Table of Contents

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Catch up with the Heartstone gang
About the Author

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CHEMICAL ROMANCE
by Saffron A. Kent

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 Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments,
events, or locales, is entirely
coincidental.

Chemical Romance © 2022 by Saffron A. Kent

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Cover Art by Melissa Panio-Peterson

Editing by Leanne Rabesa

March 2022 Edition

Published in the United States of America

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 BLURB:
Penelope Clarke is failing biochemistry and there’s only one person
who can help her: Atlas West.
He’s the best tutor on campus, and if Penny wants to keep up her
grades and her sanity, she needs him. After all, no one wants a repeat of
what happened the last time her grades were at stake. Least of all Penny.
The only problem is that Atlas is extremely distracting.
His green eyes and his rumpled dark hair make her forget everything
and daydream. It doesn’t even matter that Atlas can be a rude and arrogant
jackass who pushes all her buttons.
But it’s okay.
For the sake of her grades and her fragile mind, Penny can learn to
focus. And she’s well on her way to doing that, until Atlas makes a
proposition – dinner in exchange for tutoring her…

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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.”
I smile then and his eyes become the shiniest that they’ve been in the
past five minutes that I’ve known him.
Finally, I close my eyes and rub my cheek against that cozy, warm
chest.
Because he won’t leave me.
Atlas.

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Chapter One
Present
Elevated heart rate.
Rapid breathing. Sweaty palms. A fluttering in my stomach. A
churning, actually, that won’t go away.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I’m having a panic attack.
But I’m not.
In the past one year, I’ve learned to tell the difference. Between a
panic attack and… this.
This chemical reaction, for lack of a better phrase.
Actually, let me take that back.
It is a perfect phrase for what’s happening to me.
A chemical reaction. That is taking place in my brain right this second
and is affecting my body in drastic ways. My brain is releasing copious
amounts of chemicals like vasopressin, dopamine, and oxytocin that are
firing up my neural receptors that in turn are making me feel this way.
In addition to also making me feel pleasure and euphoria.
It’s a crazy combination that I wouldn’t wish on anyone, let alone
myself. I mean, I don’t have time for these things. For these chemical
reactions and their side effects.
But I can’t help it.
I can’t help that my brain and hence my body react in weird ways
when I look at him.
Damn it.
In any case, I should stop freaking out like this is happening for the
first time and do what I came here to do. I mean, apart from attending this
double lecture of biochemistry. Stupid fucking biochemistry, the bane of my
entire existence.
Okay, Penny. You can do this.
You can so do this.
At least, my therapist thinks so. She also thinks that I need to do this.
Ask for help, that is.
She thinks that I need to break barriers and learn to ask for help.
There’s no shame in asking for help, Penny, she says.
And besides, look what happened last time when I didn’t.
So yeah.
I take a deep breath and begin to climb down the steps of the
auditorium, my footsteps sounding unusually loud. Which I know is only
my anxiety and not real. Because I’m wearing freaking chucks and the floor
is made of concrete.
Even so, I flinch and keep flinching on every step.
I’m also flicking my anxiety ring that I wear on my thumb. It’s a tiny
silver ring with even tinier beads threaded all the way through. And
whenever I feel overwhelmed, I use one of my fingers to flick the beads,
move them around in order to calm myself. Sort of like a rubber band that
you wear on your wrist and snap against your skin to break your thought
patterns.
It usually works like a charm, but not today.
Today, nothing is working.
I can’t stop flinching, and when I get to the bottom of the stairs, I
flinch so hard that I stumble.
Great. Just great, Penny.
But it’s fine.
 Because I manage to find my balance right away. And since the room
is more or less empty because most of the students have already left, no one
saw my little slip-up. Which is great.
What is even more great is that he didn’t see it.
The guy because of whom it happened in the first place.
Atlas West.
The TA. My chemical reaction guy.
Well, he’s not mine.
Never was, never will be.
Not that I want him to be, but still.
Because like I said, I don’t have time for these things. I have goals. I
have ambitions. I am pre-med student. I need to go med school. I have
MCATs. I need to ace them. I need to become the best doctor that I can be
and…
Okay, I’m getting off topic.
Anyway, the reason he didn’t catch my almost-fall is because he’s
looking at something else — a notebook. And that notebook belongs to a
girl. And that girl is standing in front of him, bent over that notebook as she
tells him that she didn’t really get today’s assignment.
Which is totally believable.
I didn’t get today’s assignment either.
To my dismay, I suck at biochemistry, and it has always been a point
of contention for me. So I get where she’s coming from.
But I also can’t deny that I feel something heavy sitting on my chest.
But it’s not due to my anxiety or panic. This tightness doesn’t involve my
brain, it involves my heart.
This tightness is due to jealousy.
And I’m so not proud of it.
 I’m so not proud that I’m checking out the distance between them and
pondering if she should stand this close to him. If she should bend over her
notebook like this and if she should touch his arm while explaining her
predicament to him.
He’s a TA, for God’s sake.
There needs to be some professionalism here. Some decorum.
Which she totally ignores when she says, “Do you wanna grab lunch
with me? And we can talk this over.”
At this, I almost — almost — raise my voice and snap out a loud no.
He’s not going with her.
No way.
I’m not letting him. He needs to talk to me. Me.
I mean, about biochemistry.
He beats me to it though. Because he shuts the notebook with a snap
and looks up at her. “I don’t eat lunch with students.”
Holy crap.
His voice.
Why? Why is his voice so… deep and sexy?
So calming. So soothing.
Like a dose of tranquilizer. It slows down my heart. It settles my
nerves.
It makes me want to record him so I can listen to him talk while I go
to sleep at night. Or when I think that I’m losing control of my thoughts.
It’s not fair.
That the thing with the power to calm me down is not a medicine, it’s
a guy.
A guy with green eyes and dark hair.
Who doesn’t eat lunch with students.
 Because it would be unprofessional.
The very fact that he doesn’t, that he stays aloof from us students —
even though he’s only a couple of years older, a senior to our sophomores
— makes him even more irresistible to girls.
As evidenced by what she says next. “Come on, we can grab a
sandwich or something.”
He throws her a flat, blank look, offering her notebook back to her.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
She regards the notebook for a second before taking it from him and
saying, “It will be a quick lunch, I promise.”
“I don’t do quick lunches.”
“But I —”
“And you shouldn’t either,” he speaks over her, looking her up and
down, super quickly and dismissively. “I think you should have a long
lunch and eat more than a sandwich. You need it. And while you’re at it,
maybe try reading up and making notes on what we just talked about.”
With that, he dismisses her and turns around to gather his own things
from the desk behind him.
Wow.
So it’s true then.
It’s true that he’s a freaking jackass. That his professionalism, more
often than not, borders on rudeness and arrogance.
I have heard stories about it, see. About his alleged assholishness.
I’ve heard that he can be extremely rude when he wants to be. He can
cut you down with his dry remarks and a cold, mean look.
Which makes my whole infatuation with him even more nonsensical.
I feel bad for her now, when two minutes ago I was jealous. Like an
idiot. I even take a step toward her, hoping to catch her attention and throw
her a small, encouraging smile or something similar to put her at ease. She
doesn’t give me the chance though. Keeping her head down, she leaves in a
hurry, and then it’s just us.
Me and him. Meaning it’s my turn.
To talk to him.
Yikes.
Why am I doing this again? Why can’t I leave like that girl just did?
Oh right. Because my therapist said so.
I hate her. I should fire her.
I mean, she works for me. Shouldn’t she try to make my life easier
instead of making me talk to this asshole?
For the first time ever, no less.
Okay, fine.
I’m lying.
This won’t be the first time that I talk to him.
I have talked to him before. A year ago.
The day I had my episode.
But I’m not going to count that. Because A: it was such an
extraordinary circumstance, and I was so completely out of it that it barely
qualifies as a conversation; and B: I’d rather forget it and pretend that it
never happened.
So this is difficult.
Very, very difficult.
Even so, I clear my throat and say, “Uh, excuse me?”
I’m dreading it.
I’m dreading the moment he’ll turn around and look at me. Along
with anticipating it like a crazy idiot.
 But I shouldn’t have bothered with any of those things because that
moment never comes.
He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even stop what he’s doing,
shoving papers and documents into his leather messenger bag.
So this time I say it louder. “Excuse me?”
Nothing.
Not one thing happens.
I can’t believe it.
I can’t believe that he didn’t hear that. And that he’s still packing up
without pausing.
Oh my God, is he doing this on purpose?
He’s doing this on purpose, isn’t he?
There’s no way he didn’t hear that.
“Hey!”
This time my voice is so loud that it echoes around the empty
auditorium, making me grimace. I didn’t mean it to be so loud, but it’s fine.
Because he finally stops.
His movements halt and he goes all still.
Good.
But then, I detect a movement. A slight flexing, tensing of his
muscles. His fingers fisting around the papers, followed by a long sigh
which undulates his shoulders up and down.
I’m not sure what it means.
This tension in his body and that deep inhalation.
But I think I’m slightly offended by it.
Before I can process all of this though, he turns around to face me and
in a rough voice, the roughest that I’ve ever heard from him, he asks,
“What?”
 It makes my heart race. Even more than before.
It makes me think of his words from one year ago.
I’ve got you…
That’s what he said to me as he carried me in his arms, striding down
the hallway. I look at his arms now, all corded and tight, the bumps of his
muscles clearly visible even through the full sleeves of his dark gray shirt.
I’ve touched them, I think.
I’ve felt their strength. I’ve felt how warm and safe they are. And…
“What do you want?” he asks again, pulling me out of my thoughts.
My stupid thoughts.
