I avoided Atlas like it was my new full-time job. It has been a week since I have settled in, not sure if Atlas has placed his things in his side of the place, nor did I bother to care. It wasn't difficult, not really. The penthouse was big enough that we could easily go days without seeing each other—especially when I was willing to inconvenience myself by taking the longest possible routes just to avoid running into him. Mornings? I woke up earlier. Nights? I stayed out later. Meals? I suddenly decided to eat in my room, or, better yet, at cafés across the city. If I even thought I heard him moving around, I changed course. I didn't care.

I didn't.

The penthouse was quiet when I slipped in, but I knew better than to trust it. I wasn't even three steps inside when a voice—low, sharp, waiting—cut through the silence.

"Tell me, Little Prince, do you even sleep anymore, or do you just run from me until you drop?" My pulse jumped, but I kept my expression smooth as I turned. Atlas was leaning against the wall just past the kitchen, arms crossed, gaze unforgiving. He wasn't in his usual relaxed sprawl—no lazy smirk, no feigned amusement. Just watching. Just waiting. I refused to let him see my exhaustion.

"Excuse me?" I said coolly, peeling off my jacket with careful precision. Atlas exhaled a slow breath, but there was no amusement behind it. He pushed off the wall, closing the distance between us in measured steps.

"You don't have to listen, you don't have to look," he murmured, voice low, dangerous. "But you do have to live here. So quit pretending I don't exist." The words should have rolled off me. They didn't. I turned away, heading for the hallway, but Atlas stepped into my path, forcing me to halt.

"Move."

He didn't.

Instead, he tilted his head, studying me, his blue eyes sharp beneath the dim lighting. "You really think you can just outrun me, Alexander?" I inhaled slowly, schooling my features.

"I think you overestimate how much time I spend thinking about you." That should have been the end of it. But Atlas smiled—sharp, humorless—and leaned in just slightly, just enough that the heat of his body was there, close, the scent of him curling into the air between us.

"Then why are you still running?" I swallowed down something sharp, something infuriatingly unsteady.

"I have a routine, Mr. King. The fact that you're obsessing over it isn't my problem." Atlas scoffed, shaking his head. "Routine?" His gaze flicked over me, calculating.

"Right. Up at five to run. working out at eight. Home only when it's late enough to pretend you don't hear what's going on in my room." My jaw locked. Atlas smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I should start charging you rent for all that space in your head." I exhaled sharply, forcing my shoulders to stay loose.

"I don't care what you do,  Mr. King." He tilted his head, watching me too closely.

"No? Then why do you look like you're about to snap in half every time you catch a glimpse of me?" I rolled my eyes, stepping to the side, but Atlas mirrored me, blocking my path again. "You wanna tell me what your problem is, Little Prince?" he murmured. "Or should I start really testing your patience?"

I clenched my fists, my nails pressing into my palms. This was what he wanted. A reaction. A slip in my control. I gave him neither. "You're exhausting," I muttered, pushing past him at last. I had made it exactly two steps toward my room before Atlas spoke again.

"You know," he mused, voice like silk over a blade, "if you're going to be out so late, the least you could do is give me a little warning. Might've had some company over tonight." I stilled. I'm not privy to his carnal needs. As much as I hate to admit it—resent it even, Atlas is the epitome of masculine perfection.

A wall of muscle wrapped in ink—tattoos sprawled across his neck, his pecs, his arms, and all the way down to the backs of his hands. Even if he's wearing suit when I first saw him, they peeked out, little glimpses of something dangerous beneath the surface.

Six foot six of menace, with a presence that swallowed the air in a room. His black hair was always slightly tousled, as if he ran a hand through it one too many times, and then there were his eyes—cold, piercing, the kind of blue that felt more like a warning than an invitation. My fingers curled slightly at my sides. I forced myself to keep walking.

"I don't care," I said evenly. Atlas chuckled, low and deliberate.

"You sure about that, Little Prince?" I kept my expression blank, my movements unhurried as I turned to face him again. He was still leaning against the wall, his bruised knuckles flexing against his forearm. His gaze, however, was anything but lazy.

"What, exactly, am I supposed to care about?" I asked coolly. Atlas exhaled a slow breath, like I was missing something obvious.

