Quincy's POV
The movie is playing, soft glow flickering across the room, but I can barely focus. At first, Atlas sat all the way on the other end of the couch, one arm slung across the backrest, legs spread in that relaxed, and authoritative way of his.
The picture of calm, collected indifference. As if he has no idea how that effortless posture ties my stomach in knots. He's keeping that usual polite, invisible line between us, like he's guarding a fortress I have no business entering. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He's not watching me.
He never is. But I know he feels me. So I test the waters. Little by little, I start a slow, innocent invasion. First the throw pillow between us "accidentally" falls to the floor. Then I stretch. Shift.
Reposition. Until, finally, our arms brush. Just barely. I don't look at him. I keep my eyes on the screen and act like I don't notice the warmth of his skin or the way my pulse kicks up every time we make contact.
The movie isn't explicit. It's romantic, slow-burning, the kind of film that dances around tension and doesn't say the quiet part out loud. Just like this. I picked it on purpose. Not obvious, just...suggestive. I wanted to set the mood, not wave a flag. Atlas hasn't moved an inch.
But I can feel him noticing things. The way he shifts when a steamy scene sneaks up. The slight tick in his jaw when I laugh and lean into him a little more than necessary. He thinks he's being subtle. I smirk quietly to myself. He's trying so hard to stay neutral.
"I thought you liked rom-coms." I point out, keeping my tone light.
He doesn't look away from the screen. "I like some of them."
"You've sighed like three times in the last ten minutes." He cuts me a sideways look.
"They've known each other for, what, three weeks? And now they're suddenly in love?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "Give me a break."
I snort, amused by his cynicism. "That's the magic of cinema, Atlas. Suspension of disbelief"
"They met because she spilled coffee on his shirt."
"And now they're soulmates," I say dramatically, clutching a throw blanket to my chest like I'm in the film. "Let yourself feel something, old man."
He side-eyes me. "You're the one who said you wanted to watch something with depth. "This is one cliché away from a shampoo commercial."
I grin, warmth blooming in my chest. I live for this version of him, grumpy, dry, and just this side of flustered. "You're watching it though." I point out smugly.
"Because I live here." He deadpans.
"You could've gone to your room."
"Why would I do that?" he says with dry sarcasm. "When I can sit here and get judged for breathing too loudly?" I toss a piece of popcorn at him. He catches it effortlessly and eats it like it was all part of the plan. Show-off.
Still, being this close to him makes my skin hum. He smells like pine and soap and something earthy and masculine, grounding in a way I didn't know I needed tonight. I stretch again, feigning a casual adjustment. Our thighs touch. He doesn't flinch.
Progress.
The snack bowl's nearly empty, and my stomach makes a small, traitorous growl. I lean forward, reaching for the last cookie, but it's gone. I glance toward the kitchen, debating the effort. Atlas speaks up before I even say a word.
"There's some left in the top cupboard."
I blink, surprised. "You remembered where I keep them?"
"Unfortunately." He mutters, but there's a ghost of amusement in his voice.
"I'll go get them," I say as I stand, letting my fingers trail casually across his forearm. His skin is warm, solid, and he goes completely still at the contact. "Want anything?"
"I'm good." He says it in his usual calm, distant, casually unbothered way. But there's a sharp edge to his voice. I smirk to myself and stretch deliberately, giving him a full view of my body.
He watches.
Doesn't even try to be subtle. His eyes rake over me like it's involuntary. And then he catches himself, jaw tightening. That look like he's p*ss*d off at himself for looking sends a jolt straight to my p*ssy. I walk away slowly, hips swaying just enough.
The cookies are in the cabinet. Top back shelf, to be exact. I remember shoving them up there two weeks ago during a brief phase of self-imposed discipline, a very short-lived healthy era that didn't even last a week.
I was trying to lose weight, get fit, hoping Atlas might notice. The memory makes my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I curse my ambitious past self as I drag over a chair and climb up. The box is shoved way in the back.
"F*ck... why did I put these here?" I mutter to myself, stretching, fingers barely grazing the edge. I almost reach it, but the chair wobbles. I try to steady myself, but it's too late. My sock-covered foot slips, and everything goes sideways. I land with a hard thud and a sharp twist of pain in my ankle.
"Sh*t!" Before I can register more than the flare of pain, I hear fast, heavy footsteps. Atlas rushes in, eyes scanning me immediately.
"What happened?" My eyes sting and I grit my teeth, gripping my ankle.
"Tried to get the cookies," I say through clenched teeth. "Fell off the chair. My ankle hurts."
He's kneeling beside me in a flash, his expression stone-cold focused.
"Let me see." He lifts my foot gently but firmly fingers pressing around the swelling.
"Great. It's swelling already," he mutters, brows furrowed with something suspiciously close to panic. "What were you thinking?
"I was thinking I wanted cookies."
"You're in socks. On hardwood. Climbing a chair." He's scolding me, but there's concern threaded through every word. "You're not exactly built for acrobatics, Quincy."
I raise an eyebrow. "Excuse you, I'll have you know I was a very promising gymnastics dropout at seven."
"Doesn't surprise me." He murmurs, adjusting my foot carefully.
"You're so mean." I whisper, smiling.
He glances up at me. "You're lucky it's just a sprain."
"How do you know?"
"I've seen worse," he says. "Trust me." Without another word, he slides one arm under my knees and the other behind my back. "Come on."
"I can hop."
"Nope." He's on his feet before I finish my protest, scooping me up like I weigh nothing. "You break anything else, I'm charging you rent for medical bills."
His arms are strong and warm, and the second I loop mine around his neck, my breath hitches. The heat of his skin beneath his collar makes my pulse stutter, and I'm suddenly way too aware of how close his mouth is to my cheek. At first, I bury my face against his shoulder under the pretense of balance, inhaling quietly and letting myself have that one little moment.
He smells even better up close. Then, I look up to stare at his face, only to realize how close our lips are. My eyes wander down, and I shamelessly stare at his full lips, they look well moisturized, so I find myself leaning in.