“I called you three times,” I say, frowning.
“And here I am.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Were you ignoring me?”
“Oh good,” he says drily. “I thought it wasn’t coming across.”
I almost gasp.
But then I stop myself because I don’t want to show him any
weakness. Instead, I say, “If you think I’m going away that easily, you’re
highly mistaken. I’m not going anywhere.”
His jaw tightens just like his body did as soon as I called him. “And
what it would take for you to go away? A fungal cream, perhaps?”
Okay, I hate this guy.
I hate him.
I so fucking hate him.
And I’m so fucking stupid for ever harboring any sort of attraction
toward him. I mean, I’d have to be a moron to like this rude, obnoxious guy.
The guy who somehow helped me a year ago. On the worst day of my
life.
 It’s so hard to reconcile that guy with this one. The one who’s
standing here, looking at me with such hauteur. With such arrogance and
irritation, like I’m so beneath him.
But whatever.
As I said, I’m not going away that easily.
“You can save your fungal cream for the future. I’m pretty sure you’ll
have many miserable occasions to use it,” I tell him, raising my chin, and
his green eyes flash. “I’m not going anywhere until I talk to you.”
He stares at me for a beat or two before propping his hip against the
table, as if settling himself. “So talk.”
I clench my fists.
Rude. So fucking rude.
For a second, I contemplate punching his jaw. His sexy, stubbled,
square jaw. Or maybe attacking his shining green eyes, scratching them out,
or going for his dark hair that always looks so beautifully and stylishly
mussed up.
But I’m not going to do any of that.
I’m not going to be reduced to violence because of him.
Licking my lips, I push out the most revolting words ever. “I need a
favor.”
Hate. Hate. Hate.
I can barely contain the grimace on my face, and I bet he can see that.
Not that he reacts to it. His features are as carefully blank and arrogant as
ever. Although I will say that his eyes are more alert than before as he
inquires, “What favor?”
Just say it.
The thing is that I’m not good at asking for help. I’m not good at
depending on others.
 Mostly because no one in my family has had to depend on anyone.
No one in my family has had to ask for favors or help for little things.
Because I come from a family of leaders and pioneers.
My dad’s the Dean of Medicine at this very school. My mom is the
lead researcher at a pharmaceutical company that works on cutting edge
immunotherapy for cancer. My older sister is a doctor, a cardio surgeon,
who’s also working on a clinical trial for a new kind of pacemaker. My
older brother is an oncologist and the head of the department.
And then there’s me.
Who’s standing here, in front of this rude but gorgeous guy, asking for
a favor. Because I can’t pass a stupid biochemistry class without help.
But that’s nothing new.
I’ve always, always fallen short of my family’s expectations and their
stellar achievements.
I swallow and just take the plunge. “I need you to tutor me.”
Finally, I’ve captured his attention.
Now along with his eyes, his entire body is on alert as he watches me
with something other than arrogance. “Tutor you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I…”
I know what I have to say here. I’m aware of the words I should be
uttering but they’re so hard. They’re actually harder to say than I previously
imagined.
Probably because he’s such a jerk.
“Because you what?” he prods, his eyes flicking back and forth
between mine.
I grit my teeth.
 Why couldn’t he be nicer?
Why does he have to look at me with such piercing, penetrating eyes?
Why does my heart flutter like a bird doped up on dopamine even
when I know better?
“Because I need it,” I say, finally. “And it’s something you already
know.”
I mean, he’s the TA; he’s aware of my abysmal grades.
“Because you’re failing,” he murmurs.
My body flinches at his words, gets all heated up. And I have to, have
to, go for my anxiety ring. I have to flick the beads, rapidly, repeatedly,
obsessively in order to calm down.
But that becomes slightly harder to achieve because he looks down.
His eyes go to my twitching hands and he takes it in, my anxious,
obsessive habit. And the moment he does, I snap my arms back. I hide my
fingers from him.
He jerks his eyes up and before he can say anything or comment on
what he saw, I blurt out, “Yes.” Though I can’t help but add, “Although you
didn’t have to put it that way.”
He sweeps his eyes over my features, making me blush, which I don’t
like, before saying, “How else do you want me to put it?”
“A bit nicely, maybe,” I tell him. “Instead of being so… rude about
it.”
He keeps studying me before murmuring, “Point taken.” A sigh, then,
“Now if there’s nothing else, I’d like to leave. Nicely.”
He begins to turn around then, and I blurt out, “What are you doing?
You can’t leave. We aren’t done talking.”
“Yes, we are.”
 “No, we’re not.” I take a step toward him. “Are you purposely trying
to make this difficult? I just told you I need you to tutor me and —”
“I’m not tutoring you,” he says, grabbing his messenger bag and
getting ready to head out.
“Why not?” I ask, enraged.
He gives me a final look. “Good luck.”
That’s it.
That’s all he says before he starts walking out and I stand there,
watching him leave. I watch his long steps, strides really, his broad back,
his strong forearm clutching his heavy messenger bag.
I watch and watch in shock until he disappears from view.
Which is what gets me out of my stupor, and I take off after him.
I see him navigating the crowded hallway with a confidence that I
still find irresistible. He walks with such authority, such power. Like he
can’t help but exude strength because there’s so much of it inside him.
So much that he can maintain a 4.0 grade point average, all set to get
into Harvard med school on scholarship, and carry a girl after she’s had a
panic attack.
Yeah, Atlas West is kind of famous for being a genius on campus and
I’m running after him because I know there’s no one better to tutor me than
him.
And that’s why I asked him and that’s why when I catch up to him, I
reach out and grab his sleeve.
Effectively bringing him to a halt.
Not to mention bringing his eyes to me.
To my hands specifically, my fingers where they’re clutching onto his
shirt. My skin heats up under his scrutiny and despite everything, I rub my
knuckles against his muscles. As if to… remember him.
 Remember these very arms carrying me.
Making sure that I didn’t imagine his strength, his warmth.
His safety.
He watches me do that, rub my knuckles, and I’m so embarrassed that
I speak just to snatch his attention away. “Why can’t you tutor me?”
He looks up. “There are a lot of other tutors on campus.”
“Yes. But I want you.”
I blush as soon as I say it and his gaze captures my embarrassment as
he asks, “Yeah, why?”
“Because you’re the best,” I manage to say.
Strangely, he isn’t pleased by my answer. “Let go of me.”
“Not until you say yes.”
“I’m not going to say yes.”
“Why not? You tutor other students. What’s wrong with tutoring me?”
Shit.
I shouldn’t have asked that.
It just came out of my mouth.
In truth, there are a lot of things wrong with tutoring me. There are a
lot of things wrong with me.
Okay, so I understand and accept myself. As hard as it has been for
me.
I accept that what happened last year wasn’t my fault. What I did and
how I behaved and how I broke down, all those things have nothing to do
with me per se. They have to do with my illness.
My mental illness.
Which I suffer from.
But.
 Not everyone thinks that. That’s why after last year, people stay away
from me. They don’t talk to me or look at me. They don’t include me in
things except when it’s obligatory, like in labs or group projects.
But I thought…
I thought he’d be different.
I’ve got you…
That’s another reason why — as much as I didn’t want to do this in
the first place — I asked him instead of someone else.
Feeling stupidly dejected, I let go of his shirt and step back. “It’s fine.
Y-you don’t have to…” I duck my head down, looking away from his
intense stare. “You don’t have to answer that. It was a stupid plan anyway.
I’m —”
“I want something,” he says, cutting me off.
His jaw is ticking as he stares down at me. I’m not sure why but I
have a feeling that the reason behind it isn’t very pleasant. Even so, I can’t
help but ask, “You want something?”
“In exchange for tutoring you.”
My eyes circle wide then. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Yes. Whatever you want.”
His exhale is long and audible. “Tomorrow at seven, then.”
I can’t help it; my smile breaks out. A relieved smile. A happy smile
even. And I eagerly say, “Okay.”
He studies my smile and a muscle jumps in his cheek. “I’ll meet you
at Valentino’s.”
“At Valentino’s.”
“If you’re more than five minutes late, I’m walking out of there.”
“But…” I pause, now thoroughly confused. “Are you sure
Valentino’s? I mean, won’t it be like, noisy?”
 Valentino’s a popular Italian restaurant and since it’s near campus, it’s
always full of noisy, boisterous students. It’s such an odd choice to meet up
for studying.
“It’s a restaurant,” he replies, his voice intense, as intense as his eyes.
“So I’m guessing yes.”
“But then…” I shake my head. “How will you… How will we
study?”
At this, he holds his silence longer. Probably because he’s sort of
moving his jaw back and forth. As if contemplating something. Then, “We
won’t be studying.”
I blink. “What?”
He sighs then, slowly but loudly, his chest expanding. I think he’s
reached the conclusion of whatever he was contemplating before. Because
he takes a step toward me, his body leaning over me slightly.
I watch his lips as he speaks. “We’ll have dinner.”
“D-dinner.”
“Yes,” he says in a raspy voice.
I lick my lips as I keep watching his. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ll give me whatever I want, yeah?” He pauses, then says, “This
is what I want. In exchange for tutoring you.”
At this, I have to look up. I have to really pay attention to him, to
what he’s saying. Because he can’t possibly be saying what he’s saying.
Right?
“You want to have dinner with me?” I ask, even more confused than
before.
“Yeah.”
“But I thought… I thought you didn’t eat with students,” I say,
picking the lamest thing to express when I could’ve said so many other
things.
A slight frown appears between his brows at my words as if he’s just
remembering that, his sacred rule of professionalism. Then his eyes drop to
my lips and he murmurs, “Yeah, I thought so too.”
My lips feel tingly as I say, “I’m —”
He looks up and cuts me off. “And my name is not ‘hey’ or ‘excuse
me.’”
My heart jumps in my chest. “What?”
“As you seemed to believe. Earlier.”
I frown, thinking about earlier, when I tried to get his attention. “Of
course, I know. I know what your name is.”
“So what is it, then?”
“What?”
“My name.”
“Y-you want me to say your name?”
“Yeah.”
“This is ridiculous,” I say breathlessly, because I can’t seem to find
any explanation as to why that sounds so sexy.
Him wanting me to say his name.
“Say it,” he commands in a low, very low voice.
“Atlas,” I blurt out.
His eyes gleam with satisfaction and his lips pull up in a very small
and very lopsided smile. “Good. Remember that for tomorrow.”

