Nightfall came and hunger demanded I eat. I swung my feet off of my bed, my book in my hand—a finger sandwiched between serving as a bookmark, my phone on the other. My friends were having a discussion about which Chris was hotter, Hemsworth or Evans. You best believe, Benjamin and Leander were in a heat of argument over two celebrities—made graphic comments about their chest, arms and the thing in between their legs, I headed towards the kitchen, my eyes glued to my book, until I heard the elevator doors slid open with a sharp chime, followed by a drunken stumble and a low curse. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know who it was.

Atlas.

I exhaled, gripping the edge of my book a little tighter. The penthouse had been mine for all of 8 hours, and I'd spent them trying to make peace with its cold perfection—gray walls, sharp edges, a home that felt anything but. Now, Atlas was about to turn it into something worse. I stole a glance at my wrist watch, it's already past 10 in the evening. The scent of blood and whiskey hit me before his voice did.

"You're in my house." His voice was slow, slurred but still sharp. I didn't bother looking at.

"No," I corrected, flipping a page. "I'm in our house." Tried my very best not to say prison that time. A scoff. Then, a series of unsteady footsteps as he made his way toward me.

"You didn't even want to be here."

"And yet here I am. What a tragedy." I finally glanced up, again placing a finger in between the pages that I am currently at, only to be met with the sight of him swaying slightly, suit rumpled, tie hanging loose. His lip was split, a thin trail of blood drying against his skin. His knuckles were worse—bruised, torn. Again.

Atlas dragged a hand through his hair and surveyed the room, his gaze eventually landing on me. He frowned. "You took the guest bedroom?" Accusatory tone but it's as if he's just confirming his hunch.

I arched a brow. "You say that like I should've picked yours." He smirked, stepping closer.

"Well, I was wondering if you planned to sneak into my bed at some point. Might as well claim it now." I stared at him.

"You reek of blood, sweat and horrible decisions."

"And you reek of strawberries and judgment," he shot back, collapsing onto the couch beside me with a groan.

"God, I'm exhausted." I frown flashed across my face. This doesn't even remotely close to exhausted. Exhaustion is different, this was a train wreck. I nudged his knee with my foot.

"Well, don't you look delightfully disheveled." He cracked an eye open, grin lazy.

"You should see the other guy." I sighed, shutting my book completely this time, a soft thud as I closed it with one hand.

"You need ice." Atlas chuckled, the sound warm despite the sting in his lip.

"You always this sweet?"

"No," I said, standing. "Now, stay here and try not to bleed out on the furniture." As I walked toward the kitchen, I heard him laugh behind me—soft, amused. Maybe a little grateful. Maybe this place wasn't as empty as I thought.

Eyes closed, he stayed on the couch as I place ice on his knuckles. This guy tends to talk with his fist rather than his mouth it's infuriating. Why does he have to resort to violence not to mention, he's supposed to hold himself to a certain standard should he not? He's working as the head of King Enterprise. Then again, with his family background, no tabloid or gossip column would even dare to write something incriminating against them unless, they want to chase annihilation like a thief in the middle of a flea market in broad daylight. Except for this arrange marriage, they will write about this, no, everyone will write about this. I checked the rise and fall of his chest, his breathing seems normal, at least he's not dead.

Atlas looked almost peaceful like this.

Almost.

His broad frame was slumped against the couch, one arm draped over his stomach, the other hanging off the edge as I press ice against them, like he hadn't even bothered to make himself comfortable before exhaustion claimed him. His dark hair, damp from sweat and whatever blood hadn't been wiped away, clung to his forehead in messy waves. The usual sharpness of his features—cut from granite and chiseled by violence—had softened, if only slightly, in unconsciousness.

I exhaled slowly, pressing the ice pack against Atlas's bruised knuckles with more care than he should have. My gaze traced over the fresh injuries, the split skin on his brow and lip, the purpling at his jaw, the ghost of a fight lingering over his entire form like a second skin. Atlas always carried the aftermath of war like it was nothing.

Reckless imbecile.

And yet, my fingers lingered, absentmindedly tracing the edges of the bruises, memorizing the contrast of marred skin against the tattoos that wrapped around his arms. I told myself I was just making sure the swelling wasn't too bad. That it wasn't fascination keeping me still. That I wasn't wondering what kind of man Atlas was beneath the bruises, beneath the fights, beneath the weight of whatever world he carried on his shoulders. But that would be a lie. Just as I pulled away, just as I decided I'd done enough, a voice, thick with exhaustion and something else, cut through the quiet.

"You gonna keep touching me in my sleep, or are you finally done?" I went still. My fingers curled into my palm, caught in something I wasn't sure I wanted to name. I could practically feel the smirk in his voice, slow and smug, dripping with that insufferable arrogance. Slowly, I let out a breath, smoothing over the flicker of irritation threatening to show itself.

Do not engage, Alexander.

Atlas hadn't moved much—still sprawled across the couch, all long limbs and sharp lines, exhaustion weighing him down—but his bruised knuckles flexed against the cushion, and his blue eyes, lidded and lazy, were cracked open just enough to watch me. Even half-conscious, he looked like he'd walked straight out of a fight, which, to be fair, he had. His shirt clung to him, dark with sweat and city grime, one sleeve shoved up enough to reveal the ink winding over his forearm. His lip was split just enough to make the curve of his smirk all the more infuriating.

"Oh, forgive me," I drawled, forcing my voice to stay cool, impassive. "I didn't realize your injuries had miraculously healed themselves. Next time, I'll let you bleed all over the furniture." He huffed a short laugh, the sound rough, edged with something amused, something knowing.

"Didn't know you cared."

"I do not."

"Uh-huh." His fingers drummed once against his stomach, lazy, slow. "That's why you're still here, hovering over me like some brooding little Florence Nightingale?" I scoffed, grabbing the ice pack I had so graciously been pressing to his knuckles and shoving it against his ribs instead. His breath hitched, muscles tensing beneath my hand. He let out a sharp hiss, but I didn't move away.

"See?" I murmured, tilting my head. "Completely heartless." Atlas's chest rose and fell, his body warm beneath my fingers despite the ice pressing against his ribs. His gaze, lidded and dark, flickered to my mouth for half a second—so quick I almost thought I imagined it—before dragging back up to my face. A slow, amused exhale left him.

"Yeah? Then why are you still touching me?" My fingers twitched. I yanked my hand back like I'd been burned. A hum of electricity ran through my veins. His smirk deepened. I wanted to smack it off his face. Or maybe something worse.

"I was trying to be decent," I muttered, standing up, shaking the feeling of his warmth off my skin. I tried. I tried to somehow make this bearable—for the both of us at least. "Clearly, a waste of time." That meant as an internal monologue but irritation says otherwise.

"You? Decent?" Atlas hummed, stretching out like a lazy cat, arms extending over his head. The motion made his shirt ride up slightly, revealing another sliver of ink, a cut of toned muscle beneath the bruises. My eyes tracing the prominent illiac furrow that holds a dark promise as it cuts down to his trousers.

"Didn't know you had it in you." I blinked away, regaining focus.

"Don't get used to it."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it." His voice was thick, slow, still heavy with sleep and something else I didn't want to think about. I clenched my jaw, turning toward the bedroom—clearly lost my appetite. Don't look back.

"Sweet dreams, Alexander," he murmured, voice like silk, like smoke curling in the air. I didn't answer.