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Prologue
One year ago
He’s beautiful.
That’s the first thing I think of when I blink my eyes open.
I think it’s because he’s got a symmetrical face. Every line, every angle is so artfully and thoughtfully arranged. There’s no imbalance of features. Both his cheekbones are exactly the same height, sculpted with the same sharpness. Both his eyes curve at the corners in exactly the same way and to the same degree. Even his eyelashes look identically curled.
“You’re beautiful,” I find myself saying.
At my words, he looks down. “Hey, you’re awake. How are you feeling? You okay?”
There’s concern in his eyes; I can plainly see that. And I think there’s cause for concern. I know that, even though it’s hard to remember why.
But I’m not bothered about that right now.
I’m focusing on something else. Namely, his eyes.
They’re so green.
The greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.
And I tell him that. “You have green eyes.”
At this, a frown emerges between his brows. “Do you remember where you are? Do you remember what happened?”
Licking my dry lips, I reach up and try to smooth down those grooves on his forehead with my fingers. I think his eyes flare when I do that. The green becomes greener, more intense.
More beautiful.
Just like him.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such green eyes in my life before,” I whisper, ignoring everything except him.
Something passes through those eyes then, through his entire face, his sharp features. I don’t know what it is, but it’s there and it makes me move. It makes me want to come closer to him, which is when I realize that I can’t.
Because I’m already close to him. Super close.
In fact, my cheek is resting against his chest. My entire side is pressed against his chest, actually.
And that’s because I’m in his arms.
He’s carrying me.
More than that, he’s walking while carrying me. He’s taking me somewhere.
“W-where are you taking me?” I ask him, this stranger.
Who doesn’t look like a stranger at all though. I think I’ve seen him somewhere. But I can’t remember where. I can’t remember a lot of things for some reason.
My question clears away that thing in his eyes, his features, that mysterious thing, and now he appears all serious and stern and grave. All business somehow. Even though I have no way of knowing what he looks like when he’s not all business.
“To the health center,” he says, all cool and clipped, his eyes looking away from me for a second to, I assume, watch where he’s going. “You passed out. In class. I think you had a panic attack.” He looks down at me then. “But you’re fine now, okay? I’ve got you. I’m going to take care of you.”
He’s going to take care of me.
But why? Who is he?
“Who are you?” I repeat the words out loud, frowning up at him.
Shouldn’t I be more afraid though?
Of him.
Only I’m not, and when he sweeps his green gaze all over me, studying my face, I feel a sense of… calm, and safety, that I’ve somehow never felt before.
His jaw, which I notice is broad and square and also symmetrical, moves back and forth. As if he’s unhappy with my question. “You don’t know who I am.”
I feel bad then.
I feel like I should know who he is, my helper. “No, I’m sorry.”
His jaw clenches again and he says, “It’s fine. Atlas. My name is Atlas.” When I still don’t seem to recall him, that jaw goes tighter before he clips, “I’m your TA.”
TA.
I don’t…
Oh fuck.
That’s how I know him. He’s the teaching assistant.
My eyes go wide. “Biochemistry.”
He doesn’t answer, simply keeps looking forward and walking, carrying me through what I now know is the main hallway, flanked on both sides with lecture halls.
I was in one such lecture hall, not fifteen minutes ago I think.
I was in there and the professor handed me my test and I saw my grade and oh my God.
Oh my God.
The fear, the panic, the desperation. The trapped-in-a-box feeling. Everything comes rushing back, flooding back.
And I think he — Atlas — can see it on my face because he says in a soothing voice, “You’re fine now. You’re safe.”
I clutch his shirt, the guy I didn’t even remember up until a couple of minutes ago. “I’m scared.”
His jaw tightens again but strangely I think it’s because of my fear. It’s because he doesn’t like that I’m afraid, and in the next second, I’m proven right when he proceeds to make me feel his words from before, safe, okay, by squeezing his arms around me and plastering me even more to his body. His warm and cozy and muscled body.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But you don’t have to be.”
I fist his shirt even tighter. “Please, don’t leave me, okay?”
I feel his chest moving and his arms tightening further. “I won’t.”