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Chapter Two

“Penny.”
A voice calls my name and I know I should respond, but my lips
won’t open.
“Penny.”
My name again, but in a different, more freaked-out voice. I
definitely, definitely should say something; I know I’m worrying people.
Especially because today was such a big day for me and the people trying to
get my attention know that.
But I can’t.
I can’t look away from the pale-yellow wall that I’m staring at.
But then a second later, my vision is filled with a pair of blue eyes.
“Penny, hey. You okay? Talk to us.”
It’s my friend and roommate, Renn. In her usual fashion, she got
impatient and got between me and the wall.
Which I’m really thankful for.
Because now my trance is broken, and I can respond. “Yeah. I’m
okay.” Then, “I think.”
Renn’s concern increases. “What happened? Did he do something?”
“Should we call Ruth?” asks my other friend, Willow. “I think we
should call Ruth.”
“Okay, I’m calling Ruth. And I’m telling her that this was a bad idea.
As I’ve already expressed many times.”
That’s Violet, my third friend.
For someone who hasn’t had a lot of friends — never had the time for
it because I was always busy studying, catching up to my family’s
achievements and expectations and falling short — I sure have a lot of them
now.
Well, I have three: Renn, Willow and Violet, and they’re not just the
only friends I’ve ever had, they’re also the best friends I’ve ever had.
Granted, I have no other comparison, but despite my very limited
knowledge of friendships, I still think not many people enjoy the closeness
that we have.
I look at Violet, who’s sitting on the coffee table with her cell phone
clutched in her hands, ready to call my therapist, Ruth, and say, “It’s fine.
I’m fine. Nothing happened. I mean… I don’t want to talk to Ruth about it.
Not right now.”
Her brown eyes widen slightly. “So something did happen.”
Willow, who’s sitting right beside me on the couch, squeezes my
shoulder. “What happened? Did he do something? I can’t imagine him
doing something.”
Renn, who was on her knees in front of me, sits back on her heels and
purses her lips. “Well, you never know with these stupid college guys. They
can be immature assholes.”
Renn has a thing for older guys. She thinks that they’re more mature,
savvy and sophisticated, and hence, more to her liking. She calls it her
‘Daddy Issues’ and sounds extremely proud about it. Turning to me, she
inquires, “So? What did he do? Do we need to go over there and kick his
ass?”
Despite myself, I smile slightly. “No. He didn’t do anything. He was
fine. He agreed.”
Willow’s eyes go wide with happiness. “Yay! That’s great news.”
Violet, who has been against this plan from the beginning, ever since
I told her a couple of weeks ago, sighs with relief and puts her phone away.
“Really?”
This time, my smile is bigger. “Yeah.”
“Oh, thank God,” she goes, pressing a hand on her chest. “I’m so
happy. I’ve been so worried. I really didn’t think this was a good idea.”
Willow turns to her and teases, “We all know that.”
Renn nods. “Yup. You told us that. More than fifteen times in like,
four or five different ways.”
Violet wrinkles her nose. “Stop. I just know how hard it is to talk to
new people. The way that they look at you. And you have to like, smile all
the time and appear all cool and relaxed. Ugh. It freaks me the fuck out.”
See?
This is closeness.
These girls know every thought in my head, like I know all the
thoughts in theirs. And I think the reason for that is where we met.
A little over a year ago, all our lives imploded in ways that led us to a
dark, desolate place called Heartstone Psychiatric Hospital in New Jersey. It
goes without saying that a psych ward is not a typical meeting place. You
don’t go there to hang out or to make friends. You go there because the
world on the Outside is too much to deal with. And so, they send you to the
Inside in order to learn how to cope.
I, for one, had no intention of ever going Inside.
For all intents and purposes, I was healthy. Yes, I wasn’t as fabulous
or successful as my family — to my and their sheer regret — but there was
nothing medically wrong with me.
Or so I thought.
Until my episode.
And even then, it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d end up at a psych
ward because of it. Not until my parents broke the news. My instant
reaction had been to say no. But they both looked so determined and so
uncomfortable, so revolted by the fact that they had a child who had had
such a public episode, that I didn’t voice my protest.
Besides, my episode was very public.
It happened where I spend most of my time: at college. In a classroom
full of students who watched everything. So it was just easier to give in and
not face those same people who had witnessed my breakdown.
Anyway, despite my initial reluctance to go, I’m happy that I did. It
not only made me aware of my own self, but also gave me three lifelong
friends. One of whom I live with now.
Who goes, “I still can’t handle when you say the F word. I mean, our
shy little Vi?”
Violet narrows her eyes at Renn. “Shut up.”
Willow chuckles and points to Renn. “It’s because we’ve corrupted
her.”
Grinning, Renn addresses Vi. “And you’re welcome.”
Violet rolls her eyes. “No need to feel proud of yourself. I’ve always
been corrupted.”
Which we didn’t know before.
Violet has always been the quietest one among us. In fact, for the
longest time, she wouldn’t talk back at Heartstone. She’d sit there quietly,
away from all the crowds and conversations and stare into space. It was
mostly due to the things that had happened to land her at Heartstone: a big,
painful scandal in her town. That got so bad and affected her so much that
she started having panic attacks.
Which is also the reason why she was the most freaked out about me
doing this today.
Because I, more or less, share her diagnosis.
 While Violet suffers from Panic Disorder, I suffer from Generalized
Anxiety Disorder. Even though according to the American Psychiatric
Association we fall in separate categories of anxiety disorders, we share
many of the same symptoms.
Once the moment of lightness passes, all three pairs of eyes turn to
me expectantly.
Violet prods, “So? Are you going to tell us?”
“Well, I did it. It’s over. So, there’s that,” I say, suddenly feeling
proud of myself.
I’ve been so stressed out about it for the past couple of weeks, ever
since Ruth gave me the task. I kept putting it off until I decided to just…
take the plunge.
Willow smiles brightly. “Because you’re a rock star and a warrior.”
Her words, as always, are cheerful and inspiring. The complete
opposite of what she suffers from, Major Depressive Disorder. She came to
Heartstone after she attempted suicide on her eighteenth birthday. Like me,
she hated being there at first. She hated her illness as well, felt deeply
ashamed of it. But slowly, Heartstone grew on her and she accepted herself,
her illness. And now fights it every single day.
“So then, what’s the problem?” Renn asks. “Why have you been
sitting there, staring at the wall like a zombie ever since you came back?”
Right.
So, I came back from college about an hour ago and yes, I’ve been
sitting here, staring at the wall all this time. And since no one understands
the meaning of giving space better than my friends, they’ve been waiting
me out.
But I guess I need to spill the beans.
 I take in a deep, determined breath, fisting my hands. “So, he said
yes.” I think. “But there was a condition.”
Willow frowns. “What condition?”
I dig my nails into my palms. “He said he wanted something in
exchange for tutoring me.”
“What?” she asks. “What did he want?”
Dinner.
He wanted — wants — dinner.
My heart pounds in my chest at the thought. My stomach flutters. I
have to open my mouth to breathe because suddenly there’s not enough air
in the room.
Violet leans toward me. “Penny, what did he want?”
“Dinner,” I squeak out.
Renn asks, “What?”
“At a restaurant. This little Italian place by the school.”
“Okay, wait a second,” Willow says. “You asked him to tutor you, he
said yes. But then he said he wanted something in exchange for tutoring
you.”
I nod jerkily. “Yeah.”
“And that something is dinner with you at a restaurant.”
“Uh-huh. T-tomorrow.”
Renn’s eyes are wide now. “So what did you say?”
His name.
I said his name.
Because he asked me to.
God.
He asked me — no, he ordered me — to say his name. And then I
said it and I felt like I was going to explode.
 I felt like I could say his name forever.
Atlas.
Atlas. Atlas. Atlas.
I lick my dried-out lips. “I said I thought that he didn’t eat with
students.”
Renn is confused. “Huh?”
Shaking my head, I try to explain it better. “He’s the TA. He’s
extremely professional. Everyone knows that. I mean, girls are always
hitting on him. In fact, there was a girl before me who wanted to have lunch
with him, but he declined. Very rudely, I might add. But then he asked me
to meet him at Valentino’s for dinner. So I didn’t…” I frown again. “I didn’t
get that. I don’t get that. Why would he want to have dinner with me? Why
would he want that in exchange for tutoring me?”
It doesn’t make sense.
Not at all.
And then I sit up straight, all alert, because something occurs to me.
“Oh my God, do you think he lied?”
“Lied about what?” Willow asks.
I look into her gray eyes. “About tutoring me.”
“What?”
My mouth falls open. “He did, didn’t he? He lied. He doesn’t want to
tutor me. He didn’t want to tutor me,” I tell them. “He was very reluctant.
And again, rude. He said no at first, and of course I tried to convince him.
And then in the end he said that he wanted something in exchange for it.”
Shaking my head, I finally fall against the couch. “That’s why. That’s
why he said dinner. Because he knows how outrageous it is. Having dinner
with me. Because I’m not only a student but I’m also…”
The crazy girl.
 I’m the girl who lost her shit last year, ended up at a psych ward, and
who sits alone in a corner because no one wants anything to do with me.
In fact, he knows it the best, doesn’t he?
He carried me in his arms after my episode. I clung to him, to his
body. I told him I was afraid, and he told me he’d got me.
So he knows.
The problem with me.
“You’re also what, Penny?” Renn asks when I stay silent, lost in my
thoughts.
I swallow. “Uh, nothing. Just that. His student.”
They don’t know about Atlas. About how he helped me, carried me to
the health center where they proceeded to call my family, get me the
medical help that I needed. All through that, he stayed.
He stayed by my side; he talked to people; he brought me water,
something to eat because he thought I needed to rehydrate and have some
sustenance.
He was there. Until the end.
Until my dad came over from his own meeting on the other side of
campus. Until he took me to the hospital.
And then I saw him months later.
In the same class.
I haven’t stopped watching him since then. I haven’t stopped thinking
about him.
Well, that’s not true.
I haven’t stopped thinking about him since the moment I opened my
eyes in his arms.
But like I said, my friends don’t know about that.
There’s nothing to know really.
 It’s all foolish and useless. My crush on him, this attraction.
It can all be explained in scientific terms. He was there during a major
trauma of my life and so I latched onto him. Plus he’s handsome and
intelligent, super smart and sexy. Of course my brain releases chemicals
when I see him.
It’s no big deal.
Yeah, Penny. Keep telling yourself that.
My friends don’t believe my lame reply. They stare at me
questioningly and so to distract them, I say, “I’m not going.”
Renn breaks the silence first. “What?”
“He was lying. He wants me to not go,” I tell her, because that makes
sense.
He was trying to scare me with that dinner invitation. He doesn’t
really want to have dinner with me. This is all a game because I wouldn’t
leave him alone.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Willow says.
I throw my hands up. “Well, what other reason could there be then?
Why would he invite me to dinner? A student.”
A crazy student.
