Page 4

Kairi

The hardwood floor wasn’t forgiving. I felt it in my shoulders, my hips, the dull ache radiating through my back as I pushed myself up. Sleeping there had been my choice, my way of giving Ashlen and Atlas privacy. I regretted it. They had been together for two weeks now. It was going better than I had expected. Atlas and I never discussed the day in that café; it was better that way.

Yawning, I pushed myself up from the hardwood and stretched my arms toward the ceiling, rolling my shoulders as I made my way to the bathroom, then the kitchen. The air in the apartment was still thick with the lingering scent of last night—perfume, old pizza, and alcohol. I would clean later.

On weekends, cooking was my ritual. I prepared everything I needed for breakfast and got started. I cracked eggs, flipped pancakes, and let the scent of sizzling bacon wake Ashlen—she loved bacon. I enjoyed the quiet of the early morning; it had a weight to it that I could sit in and just think.

I didn’t hear Atlas enter the kitchen until he was right behind me. Just his proximity made my skin prickle. I had to force my body not to stiffen. I glanced back briefly, catching sight of him—boxers slung low, no shirt, skin still damp from the shower, and the ink on his arm seemed to catch the early light. I turned back to the stove quickly before I started staring.

“Morning,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. He stepped in closer, almost touching me but not quite, and I could feel the heat of him against my back—too near, too present. My pajama shorts were riding up my thighs, and I felt exposed. I wanted to reach down and fix my shirt so it covered more, but I didn’t.

“Smells good. Can I have some?” he asked.

There was something in his tone, something that curled around the words like they were meant in a different way. I kept my eyes trained on the pancakes, flipping one over with a little more force than necessary.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, my voice tight but steady. “Made enough for everyone. Have a seat. I’ll fix you a plate.”

But he didn’t move. He stood there, hovering too close, and I could feel his breath like static on the back of my neck. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him again, not with his chest bare and the smell of fresh soap curling into my senses. My hands kept working on autopilot, but my brain was buzzing, torn between pretending that his closeness meant nothing and acknowledging that it absolutely did.

Just as I was about to crack—maybe drop the spatula, yell at him, or say something that would embarrass me for life—I heard movement behind us.

I knew it was Mike waking up, coming out from under the covers we’d shared, without having to look. We hadn’t done much more than talk and fool around last night. But I was ready for more.

I turned from the stove. Atlas’s eyes left me and landed on Mike. He took a step away from me.

Mike yawned, stretching his arms over his head.

Atlas’s face shifted into a sneer. I felt him folding himself inward.

I felt like I had been caught mid-act of doing something wrong, even though I had done nothing wrong.

I dropped my eyes.

Ashlen stumbled into the room, rubbing her eyes, her hair a riot of red curls. “You cooked bacon? Is there enough for me?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice too bright. “I made plenty for everyone.”

Ashlen made her way to Atlas, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into him.

Mike dragged himself up from the floor and made his way to the bathroom, wearing a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. It’s what he’d shown up in at two in the morning after I’d sent him a “what’s up” text. He didn’t speak until he came out of the bathroom.

We all gathered around the small kitchen table, our plates piled high with pancakes, bacon, and eggs. It should’ve felt normal—four people eating breakfast together—but there was a tension threaded into the air that I think only Atlas and I could feel. Atlas barely touched his food, his expression getting more sour by the second, while Ashlen chattered away, oblivious. Mike was quiet but warm, massaging my thigh under the table while he stuffed his mouth.

I kept my head down, focused on my plate, trying to ignore the weight of Atlas’s gaze whenever it drifted in my direction. I didn’t look up, not once.

After breakfast, I walked Mike to the door. He turned to me, his fingers grazing my arm. "You good?" he asked, voice low.

I nodded. "Yeah. Thanks for coming over."

His lips twitched like he was debating saying more, but he let it go. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek before stepping back. "I'll text you later."

I nodded again, watching him walk off down the hall. I took a deep breath, smoothing my hands down my shorts before turning back toward the apartment.

Atlas was standing in the middle of the living room, watching me. His arms were crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable—but there was something simmering just beneath the surface. He looked pissed.

His lips parted like he was about to say something, but before he could, Ashlen came sauntering out of the bedroom, her voice cutting through the moment.

"Atlas, come on," she whined, grabbing his hand and tugging him back toward the room. "I need you, baby."

He didn’t resist. But he didn’t look away from me either.

And then, he was gone.

I stood there, staring at the empty space where he had just been, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

I exhaled, turned, and locked the door behind me, dismissing thoughts of him altogether.

Whatever Atlas’s game was, I wasn’t playing.