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We finish our breakfast preparations, and soon we’re at the kitchen table. I’m packing a stack of pancakes in my mouth as Atlas forks some of his omelet into his.
“What?” I say around a mouthful when I notice his eyes on me.
“Just remembering how annoying I used to think it was watching you eat like there’s no tomorrow.”
“Now you think it’s cute?”
“Now I think it’stolerable.”
“Liar.”
He shakes his head, sips some OJ as I swallow.
I don’t want to spoil the mood, but I also know now’s my chance to bring this up before he heads off. “Did you see Mom sent us a group text?”
“This is the bad part about dating you. I can’t pretend I didn’t see group texts from our parents.”
“She wants to get RSVPs for your dad’s winter gala so she can get a head count.”
“And her dutiful son is gonna make sure I’m present?”
“Her dutiful sonwantsyou to be present.”
He winces. “I don’t like you knowing that’ll work on me.”
“Yes, you do.” I lean over and steal a kiss.
“Winter gala,” he huffs. “We just survived the holidays, and they’re still making up fake shit for parties. Can’t they just give us a little time to adjust to being back in school?”
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen anytime soon. But I enjoy that it makes you a little grumpy. Makes me feel like we’re an old married couple.”
He smirks, and as I’m about to fork into my half-eaten omelet, he says, “What’s this?”
He takes my hand and turns it. TheAis showing, and he slides my sleeve up to see the rest of it.
I wait for him to tease me about it—I’m not even sure why, since he hadn’t done that when I talked to him about my secret wish—but he strokes his thumb across it, between theAand theT.
“I thought I get to choose where I want to brand you,” he says.
“You do. This was just for practice.”
He’s quiet as he studies my work carefully, inspecting it, before saying, “I like it.” He pulls my wrist to his face and kisses the brand gently, and his stamp of approval sends warmth through me, like settling into a hot bath.
“Naughty Troy,” he whispers before surrendering my hand.
When I cut into my omelet, he’s staring at me like he knows I’m his now, and I savor the moment, taking pride in his satisfaction with my early morning art project.
I let us have this moment, but as it subsides, I decide it’s best to come back to reality. “So this Activate Kindness thing you’re always so cryptic about, I’m wondering what exactly you do there.”
“It’s not like I’ve been trying to hide it. Just used to keeping it my own thing.” He shrugs. “I do a lot there. Often it’s food-stability programs—serving food to the homeless and things like that. Right now I’m helping with a program for kids with learning disabilities. They team you up with a kid who needs help with something—math, reading, writing. I’m working with this kid Milo who’s dyslexic and—why are you making that face?”
I didn’t realize it, but as he was explaining his volunteer work, my jaw dropped. “I just had no idea you had this secret life. I like unraveling the many mysteries of Atlas McCallister.”
An idea pops in my head, and I consider it carefully before saying anything.
Atlas must notice because he says, “What?”
“I don’t have anything going on today. I’d be game to come in and help out.”