I don’t say that, of course. But it’s true.
I mean, it’s not as if he’s talked to me since. Or even approached me
or in some way acknowledged what happened between us. For which I’m
very grateful; I’d rather forget that embarrassing day. But still.
“You seriously can’t think of any other reason why he’d ask you to
out to dinner?” Vi asks.
“Uh. No.”
“Oh my God,” Renn almost moans, shaking her head. “This is Cooper
all over again.”
 “What?”
Cooper was my lab partner last semester, and Renn somehow got it in
her head that he had a thing for me. She even went so far as to send him my
racy pics one day; long story: we’d gone out shopping and I’d bought some
nice lingerie at Renn’s insistence — I knew I shouldn’t have — and when I
modeled it for her, she took pics and texted him from my phone.
I was so embarrassed.
To this day, I can’t look Cooper in the eye.
“This is not Cooper,” I state very firmly.
Renn rolls her eyes. “You’re so clueless.”
“No, I’m not,” I tell her. “Not every guy is after me. No one even
wants to talk to me, okay?”
“That’s because they’re all idiots,” Willow almost snaps, angry on my
behalf.
“Exactly,” Vi says. “But he’s not.”
“I mean, look at his stellar record,” Renn contributes. “You say that
with his grades and genius, he’s all set to go to Harvard. On a scholarship.
Oh and he’s the best tutor on campus.”
“Yup.” Willow nods. “And these aren’t even the most important
points that make him smart.”
She finishes with raised eyebrows and a pointed stare at me, and I
can’t help but ask, “What’s the most important point, then?”
“That he asked you out on a date,” Willow explains.
I go still for a second or two.
Even more than that, I think.
A date.
This is a date.
He asked me out on a date.
 I’ve been so numb ever since he asked me that it never occurred to
me. It never even crossed my mind. But then…
No.
This can’t be a date.
I mean, I can see why they’d think that. I went to him for a tutoring
session but he asked me out to dinner instead. It’s the kind of story that you
tell people, about how it all started, their epic love story.
But my friends don’t know the whole truth. About that day. About
him. Because I never told them.
I know, though.
And this can’t be a date.
Right?
Right.
My fragile brain can’t handle the hope. It just can’t.
So I take a deep breath and tell Willow, “No. It’s not a date. Trust me
on that.”
“But why do —”
“Just take my word for it, okay?” I say, debating whether I should tell
them everything but then thinking it’s too much right now; I’ve had enough
stress for one day. Instead, I say, “Besides, you think everyone likes
everyone else.”
“I do not think that,” Willow protests, drawing back.
Violet chuckles. “You so do. You’re always matchmaking these
days.”
Yup.
Last month, Willow got it in her head that Ruth — who’s her therapist
as well; in fact, Willow was the one who referred me to Ruth — needs to
find a man for herself. And Willow had the perfect guy for Ruth all ready to
go.
I’m so glad that we talked her out of that though. Not only is it
unprofessional to involve yourself in your therapist’s love life, but the man
she chose — the accountant from the bookstore where she works — turned
out to be in sort of love with Willow herself. So, a disaster waiting to
happen.
But I guess this is what happens when you’re in love yourself. You
see everything through your love-colored glasses. And Willow is in love.
Gosh, big time.
So much so that she married the man she loves last year, over her
Christmas break from college.
Simon Blackwood.
Or rather, Dr. Simon Blackwood. Our psychiatrist at Heartstone.
I’m not going to lie, I was sort of against their relationship in the
beginning. I didn’t find it very romantic, a patient falling for her
psychiatrist. In fact, I was quite angry with Dr. Blackwood myself. I
thought he was taking advantage of Willow and her condition. Besides,
there’s a thing called transference that happens between a psychiatrist and a
patient when they grow inappropriately close. They feed off of each other in
an unhealthy and toxic way.
So I thought it was science.
The thing I use to explain away my infatuation.
But then, over time I saw them together. I saw how Willow didn’t
need Dr. Blackwood to complete her or fix her; she knew that she was
whole on her own, just a little different than the rest of the world. And Dr.
Blackwood didn’t use her love to feed into his messiah complex, but he
loved her and wanted her for who she was. And my friend made him happy.
 And so I got on board.
Renn turns to Violet. “Like you’re any better.” She turns back to us
then. “Violet thinks she’s found a match for Brian.”
Brian is Violet’s best friend from high school. And at one time, Brian
was crushing hard on Vi, who had no clue about his feelings. Maybe
because her own feelings were tied up somewhere else.
In Brian’s dad, no less.
Yeah, pretty scandalous. At least according to the town she lived in.
This was the scandal — the fact that she liked her best friend’s dad — that
eventually sent her to Heartstone, all broken and traumatized by people’s
judgement and censure. Even Brian’s judgement.
She’s doing much better now. Thanks to her time at Heartstone and
her own hard work and commitment to working on her mental health. But
that’s not the only reason. The other reason is Brian’s dad, Graham
Edwards, or Mr. Edwards as we used to call him for the longest time.
Violet used to call him Mr. Edwards too, but now he’s just Graham.
Her Graham.
The man she’s in love with and the man who loves her back.
Despite Brian and all the other hurdles, they got together last year and
now she lives in Colorado with him. Which is good because I don’t think I
like her town very much, the place that made her miserable for liking a man
older than her. The only thing I hate about her living so far away is that we
can’t get together as often as we’d like.
But she visits — like now — when she can.
Willow gasps at Renn’s information. “Oh my God, really? Who?”
Violet’s eyes are shining and she’s suppressing a huge grin. She’s
always felt bad for not knowing Brian’s feelings and for harboring her crush
on his dad without telling him. Even though they’re all okay now — Brian
came around — she still feels guilty, and like Willow who sees potential
love stories everywhere, Violet sees them for Brian.
“This girl I met in our book club,” she says, her grin breaking free.
“She not only has great taste in books, she also loves vintage rock like me.”
Violet has a huge crush on music; she always has headphones with her.
“Plus, she’s so pretty and nice. She was the first person to talk to me when I
joined the stupid club. Ugh. Why do therapists want you to do things you
don’t want to do?” she laments, before saying, “But anyway, I think Brian
would really like her.”
“Yeah, but she lives in Colorado and Brian’s in California,” Renn
reminds her.
Which makes Violet scrunch up her nose a little bit. “I know. I’ve
been thinking about it, but Brian comes to visit often and I think he’s
thinking about transferring to a college in Colorado. I know Graham would
love it if he moved there. So maybe, you know? Maybe this could be it. I’m
thinking positive.”
I smile at her in solidarity; it’s hard for us hardcore anxiety warriors
to be positive. We’re more the doom and gloom type. “Good. I like that.”
Willow, who, being on the depression spectrum, has a hard time
dredging up positivity as well, nods. “If you like her for Brian then I’m sure
she’s great. Besides, a little long-distance doesn’t matter.”
Renn looks at all three of us like we’re crazy. “Are you guys serious?
Long-distance relationships are the worst.” She turns to Violet. “If you
really like this girl, you won’t set her up with Brian. Long-distance is… too
painful. It’s the unnecessary drama that no one needs.”
We all sober up quickly. Willow more so than any of us because she
was the one who said ‘long-distance.’
 We never ever say that word around Renn. Not that she’s in a long-
distance relationship, or any relationship at all for that matter, but still.
It’s complicated.
And the name of that complication is Tristan.
Which is also something that we don’t say around her, his name.
Because it only upsets her.
Because she’s in love with him. Not that she’s ever admitted to it, but
we can sense it.
We all met him at Heartstone. Like us, he was one of the patients
there and we immediately knew that he was interested in her. She has
always denied her interest in him though. Even after we all got out.
I’m not really sure what the reason for her denial is.
But we’ve all guessed it to be that Tristan doesn’t live around here.
I mean, he’s from New York and he does have a really great
apartment in the city, in one of those really posh areas, Chelsea to be exact.
But he hardly lives there because he travels a lot. For work.
He’s in a band.
A very up-and-coming band that’s been gathering a lot of fame in the
past few months. In fact, I heard their song on the radio just the other day.
They’re called Dopamine and he’s the lead singer.
Tristan Archer.
So yeah. Renn has inadvertently fallen in love with a rock star —
none of us knew that he was one though, when we were at Heartstone
together — who’s well on his way to becoming super famous. And every
time he passes by the city, Renn sees him.
Or rather, he comes over to see Renn.
I’m not sure what goes on between them because Renn never tells us.
But I can tell that she’s seen him when she comes home, all subdued and
sad. When she hardly even looks at me, let alone talks. And when she
watches cooking shows all night long, trying to torture herself with her old
eating habits; Renn suffers from anorexia and has been in and out of psych
wards all her life.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. We won’t.”
Willow leans forward. “Yeah, I wasn’t thinking.”
“And if you think it’s a bad idea, I won’t introduce her to Brian,”
Violet amends. “I mean, it’s no guarantee that he’ll ever move to Colorado,
and she doesn’t need the heartache. He doesn’t either.”
Renn’s face crumples slightly and her shoulders sag. “I’m an idiot.”
She grabs Violet’s hand. “You don’t have to do that. I’m just… as I said,
I’m an idiot.” Then she turns to us, me and Willow. “You guys don’t need to
be so nice to me. I can handle myself. Besides there’s nothing to handle
really. I’m sorry I lost my shit there.”
“You’re allowed to lose your shit in front of us,” Willow says. “That’s
what friends are for. But I really think you should talk about —”
“No,” Renn says decisively. “There’s no need to talk.”
We all look at each other before I go ahead and change the subject,
taking attention away from Renn and bringing it onto me; I know about
keeping secrets and not wanting to talk about certain things. “I’m not
going.”
My repeated stance about not going effectively changes the mood,
and now my friends are off the topic of Renn and Tristan.
“What?” Willow goes.
Violet says, in the same tone as Willow, “Are you serious? You have
to go.”
Renn gives me a grateful look for a second, totally on to me, before
frowning. “Yeah, you have to. That guy’s got a thing for you. And no
roommate of mine will turn down a date with a hot guy.”
I give her look. “How do you know he’s hot?”
“Because when you told us about your plan to talk to him, you were
blushing the whole time. In fact, you’re blushing right now.”
My hand flies up to my cheek. “I’m not.”
“Um, yes,” Renn goes and Willow and Violet nod, agreeing with her.
“Which also means that not only do I know that he’s got a thing for you, I
also know that you’ve got a thing for him.” She pauses, then, “Which
wasn’t the case with Cooper. So I guess you were right. This isn’t a Cooper
situation at all.” She raises her eyebrows. “This is an Atlas and Penny
situation.”
Willow snickers. “Atlas and Penny’s love situation.”
“No, wait,” Violet jumps in, grinning. “Atlas and Penny’s chemistry
situation.”
All three of my friends — idiot friends — burst out laughing and over
the din, I correct them. “It’s not even the right subject, okay? It’s
biochemistry. And I’m not going.”

