ATLAS'S POV
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Striding into the room still sober as f**k and annoyed out of hell itself, my feet falter, heels digging into floor. I stare blankly at the form of a body underneath the blanket. The single candle that's lit on the coffee table near the couch is still burning, the wax a liquid that reflects the flame above it. I walk over, gripping the hem of my shirt and pulling the material over my head before leaning down. A soft blow of my breath over the flame extinguishes it. My eyes flit toward her as she shifts. She rolls onto her back, her hair sprawling over the pillow. The chocolate color in contrast against the white pillowcase. Her lips part, and she tosses her head the other way, her neck exposed to the cool air that blows in through the cracked window. The curtain flaps ligh
