POV: Blair Maddox
He looked like hell.
Slouched on the stairs outside the dorms, hoodie half-off his shoulder, eyes staring blankly ahead. Hands clenched. Jaw locked. Still breathing like he was seconds from snapping again.
And no one was around.
Not the assholes. Not the professors. Not the whispers or the lies.
Just me.
I sat beside him without asking. Lit a cigarette. Took a long drag and exhaled like it was just another Tuesday.
"I always knew you'd make a terrible bad boy," I said, flicking ash to the side. "All that righteous fury and still managed to look like a kicked puppy."
He didn't smile.
Didn't look at me.
Just said, "They crossed the line."
"Well, yeah. That's kinda their thing." I glanced at him. "But you—you crossed something else."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you cared." I shrugged. "Big mistake. First rule of surviving in this hellhole? Don't give a shit. Or at least, pretend well enough to fool yourself."
"I couldn't stay quiet."
"Yeah, I noticed." I nudged his leg with mine. "Thanks for the knight-in-oversized-hoodie moment. But I've got thick skin. Real thick. Comes with the trauma package."
Silence. Then his voice, quiet:
"They were disgusting. Talking about you like that. Like you're… nothing."
I didn't answer right away.
Because if I did, the shaking in my chest might come out through my mouth.
So I blew smoke toward the sky and whispered, "I've gotten used to being nothing."
"Don't," he said, looking at me finally. "Don't say that."
"Why? Because you saw one crack in the mask and now you think I'm saveable?" I smiled, but it was the tired kind. "Atlas, you're a walking TED Talk. And I'm… I'm a walking explosion."
His brows pulled together. "That's not true."
I laughed. "You're sweet."
"I'm not sweet."
"You are. Pathetically sweet. Like… sugar on toast. Like rescue-an-injured-dog-and-read-it-philosophy sweet."
He looked down, like maybe he wanted to argue but couldn't. His hands were shaking.
That's when it hit me.
He wasn't okay.
Not just angry. Not just tired.
He was unraveling.
And he'd done it—for me.
I stubbed out my cigarette. Turned to him. Really looked at him.
"You can't save me, Atlas."
"I'm not trying to save you," he said. "I just… I care."
God. That stupid word again.
Care.
It settled into my chest like a match dropped into gasoline.
And I realized, then and there, that I loved him.
This quiet, infuriating, honest boy with sandalwood skin and sad eyes who didn't belong anywhere near the mess that was me… had become the one place I felt safe.
So I leaned in close, lips brushing his ear, and said,
"You really picked the wrong girl to fall for."
He turned, whispering, "Did I?"
I didn't answer.
I just kissed him—soft, smoky, full of all the things I couldn't say.
And when he kissed me back, I knew.
We were both already too far gone.