OceanofPDF.com
Chapter Three

I’m going.
Or rather, I’m here.
At Valentino’s.
When twenty-four hours ago, I had no desire to go.
Well, that’s not true.
I did have the desire, I guess.
I tossed and turned all night, thinking about it, hoping and wishing
even though I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t.
That my fragile brain can’t handle being tangled up in false hope.
Not to mention, I have other goals. Other things that I need to focus
on.
But God.
God.
I so want to focus on him. I so, so want to just let go and not worry
about my grades all the time. I just want to… live. Enjoy my courses and
learn and have fun.
I’ve never had fun. I’ve never allowed myself to have fun.
And I thought, in the early hours of dawn as I lay in my bed, that this
could be it.
This maybe-date.
And besides, I’m no match for my friends. Especially when all three
of them gang up on me.
Then, after all that, this morning, Dr. Blackwood came over to pick
Willow up after our little sleepover together. Not only was he early — much
earlier than the time they’d decided Willow would head back — he also
wasn’t supposed to be there. He was supposed to send his car to pick
Willow up.
But he came instead.
And when Willow asked him, all surprised and concerned, what he
was doing there and if everything was okay, he said, in a low voice which I
only heard because I was unabashedly trying to, “No.”
Willow put her hands on his chest. “What’s wrong?”
I swear I blushed at the way he stared down at her as he growled,
“You weren’t where you were supposed to be.”
“What?”
“With me.”
At this, Willow blushed as well, and my cheeks were burning so I
looked away.
Mr. Edwards, or rather Graham, wasn’t far behind either. Only thirty
minutes later, he was there at our door, picking Violet up. He didn’t even
give her a chance to ask if anything was okay, he simply growled, “We’re
leaving.”
That was enough to make Violet all shy and red.
And I’m not going to lie, I was jealous. Of both Willow and Violet.
Of how loved they are, how adored and admired, how supported, and
accepted for who they are.
I got this ache in my chest, in my belly, as I thought about their lives.
As I thought about him.
Looking at me like Dr. Blackwood looks at Willow and Graham looks
at Violet.
So yeah, I’m here.
But I’m late.
And he’d said that he wouldn’t wait more than five minutes.
 But he is.
Waiting for me, I mean.
I didn’t do it on purpose. I was just so nervous, and I kept changing
my mind along with my clothes every five minutes, so that I completely lost
track of time. But I’m here now and I can see him, sitting in the back, his
green eyes on the door.
And hence, on me.
They flare slightly — very slightly — when he catches sight of me.
His jaw, which I think was tight while he was waiting for me, flexes and
goes loose as I start to walk toward him. And the moment I do, he
straightens up in his seat and I swallow.
At the fact that his eyes have moved away from mine and are now, at
this very second, taking the rest of me in.
My body. My clothes.
My very unusual clothes.
I’m wearing a dress, dark green in color — darker than his eyes —
sleeveless and tighter than what I would’ve liked; it hugs my body
perfectly, dipping and flowing over my meager curves.
I don’t think I’ve ever worn a dress like this; I’m not usually a dress
person. A pair of jeans, a t-shirt or a hoodie are more my style. And so, this
is the first time he’s seeing me in one.
And he’s doing it, he’s staring at me, all slowly and deliberately.
He’s doing it in a way that no one has ever done before.
I’ve never been looked at like this before.
Somehow, I manage to reach him without stumbling or falling on my
face even though my legs are trembling something fierce. And maybe that,
the fact that he’s still taking me in, and his heated stare is tripping up my
heartbeats, is why I blurt out, “This isn’t my dress.”
 At my voice and sudden declaration, Atlas looks up, his eyes
appearing so green and alive. “This is not your dress.”
I’m not sure why I said that. I feel so foolish now. But something
needed to be said and that was the first thing that came into my head and
I’m sticking with it. “No. It’s my friend’s.” But out of all the dresses my
friend, Renn, showed me, I picked this one because it was the closest to the
shade of your eyes. “I don’t…” I fist the smooth soft fabric of my dress, or
rather Renn’s dress. “Wear clothes like this.”
His eyes bore into mine. “I know.”
“I think dresses are stupid,” I declare, much like I declared my earlier
statement.
“Yeah? How so?”
“They’re uncomfortable. And tight and…” I reply, totally clueless as
to what I’m even saying or what my end goal is.
He stays silent for a beat or two, and a blush fans across my cheeks.
Which he of course notices as he says, “And what?”
“They tend to put you on display,” I reply.
His eyes grow even more intense than before, if possible. “They do.”
I go to answer him but he lowers his gaze then. He takes me in exactly like
before, all slowly, staring at each and every part of me in this deep green
dress before coming up to my face and saying, “But I can’t say that I hate
looking.”
“That’s —”
“So why are you wearing it?” he asks over me.
“What?”
“The dress.” Then, “If it puts you on display.”
For you.
The blush on my face intensifies as soon as I think that.
 It’s true though.
Renn insisted that she get me ready for dinner, and when she started
looking through my closet to pick an outfit for me, I told her that her
selection of clothes is better than mine. Which she loved to hear, and then
she proceeded to show me all the stuff that she had.
And I picked this one because it reminded me of his eyes.
So yeah, like an idiot, I wore this dress for him.
But I lie, “Because my friend made me.”
“And why would she do that?” he asks, watching me carefully,
intently.
“Because she wants to die at my hands,” I quip. “And because…”
His lips twitch slightly. “Because what?”
“And because…” I ponder over whether or not I should say my next
words. But then, “Because she thinks it’s a date.”
Damn it, Penny.
Damn it.
Why?
Why would I say that?
Actually, I know why. Because I’m dying to know.
Because I want it to be.
And I want it so much that I’ve thrown caution to the winds and look,
I made a disastrous mistake because his features have drawn up tight at my
words. And so before he can say anything to crush all the hope in my chest,
I try to cover it up. “I’m not saying that it is. Because I —”
“Sit.”
His command breaks my thoughts and I’m so flustered that I do as he
says. Before I realize that that was kind of bossy.
“Are you always this high-handed?” I ask, tipping my chin up at him.
 “Pretty much,” he says, shifting in his seat, as if finally settling in.
I notice his shoulders — super broad in his black shirt — relax
slightly. “I don’t like taking orders. Just so you know. Since you’ll be
tutoring me and all that.”
My words make his lips twitch again as he sits back on his seat,
sprawling, expanding, becoming even bigger and broader. More masculine.
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I’m not so sure. I —”
“And I haven’t agreed to tutor you yet.”
“What?”
“We’ll see how tonight goes.”
“Are you kidding me?” I narrow my eyes at him. “That was the whole
deal.”
“What deal?”
My eyes narrow further and his are shining with amusement. “The
deal about you tutoring me. I asked you what you wanted in exchange for
tutoring me and you said dinner.”
I’m still slightly confused as to why.
Like, why would he want to have dinner with a girl like me, but the
terms were clear.
He shrugs, his sculpted shoulders going up and down so fucking
sexily. “Maybe I lied.”
I draw back then, my mouth falling open. “I can’t believe it. I
can’t…” I snap my mouth shut before I say, “I’m leaving.”
But before I can move even an inch, he goes, “Relax.” I look at him
with suspicion and he explains, “I was kidding. It was a joke. I’m not in the
habit of going back on my word.”
 I stare at him silently. Then, “So you’re just in the habit of being an
asshole, then?”
That amusement in his eyes flashes brighter than before and he
repeats, “Pretty much.”
“You know, I don’t think I want you to tutor me anymore.”
“Oh, you want me to tutor you,” he says.
“And why’s that?”
“Because I’m the best,” he states simply, arrogantly.
“And so humble.”
“Yeah, that too.”
I can’t help but lose all my ire at him and settle into my seat. And
before I can think too much about it, I say, “You waited.”
“What?”
I duck my eyes for a second before saying, “For me. I was late and…
you said you wouldn’t wait more than five minutes.”
“I know what I said,” he murmurs, his eyes strangely intense.
So much so that I want to look away from him, but I can’t. Because
somehow, he won’t let me go. He’s holding me captive with his green gaze.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I tell him.
“So why then?”
I lick my lips. “I was… I was nervous. I kept changing my mind.”
“About coming here.”
“Yes,” I admit, my cheeks burning under his scrutiny. “I mean, I
don’t… I don’t understand why you wanted this,” I take a pause here before
continuing, “in exchange for tutoring me. But anyway, thanks for waiting.”
I kick myself in my head for saying this.
Especially after the almost-date stuff that I blurted out as soon as I
arrived.
 But I couldn’t resist. I still don’t know what he wants from me, and I
hate being in the dark.
Not that he has any plans of pulling me out of there. Because he stares
at me for a few seconds, his deep, intense stare that makes me squirm and
blush, before he murmurs, “Their chicken parm is great.”
“What?”
“I think you’d like it.”
“The food, you mean?” I ask lamely.
I’m not sure what he finds amusing but his lips twitch and his eyes
shine. “Yes, Penelope, I mean food.”
My heart skips a beat when he says my name. It’s not uncommon for
people to call me Penelope. Lots of people do it. My parents, my professors,
people who don’t know me that well. Which is basically the whole world
except my three best friends, who call me Penny.
But from him, it sounds different, and I mumble, “Chicken parm
sounds good.”
I look away when his twitching lips pull up even more and he smiles.
Only slightly, but it’s there and it’s beautiful. And I’m a bumbling idiot.
Just then, the waiter appears at our table and Atlas places the order.
And for some reason, my nervousness increases. Like ordering the food has
made all this even more real.
I’m having dinner with Atlas.
Dinner that he wanted to have. With me.
And of course, when I get nervous, my fingers start fidgeting with my
anxiety ring.
“What’s that?”
I look away from my ring to find him staring at it like yesterday. And
like yesterday, I bring my hand down on my lap, hiding it from his gorgeous
eyes. “Nothing.”
His jaw clenches at my motion, my lie, and for a second, I think he’s
hurt by my actions. That I chose to hide from him.
But why would he care?
In any case, I still amend, “Well, it’s…” I sigh, my fingers working
double time on flicking the tiny beads. “It’s an anxiety ring.”
His expression goes alert. “An anxiety ring.”
I swallow. I’m not sure if I want to share this with him. The purpose
behind it. I mean, it’s self-explanatory, but still.
My illness is not a secret, of course. And definitely not from him. But
do I really want to go there with him?
Then it occurs to me that maybe I should.
Maybe I should stop pretending that we don’t have a history and just
get everything out there.
Maybe if I spell everything out, describe my illness to him, all of this
will end.
He will be so disgusted that he’ll leave, and this foolish hope that I’m
harboring will come to an end.
Because really, how can it not?
I mean, look at me. I can’t even talk to him without the help of my
anxiety ring. I can’t even figure out if this thing is a date or not.
I’m so out of my league here. It’s better to save myself and my sanity,
and simply focus on my grades.
So I look up with a renewed determination and bring my hand up. I
flick the beads with my fingers as I say, “It’s supposed to help distract you.
From your anxiety. Break your constant and non-stop thought patterns. So I
don’t… So my thoughts don’t overwhelm me. And I don’t have another
meltdown. Like I did before.”
 I wait for him to show some reaction to it.
To my meltdown.
But he doesn’t. He keeps watching me, as if waiting for me to say
more, so I do. “Which, as everyone knows, sent me to Heartstone. A psych
ward in New Jersey. I didn’t want to go, of course. It came out of nowhere,
you see. My meltdown. I’ve had severe anxiety before, but who doesn’t?
We always hear people talking about it, right? Oh, I’m anxious about this
and I’m worried about that and so that’s normal, right?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not. It’s not normal. Not for me. Because at
Heartstone, they diagnosed me with anxiety disorder. It’s worse than it
sounds. It explains everything that I’ve been feeling all these years, all my
life even. It explains my feelings of inadequacy, why sometimes I feel so
down, so low. Why I take everything so seriously. Why I can’t stop taking
everything so seriously. Why I think everything is the end of the world. And
even though I try my best, I do everything right, I’m doing something
wrong. Because there’s something wrong with me. Because I lack
something. Something fundamental. That other people have but I don’t.
“It also explains why I ate that book.” I widen my eyes at him. “I ate
a book, remember? How crazy is that? And for what? Because I got an F.
But still. So what? It’s only a grade. Granted, no one in my family has ever
gotten a C in anything. They’ve all been so successful at everything that
they’ve done. And I always struggled and so they always looked at me like I
was an outsider. And now they look at me like I’m an alien. That I’m not
altogether of this world. Oh, they never say anything. They don’t verbally
express it. They even smile at me and ask about my day and whatnot. But
