she meant it.
Not when we stumbled into this place at 3AM and passed out without another word.
I sit up slowly.
The room smells like whiskey, sweat, and her perfume—dark and sharp, like smoke and secrets. The light creeping in through the blinds turns her skin golden, her mouth parted just slightly in sleep.
She looks peaceful.
She never looks peaceful.
I drag a hand through my hair and exhale.
I shouldn't be here.
This—whatever this is—shouldn't be happening.
She stirs. Groans. "F**k. My brain is melting."
I glance over.
She rolls toward me, arm over her eyes still. "Where the hell are we?"
"Motel near the highway," I murmur. "We ran out of gas, remember?"
"No." She peeks from under her arm, squinting at me. "Did I... do something embarrassing?"
I hesitate.
She takes that as a yes and groans louder. "Don't answer. God. I kissed you."
I say nothing.
She sits up slowly, hair a mess, dress wrinkled, mascara smudged to hell. And still—still—she's beautiful. Wild and bruised and brilliant.
Her eyes flick to me, guarded now. "You're still here."
"Yeah," I say softly.
She nods. Looks away. "You shouldn't be."
I don't argue.
Instead, I stand and walk to the bathroom, splash water on my face. When I return, she's lighting a cigarette by the open window, legs crossed under her, wearing my hoodie now.
"Breakfast?" I offer.
She raises an eyebrow. "With what money, Professor?"
I shrug. "We'll figure something out."
She watches me. Long. Quiet.
Then blows a cloud of smoke out the window. "You're not like them."
"I know."
"You'll get hurt," she says flatly.
I smile, tired. "Maybe."
We don't talk for a while.
But when I sit on the bed beside her, she doesn't move away.