"I just think it's considerate to let your roommate know when the place might be...occupied." His lips curved, his voice dipping into something quieter, heavier. "Wouldn't want you walking in on something." A slow, simmering irritation unfurled in my chest, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. The thought of him bringing someone in this godforsaken place made my stomach churn, but who am I to stop him. Who am I to command him not to?

"Then lock your damn door," I said flatly. But if I could, I would have advised to to bring anyone here, if needs to have the itch scratched, do it somewhere else. Atlas hummed, head tilting, studying me. His blue eyes glinted with something knowing. "That's the thing, though. I don't think you'd like that."

My jaw clenched. Atlas let the silence stretch between us, watching me like a wolf who had scented something interesting. He pushed off the wall and took a step forward, measured and deliberate.

"Tell me, Alexander," he murmured. "Does it bother you? Knowing what I do in the room down the hall?" I knew what he was insinuating, though I don't think he has brought anyone here—not yet. The first time I saw Atlas with someone, I hadn't meant to. I'd timed everything meticulously, ensuring our paths never crossed.

My mornings were regimented—out the door by five for a run, Pilates and aerial at eight, and then I filled my day with anything and everything to avoid stepping foot in the penthouse until exhaustion made it impossible to do anything but sleep. It was a simple enough system. And it had worked.

Until it didn't. A few days I go, I went to visit Benjamin. As I entered Benjamin's building, the quiet hum of the late hour settling over me, when I caught sight of them—Atlas, standing in the dim glow of the lobby, out of all the places, his arm draped lazily over some faceless woman's waist, his head dipped as he murmured something into her ear.

She laughed, breathless and eager, pressing closer, her fingers tracing over the ink curling along his forearm. He looked at her like she was his next conquest, like she was nothing more than a way to pass the time. I turned sharply on my heel and headed straight for the stairs, unwilling to so much as breathe the same air as him. Now, a week later, he was pushing, needling, trying to get a rise out of me. I met his gaze head-on, my voice steady.

"No. The mere fact that my sister has to be married to you, no wander she ran." Atlas went still. It was brief—just a flicker, the subtlest shift in his expression—but I caught it. The smirk didn't drop entirely, but it faltered, just enough to reveal something sharper beneath it. Something dark. His jaw tensed, a muscle ticking beneath bruised skin. Then, just as quickly, he exhaled a slow, measured breath and let out a low, humorless chuckle.

"That's cute," he said, voice smooth but edged with something colder than before. "You think she ran because of me?" I didn't respond. Atlas stepped closer, the air between us thinning, charged.

"Maybe she ran because of you, Little Prince." My fingers curled into fists at my sides.

"Excuse me?" He hummed, tilting his head like he was studying something particularly interesting.

"You were close once, weren't you? What happened?" His voice dipped lower, quieter. I stiffened. My nails bit into my palms, but I refused to let the reaction show anywhere else. Because how the hell did Atlas know that? My gaze sharpened, scanning his face for any sign of how much he actually understood, but his expression was unreadable—casual in that infuriating way of his, like he hadn't just pressed on something I'd buried deep.

"You don't know anything," I said flatly. Atlas hummed, his blue eyes glinting with something almost lazy, like this was just another game to him.

"Don't I?" He took another slow step forward, and I had to fight the urge to take a step back. "She ran, didn't she? And you—" He gave a pointed glance at the space between us. "—you're here. Guilt? A sense of duty? Does Little Prince needs the validation that he's needed?" My jaw clenched.

"That doesn't mean anything." Atlas let the silence stretch, watching me, searching, before exhaling softly.

"Right. Because you don't care." I wanted to hit him. Full force. Not in the way he was used to, not the way he fought in underground rings, he'll destroy me in a blink of an eye, dripping blood onto concrete. No, I wanted to hit him where it hurt—strip that smug amusement from his face, make him feel even an ounce of what he was trying to pull out of me. Instead, I forced my voice to stay even.

"You don't know anything about my sister and me." Atlas raised a brow, his smirk creeping back, slow and deliberate.

"No, but I know you." The words sank, thick and heavy, into the already charged air between us. I hated how my pulse skipped. Hated the way his gaze flickered lower, how it lingered for just a second too long before dragging back up to meet mine.

"Tell me, Little Prince—do you wish to run from this arrangement, knowing what you know now?" I didn't take the bait. I couldn't. So instead, I did what I had mastered over the past week—I turned on my heel and walked away.

But this time, Atlas didn't let me go so easily.