they look at me like they don’t know what to do with me. They’ve always
looked at me that way. Now, they know the reason. It’s because I’m crazy.
I’m touched in the head. But it’s okay because now they know. Now the
mystery is solved and they can rest easy. Their scientific curiosity is
appeased. So in case you didn’t know — which is impossible because you
were there that day — you’re having dinner with a crazy girl. And I don’t
even know why. I don’t understand why anyone would want that.”
Especially after you saw me that day.
The day when I had my first panic attack.
The professor gave us back our grades and I knew that I hadn’t done
well. But the big F on the paper was still a big shock. I’ve had my struggles,
but I’d never failed a subject before. Not even biochemistry. And suddenly,
something was sitting on my chest.
Something was choking me. Something that was strong and cold but
also hot because I was sweating like crazy.
Trembling too.
And I didn’t know what to do.
I started tearing out pages of the book, balling them up in my hand,
gouging at them. It wasn’t my intention to put those tattered papers in my
mouth but a keening sound was beginning to emerge from somewhere deep
inside me. A choking sound, and that made me so afraid, even more afraid.
So to shut myself up, to stop myself from acting like a crazy,
unhinged person, I put a balled-up paper in my mouth. I pressed my fist into
it too.
And then I think I passed out.
Because the next thing I remember is… him.
The guy sitting in front of me. With a tight jaw and flashing eyes.
His shoulders, which had gone loose and relaxed when I sat down, are
rigid now. His chest, too. His hands on the table are fists, angry and with
jutting-out knuckles.
Good.
 Maybe he’s rethinking this whole thing.
Which is exactly what I wanted.
And so it shouldn’t make me want to cry. It shouldn’t make me want
to sob and bawl my eyes out and tell him that I’m lying.
Because I’m not lying.
This is my life.
This is how I live from one day to the next. There’s no medication for
it, no magical anxiety ring, or a psych ward. I will always be this way. No
one can cure me. All I have is some tools and medication to manage it. But
I will live with my broken mind for the rest of my life.
And now he knows that.
I’m waiting for him to get up and leave. I’m waiting for my hopes to
be dashed so I can shut down this infatuation once and for all.
But he doesn’t go anywhere.
He sits there, his gaze steady, his body rigid. Then, “Heartstone. That
the name?”
My throat is all dry now, so I swallow. “Yeah.”
“How long were you there?”
“Ten weeks.”
He squints. “Maybe it wasn’t enough.”
“What?”
“Either it’s them,” he continues, his jaw moving back and forth, “who
didn’t do their job right, or it’s you. Who learned nothing from them. And
since Heartstone is pretty well known as far as psych wards go, I’m going
to take a guess and say that it’s you. Which means you should probably go
back to Heartstone and not come out until it’s drilled into your pretty little
head that having a panic attack is not crazy. Having a panic attack is a
symptom of a major psychiatric condition. Such as anxiety disorder. Which
you suffer from, correct? Like diabetes. And like diabetes, which people
need perpetual shots to manage, there’s no cure for it. So you’re stuck with
it for the rest of your life. That’s what anxiety disorder is. What it is not is
crazy. Or insane. You’re not fucked in the head, and you haven’t lost your
shit. Or whatever else you want to call it.” His eyes sweep over my face.
“All it does is make you unlucky. And even that depends on perspective.”
“I’m not —”
“You’re pre-med, yeah?” he asks, cutting me off.
“Yes.”
“Probably want to go to med school. The top med school, I assume.
And then, you probably want to be the best doctor that you can be. Isn’t that
correct?”
I squirm in my seat uncomfortably. “Yes. What…”
“Might want to be careful about your calling your patients crazy,” he
clips. “They take offense at that.”
“I’m not calling myself crazy. But other people can —”
“Well, other people can be idiots.”
I open my mouth to retort but then I realize I’ve got nothing to say.
Which is very unusual for me. I always have things to say. I always
have opinions to put forward and observations to share. No matter my poor
personal skills, I’m not exactly a shy person when it comes to holding an
academic discussion or a debate.
But I’m at a loss here.
Maybe because it is personal, the discussion we’re having. And
maybe because I’ve never seen him like this.
In the past year that I’ve known him, or rather watched him from afar,
I’ve seen him being all cool and professional, sometimes irritated but never
angry, and definitely never this angry. Where his eyes are shooting fire and
a muscle is jumping in his cheek.
Still, I try. To say something.
I open my mouth again, but the waiter is here with our food and the
moment is broken.
In fact, the whole evening is broken.
The whole mood is ruined.
So much so that for the rest of dinner, we don’t say a word to each
other. Atlas doesn’t even look at me and I look at him a little too much. I
study his no-nonsense movements as he eats. The way he grabs the fork,
wrapping his fingers around it in an all-encompassing manner. There’s
nothing delicate about it. It’s all extremely masculine and somehow
authoritative.
The way he chews, his square jaw moving, seems authoritative too.
I don’t know how to explain it but all I know is that it does something
to me.
It affects me.
Like he affects me.
Like his words affected me just now.
So potent. So fierce and violent.
So beautiful.
All for me. On my behalf.
He defended me. From my own self, and I never would’ve imagined,
not even in my wildest dreams, that he would do that.
That he would be on my side.
This gorgeous, rude and yet somehow safe guy.
Soon, dinner comes to an end and Atlas calls for the check. I fish out
my card from my bag but when I go to put it on the table, he jerks his eyes
up at me and growls, “No.”
Just that. One word.
The only thing that he’s said to me after how I stupidly ruined things.
I put my card back and go to say something about our earlier
conversation but once the check is settled, Atlas stands up and in the same
growly voice, says, “Let’s go. I’ll walk you back.”
Standing up, I follow him out of the restaurant, my eyes on his tight
frame. On his rigid shoulders, his fists that he pushes inside the pockets of
his jeans.
And I know — I just know — that we’re never doing this again.
Whatever this was, it’s not happening again.
It sends me into panic mode.
Not the kind that’s brought on by my illness, no. This panic is
different. This panic is more like despair. A deep sadness that’s originating
from the center of my body, rather than from my diseased brain.
And it keeps increasing and increasing, this pain, this despair, as we
walk under the darkening fall sky. It’s only after ten minutes, when we
reach my apartment building, that it occurs to me that he knew where I live.
He never asked for directions. He simply knew where he was going.
“How did you…”
I trail off when he finally turns to me. His eyes glow under the
dimming sky as he says, “I can do tomorrow. Six o’ clock. Meet me at the
library.”
“The tutoring,” I say, more to myself than anything because I’d
forgotten about it for a few moments.
I’d forgotten about my initial goal, and honestly, now that I
remember, I don’t seem to care.
It’s oddly freeing.
 Not caring about grades. I mean, I know that I need help, but thinking
about it and worrying about it every second of every day is so exhausting.
His lips pull up on one side in a hollow smile. “A deal’s a deal.” He
stares at me for a second or two before saying, “See you tomorrow.”
His words, almost a repeat of what he said yesterday about dinner,
sound subdued. Flat and toneless. And when he takes a step back, I say, “I
never said thank you.”
My words sound desperate, a plea for him to stay.
To talk to me. To let me talk.
“What?”
I take a deep breath before continuing; it’s hard for me but I can’t not
say this either, not after today. “For… helping me that day.”
That day.
He knows what I’m talking about.
I can see it on his face, a ripple going through his features at my
words, his eyes narrowing, honing in on me even more.
“I don’t remember much about that day,” I forge ahead. “Except that I
was really panicked, and I felt so… unhinged. More so than usual. I guess
I’d been building up to it. All my life, you know. That day the dam broke
and I just… I didn’t know how to stop myself. It was as if I was watching
myself from afar. I was aware of so many things, and yet, so many things
were a blur. But anyway, I remember feeling that people had started to look
at me, and I guess that scared me so much that I passed out. And then I
remember you.”
I look at his face. A face that I’ve studied a million times from afar.
His thick lashes, his straight nose. His square jaw that’s stubbled right now.
That always appears so strong, and somehow, so stubborn.
 “I remember you carrying me through the hallway,” I say,
swallowing. “You felt so strong. Your arms. For the first time in my life, I
thought that I’m… I’m centered. That I’m calm. That I’m not spinning and
spinning. That I can rest for a while and things won’t fall apart. And when
you looked down at me, I thought you were the most… You were the most
beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Your eyes.” I shake my head. “I never got a
chance to say thank you. For helping me. For carrying me to the health
center, for…” Another deep breath. “Talking to me. For soothing me.”
I’ve got you…
My entire body shivers at the memory of his words.
At the memory of his arms, his voice. His quiet authority, his
presence.
And to think that I never really paid attention to him before that day. I
mean, I knew who he was and even me, with my hyper-focused and anxious
brain, could admit that he was extremely attractive.
But that was it.
That was all I had the capability of processing.
Not anymore though.
Now that my mind is relatively clear and I’m relatively better than
what I’ve been all my life, I can see. I can admire.
I can dream.
I look down at the ground, my eyes stinging with tears. “So, thank
you. It really meant a lot to me. I won’t ever forget it. Your kindness and…
I was so awful tonight. I was so… I’m so bad at this. Thanks for waiting for
me. And for dinner and for agreeing to tutor me even though I know you
didn’t want to. Everyone says that you’re rude and you are but you’re also
so good and…”
 I swallow my words when I feel him, his hand, on my face. His big
and warm and scrape-y hand, with which he makes me look up.
I only get a second to notice that his features have a harshness to
them, an intensity, a ferocity, before his mouth is over mine.
His mouth is enveloping mine.
So warm and wet and plush.
It happened so suddenly that I don’t get the time to react, only hold on
to him. Only open my mouth under his. And when that hand of his on my
face slides up and buries itself in my hair, pulling me closer to his body, I
realize that there couldn’t have been any other reaction anyway.
I couldn’t have not opened my mouth under him.
I couldn’t have not moved my mouth in order to kiss him back.
God, I’m kissing him back.
Because he’s kissing me. He kissed me first.
And it’s… it’s wonderful.
It’s fucking wonderful.
His mouth on me. His tongue in me. His fingers maneuvering my face
to the side so he can go deeper.
Which is even more wonderful.
Because then I get to taste him too. I get to peek my tongue out and
swipe it against his. And when I do taste him, his tangy flavor, I get to pull
him closer as well.
My own hands grab onto his shoulders, and I swear my fingers
breathe out a sigh.
They’ve been dying to touch him ever since that first time.
They’ve been dying to feel his strength, his warmth.
His muscled power.
 Actually, my entire body has been dying to feel him and now it is. I
am.
I’m plastered to his front. My chest is pressed up against his ribs and
my belly is flattened against his pelvis, and I’ve never ever felt more heated
or more alive or more needy.
I can’t believe I’m needy.
I didn’t even think anyone could be this needy.
So much so that I start to rub up against him. I start to drag my
breasts, as meager as they are, against the hard planes of his chest, and I
swear they twitch, his muscles. When I press my belly against his stomach
even harder, his abs hollow out.
Even his fingers in my hair grow tighter. His lips on mine grow more
urgent.
At one point, I think he even bites me, pulling my lower lip into his
mouth and sinking in his teeth. And it’s so wonderful, the most wonderful
thing to happen to me ever since he started kissing me, that I moan.
I hold on to him tighter, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
But then, everything stops.
Because he breaks it.
The kiss.
As abruptly as he’d started it, and my eyes flip open. It takes me a
few seconds to get my bearings, to clear up my vision and focus on him.
On his green eyes, his wet and parted lips.
His gorgeous, symmetrical face.
I go to ask him why he stopped but he rasps, “What’s my name?”
“What?”
His fingers flex in my loose hair and in response, my own clutch his
shoulders tighter. “Say it.”
 “Atlas,” I whisper, feeling a current go through my body, clenching
everything inside of me.
His eyes drop to my tingling, swollen mouth for a second before he
looks up and says, “It wasn’t a kindness.”
I frown with confusion. But he doesn’t explain.
Instead, he does something horrible: he lets go of me.
He takes his hands off my hair and steps away, leaving me with a
craned neck and a cold body. And then, he leaves and I repeat his last words
in my head: It wasn’t a kindness.
My heart drops down my chest and hits my belly when I realize he
said it in reference to my earlier statement: I won’t forget your kindness.

OceanofPDF.com
Chapter Four
Atlas
Her light brown hair was the first thing I’d noticed the day I saw her.
Which is strange because there wasn’t anything unusual about her
straight brown hair. Except that she kept tucking it behind her ear, playing
with the ends of it as she sat at the desk, somewhere in the middle, waiting
for the professor to arrive.
I’m not sure what drew me to her in the first place. I was already
pissed about the fact that I was assigned to work with a new professor that I
didn’t much like and who insisted that as his TA, I attend every one of his
lectures. Maybe because I wasn’t supposed to be a TA when I was only a
junior. But they made an exception because of my grades. Still, it was
fucking annoying, sitting in at lectures. Like I had nothing better to do with
my time. And on top of that, the asshole professor was late.
For those few seconds, however, my irritation took a back seat
because of her.
I watched her pick out her seat. It took her a long time. She went
through a fuckton of options before she decided on one that was far enough
away from people but was still close enough to the front.
And then, she spent the next ten to fifteen minutes, until the professor
arrived, fidgeting. Playing with her hair, flicking the pages of her notebook,
looking either down at her desk or at the wall, carefully avoiding any eye
contact.
Over the next few weeks, I realized that that was how she operated.
Aloof and alone and away from people.
Sort of like me in that sense.
Penelope Clarke.
 I found out her name a few days later, along with a few other things
about her. She’s the daughter of our Dean of Medicine. She’s pre-med. She
sucked at biochemistry but her organic chemistry was strong. She was good
in physics too, and also biology. Her grades were excellent, and they’d be
outstanding if not for biochem.
She always paid attention in class, always had her homework turned
in on time, always took notes. She wanted to learn, her expression always
earnest and her eyes always on the professor, or me if I was filling in for
him. Unlike so many other assholes that I’ve had to deal with in the past.
I also knew that she spent most of her free time at the library — early
mornings, late evenings, even weekends. She always grabs the table by the
windows overlooking the courtyard. She carries orange juice with her
wherever she goes, and she usually has no fucking clue as to what goes on
around her because her nose is always buried in a book.
Because if she did, she’d know that someone watches her.
Someone knows her little habits, her little tells.
Someone like me.
A stupid fucking asshole.
A stupid fucking dumb asshole. Who kissed her.
No, actually what I did was attack her fucking mouth. Because like a
stupid fucking dumb asshole, I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t gather
enough strength, enough decency to walk away from her like I should have.
Dinner was one thing — although what the fuck was I thinking when
I proposed it yesterday? — but kissing her is a whole ’nother level of
fucked up.
She’s a student I’m supposed to tutor tomorrow. She’s a student
whose papers I’ve read and whose quizzes I’ve graded.
 And who didn’t even remember my name until I reminded her —
again — yesterday.
I’m not going to lie. It fucking pissed me off.
That she wouldn’t say my name yesterday. It pissed me off even more
than it did before.
That day.
When she passed out and scared the fuck out of me and woke up
asking who I was. After being in that fucking class every week for months.
But it’s fine.
What wasn’t fine was that I had no idea that she’d been struggling so
badly. I’d known that biochem wasn’t her best subject, but I never expected
her to fail. I never expected her to break down when she did.
For all my watching, I wasn’t very vigilant, was I?
And I pride myself on being detail-oriented. That’s how I’ve managed
to stay on top of my classes; that’s how I managed to ace my MCATs.
But for some reason when it comes to her, I act like a reckless fucking
toddler.
So you can count on one thing: I’m helping her now.
I’m tutoring the shit out of her so she never has to be afraid of
biochem again. So she never has to go through what she went through
again.
So she never has to go back to that place. At least, not because of
something as trivial as biochem.
I knew about her stay at Heartstone.
Of course I knew.
It was all anyone could talk about, and I wanted to punch each and
every one of them when they talked about her like she was some crazy girl
who needed to be locked up.
 She is not fucking crazy.
She is smart and brave and strong.
And for the record, I would’ve helped her even if she hadn’t showed
up at the fucking restaurant; I wasn’t even expecting her to after how she
reacted yesterday. I would’ve helped her even if she hadn’t offered to give
me something in exchange to begin with.
I only did that to be an asshole.
Because I am that. I’m an asshole. I’m a petty asshole who wanted to
get back at her for not remembering my name yesterday.
I was right to say no to her. In the beginning, I mean. I should’ve
stuck to that decision and let her find some other tutor. But then, she looked
at me with those eyes and…
Her fucking eyes.
Her fucking hair.
Her.
Damn it.
What is it about her that affects me so much? That makes my chest
tight and heavy. That makes me so fucking protective and at the same time
forget all basic decency and become this uncontrolled douchebag who goes
around attacking people’s mouths.
Well, her mouth.
Her gorgeous, full lips that she keeps biting on when she’s nervous.
Great job, asshole. Rape-kissing her like that.
I mean, I should get the hint, yeah?
She is not interested.
Which is as it should be.
First, she’s a student; I don’t consort with students who are in the
class that I’m TAing for. On top of that, now I’m going to be her tutor.
Second, I’ve got things to do. I’ve got my own course load, my own
classes. Plus I’m leaving next year for med school.
I need to think about that.
My future.
Something I’ve worked really hard for.
I’ve got no business wasting time on a girl with light brown hair and
big brown eyes who for some reason drives me goddamn crazy with her
nervous twitches and shy smiles.
Even so, I’m doubling back.
I’m walking toward her apartment building after just saying goodbye
to her.
What can I say? I’m a stalker, too.
But only because I followed her home a couple of times just after
she’d gotten back from Heartstone, hoping to make sure she was okay. And
as soon as I saw her get through that glass door with a bunch of buzzers on
the side, I left.
I’m not leaving tonight though.
I’m standing in front of her building, watching it like a creep. I’m
wondering if I should push one of those buzzers and talk to her, make sure
she’s okay after how I… how I forced my kiss on her.
She’s fragile, man. She’s so fucking fragile and you’re a douchebag.
I’m about to do just that when I notice a movement in one of the
windows on the second floor. My feet come to a stop when I realize it’s her.
Penelope.
Fuck, even her name is beautiful.
As beautiful as her.
And right now, in this moment, I think — I know — that I’ve never
seen anyone more beautiful than her.
 Because she’s laughing.
She’s thrown her head back, her light brown hair tied up in a messy
bun, and her tight little body is shaking with mirth. I fist my hands as I
remember how soft she was. Her skin, her hair.
Her lips.
I’ve never seen her like this. Laughing with abandon, so carelessly.
I’ve never seen her so relaxed, so fucking happy.
When she’s in class, she’s always nervous, jittery. Like she can’t wait
to get out of there.
And as I stand here, watching her through her window, I decide that
I’ll be damned if I cause her any more problems, any more grief.
Professional.
That’s what I’m going to be.
No useless dinner invitations; no touching her. Definitely no kissing
her.
I’m going to leave her alone and teach her fucking biochemistry so
she never has to be afraid again.

OceanofPDF.com
Chapter Five
“Can I talk to you a second?”
He looks up at my words, his piercing green eyes honing in on me.
I must look like a mess; my hair all strewn about my face, my cheeks
all red, my eyes red too from the lack of sleep.
Plus I think my lips are… swollen.
From the kiss last night.
I think his kiss — his all-consuming, breath-stealing kiss — has
changed my lips forever. I think I’ll forever feel them tingling. I’ll forever
be aware of how… needy they can be.
Just like I was last night.
So novel and so strange.
But most of all, so wonderful.
Although nothing about him staring at me right now is wonderful.
He’s giving me a flat look, an unemotional look, when last night his eyes
were all shiny and liquid.
Probably because I interrupted his tutoring session at the library. My
appointment with him is just after this but I couldn’t wait any longer.
“Not now,” he clips, going back to the textbooks open in front of him
at the table.
There’s a girl sitting right next to him who’s still staring at me though
and I shoot her an awkward smile before protesting, “It can’t wait.”
Atlas lifts his eyes again. “It’s going to have to. I’m busy.”
He goes back to his textbook again and while the girl is still watching
me, I snap, “Oh my God, why are you being such a jerk? Just talk to me.”
The girl smirks knowingly and this time when I give her a smile, it’s
less awkward because she gets it; he can be a jerk when he wants to be. He
doesn’t, of course because his features are as flat as ever. Finally he
straightens up, getting taller and broader in his seat, his jaw tightening up as
he stares at me.
“I’m okay. You guys can take your time and talk,” the girl says,
grabbing the textbook and sliding it over to herself.
Again, I throw her a genuine smile before raising my eyebrows at
him. “Well?”
At this, his chest moves on a sharp breath, and he stands up. “Come
with me.”
With that, he turns around and leaves the common area, heading
toward the back, probably to one of the private rooms where people go if
they want more quiet or to hold study groups.
Good.
What I need to talk to him about needs privacy, and I’m not leaving
until we’ve talked this through.
He picks an empty room at random, holds the door open for me and
motions me to go in before stepping inside himself. As soon as he closes the
door, I whirl around and blurt out, “Was it a date?”
“What?” he asks, standing by the door, his hands fisted.
“Last night,” I say, my heart pounding in my chest. “Was it a date?”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine as he takes his time.
“No.”
“What?” I draw back, confused. “I don’t —”
“Are we done? I need to get back.”
I take a step toward him. “Absolutely not. We’re not done.”
His jaw clenches. Then, sighing sharply, he folds his arms across his
chest and asks, “What else would you like to discuss?”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Uh, the fact that you’re lying.”
His eyes narrow. “Lying.”
 I raise my chin. “Yes.”
“How do you figure?”
Yes, Penny, how do you figure?
That’s a valid question.
I’m not known for my interpersonal skills or the ability to solve the
mysteries of human emotions or etiquette. But enough is enough.
I need to know.
What last night was.
The dinner. The kiss.
His ‘it wasn’t a kindness.’
I need him to tell me all that. Because I’ve gone over it a thousand
times since last night. I even roped in Renn at the risk of her going
completely crazy over these tidbits. We FaceTimed with Willow and Vi, and
they — we, actually — have a theory.
And I need him to confirm it.
For the first time in my life, I’m trying something different. I’m
trying something new and scary and that is to put myself out there. Which
makes me realize that studying and focusing on grades, even being super
hard on myself, is so much easier.
So. Much. Easier.
But then, Ruth always says that change is hard. That the things worth
doing are always difficult.
“Because I’m not an idiot,” I say to him in response to his question,
my palms sweating. “Because you took me out to dinner. You paid for it.
You walked me back home. And then you kissed me. That’s a textbook
date.”
His green eyes finally flash with something at the mention of our kiss,
and he clips, “Well, if you’re not an idiot and you already know the answer,
then why are you asking me?”
“Because I want you to admit it. Admit that it was a date.”
I know I’m pissing him off. It’s right there on his face. In his flashing
eyes, but tough luck. He can’t take me out to dinner, kiss me and not tell me
the truth.
“It wasn’t a date,” he says finally, his voice tight.
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” he says with gritted teeth. “Or did you forget what happened
before the so-called date?”
He emphasizes date as if it’s a bad word, a repulsive word and I’m
even more confused right now. “What?”
His chest moves sharply again and his voice gets even tighter. “It was
a deal. You go to dinner with me, and I agree to tutor you. Granted, not my
best moment. Not professional at all but the fact remains: I extorted dinner
out of you. It was extortion. Not a date. Learn to know the difference.” He
unfolds his arms then. “Now, are we done or not?”
“Why?” I ask when it looks like he’s ready to leave.
“Why what?”
“Why did you extort a date out of me?” I ask, almost losing all my
courage but holding on nonetheless; I’ll do this even if it kills me. Which it
very well may do.
Another sharp, impatient sigh. “Because I’m an asshole and I like to
make people uncomfortable.”
“Okay, I agree with that. You are an asshole,” I say and his eyes
narrow again. “But you’re also a liar. As I already told you.”
“I’m —”
“Why did you kiss me then?”
His jaw ticks. Then, “Refer to my earlier answer.”
 This time I narrow my eyes. “You kissed me to be an asshole.”
“Yes,” he says. “Besides, it wasn’t a kiss.”
I look at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry?”
“It wasn’t.”
I shake my head. “What do you think I am, stupid? You think I don’t
know things? You think I don’t know what a date is or what a kiss is?”
His jaw ticks some more. In fact, a vein shows up on his temple,
beating and pulsing as he says, “You don’t. If you think what I did to you
was a kiss.”
“What was it then?”
That vein leaps and jumps on his temple. “It was an attack.”
I blink. “What?”
This time I hear him sigh, long and loud. “Look, I shouldn’t have
done that. I shouldn’t have jerked you around. I shouldn’t have asked you
out to dinner. I definitely shouldn’t have kissed you. It was wrong. All of it.
Unprofessional. You’re a student in one of my classes. I’m going to tutor
you. This isn’t how I behave and I’m not going to behave this way again.
I…” Another sigh. “I apologize, all right? Now I want you to forget it and
move on. It’s not going to happen again. You have my word on that. We’ll
study. I’ll teach you everything you need to know to ace your tests and
that’s that. You’re safe with me, okay? I’ve got you.”
I’ve got you.
He says that a lot, doesn’t he?
And if he thinks I’m going to let him leave after that – which he looks
ready to do again – then he’s crazy.
I say, loudly and clearly, “I kissed you back.”
“What?”
I thought it would be hard to say it. To say something so intimate.
 But it’s not.
It’s strangely freeing.
Even though this isn’t how I envisioned our conversation going. I
didn’t imagine he would be so difficult, so resistant.
So prickly. Assholish.
But then, in his own words, he is an asshole. Everyone knows that
he’s an asshole.
I realize though that he’s a good kind of asshole.
The kind of asshole that’s one for the right reasons.
That I’m safe with.
Because he’s got me.
Warmth spreads through my chest like it did on that day when I was
in his arms, and I say, “Last night. When you kissed me.”
His nostrils flare.
“I kissed you back.”
His gaze goes down to my lips and somehow, I become even more
aware of them, as he says, “You had to.”
“I had to?” I ask, staring at his lips then.
“I gave you no choice,” he says, his voice low, rasping, his eyes still
on my lips. “When I came at you like that.”
I swallow, remembering the way he came at me. All suddenly and
gloriously.
“And I held on to you,” I whisper, still sort of in disbelief that I’m the
one saying these things and how fucking amazing it is to say them. “I
latched on to you, even. To your shoulders. I could’ve pushed you away.”
He swallows too, his eyes moving from my lips and traveling down.
Traveling to my chest, my belly. Traveling all the way to my toes.
“You couldn’t have,” he murmurs.
 “Why not?”
His eyes move up and up, past my heaving chest, my mouth, all the
way up to my eyes. “I’m stronger than you. More… threatening. More
determined.”
My fingers fist at my sides and I wonder why all this sounds so
delicious when I know I would’ve taken offense at this if it was someone
else.
But it’s him.
Atlas.
The guy who makes me feel safe with his strong arms and threatening
size.
“Determined?” I ask.
He licks his lips. “To kiss you.”
I lose my breath for a second. Then, “But I —”
“So you see?” he interrupts me, his eyes grave. “You had to kiss me
back. You couldn’t have pushed me away or stopped me in that moment. It
was wrong. It was fucking criminal. And it won’t happen again. I won’t let
it. So —”
“What would you do if I kissed you?” I ask, interrupting him for a
change.
And oh my God, this is the best thing that I’ve said.
Ever. To anyone.
First, it’s his face. All astonished. All gorgeous in his shock.
And then, there’s my heart. My mind even.
All woken up and happy and enthusiastic.
Confident.
So totally confident in the knowledge that if I kissed him, he wouldn’t
be able to stop me even with his threatening size. Taking a step toward him,
I ask him again, “So? What would you do if I attacked you? Right now.”
“Penelope,” he warns. “Fucking get back.”
Smiling and completely ignoring him, I move my eyes down his
body.
He’s wearing a light blue shirt, sleeves folded up to his elbows, the
fabric stretched across his broad chest. The light dusting of hair on his
forearms looks so delicious, so sexy and masculine. Plus his thighs in those
jeans look all taut and muscled.
“When do you even go to the gym?” I murmur, stepping forward and
looking back into his eyes, and I realize I missed this last night.
I missed his green eyes going dark.
“What?” he almost snaps, possibly trying to sound angry.
The effect is ruined by the roughness in his voice though.
“How come you’re so built?” I ask, taking another step toward him.
“All I’ve ever seen you do is be at the library, studying.”
“You’ve seen me.”
“Yes.” I nod, admitting to low-key watching him. “You always sit by
the computers. Right across from those big windows. And you have a very
thick leather-bound notebook. And I think you need glasses because you’re
always squinting at your books.”
“I don’t need glasses.” Then, “I’m glaring, not squinting.”
“Glaring?” I frown, another step toward him. “Why?”
There are only a handful of steps between us now and he snaps his
eyes down to look at the distance between us. “What the fuck are you
doing?” Looking up, he commands, “I told you. Get away from me.”
“No,” I say as I keep closing the distance between us. “But you can.”
“What?”
 I jerk my chin. “There’s a door behind you. It’s open. You can leave if
you want. But I’m not stopping or going away. In fact, I’m going to attack
you in exactly…” Two more steps closer until I reach him and crane up my
neck. “Two point five seconds.”
His frown is thick and dark. “This is unprofessional.”
I smile. “I know. And I’m going to admit it’s fun.” Then, “Now I
realize what my friends have been talking about all this time.”
“What friends?”
For a second, I think I shouldn’t tell him about Heartstone, my
friends. But then I realize it’s him. It’s Atlas.
I can tell him.
He’s not going to react badly. He already proved that last night.
“My friends from Heartstone,” I reply, and a look of concern passes
through his features. “I never thought I’d make friends there but I did. And
they’re awesome and they’ve been telling me how fun it is to break the
rules and to let loose. But I haven’t been listening. Not until last night.”
He’s watching me so intensely, so carefully. Like he doesn’t want to
miss anything that comes out of my mouth. Then, as if to himself, he
murmurs, “Is that why you were laughing like that?”
“Laughing?”
He shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh
like that. Not before last night. It was…” He shakes his head again and his
eyes shine like jewels. “It was beautiful.”
My heart skips a beat.
Beautiful.
I don’t consider myself that. My mousy brown hair, my
unimaginative brown eyes, my slender body with meager curves. Nothing
about me is remarkable and I’ve been okay with that. Because there are
other things to focus on, my grades, my career.
And they’re still there and I still don’t think I care about how people
see me.
But this is good.
The fact that he thinks that. That to him, I’m beautiful.
“When was I laughing?” I ask, needing to know.
For a second it looks like he won’t say, but he does. “Last night.
When you were home. I saw you laughing through the window. Your hair
was” — he glances at my loose hair — “up and you had on peach-colored
pajamas.”
“You saw me through the window?”
It must have been when Renn was trying to lighten up the situation. I
ended up telling her everything, even about that day last year, and of course,
I was upset. I told her that all of this was doomed because I couldn’t even
tell if a date was a date or not. So she went online, searched for funny
dating stories, and we ended up browsing through blogs for more than an
hour.
I mean, people have really weird dating problems.
In comparison, this is nothing.
My heart, my breaths, all too fast, are nothing.
Or maybe it’s everything.
Every fucking thing.
“I came back,” he says, staring into my eyes. “I wanted to make sure
that you were okay. After” — a jaw clench — “what I did. And I saw that
you were happy and laughing so I… I went away.”
“You shouldn’t have,” I whisper, taking yet another step closer to
him.
 Which brings me to his chest, my breasts brushing against it.
He inhales deeply, flicking his gaze to my chest. “You should step
back. This is inappropriate. I’m your tutor.”
“I can get another tutor.”
His frown is back. “You’re not getting another tutor.”
I frown too. “Why not? Up until two days ago, you wanted me to.”
“I’ve reconsidered.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I’m the best,” he tells me, almost glaring at me. “And
because if anyone’s going to teach you fucking biochemistry and wipe off
that anxious look that appears on your face as soon as you step into class,
it’s going to be me.”
I let myself breathe for a second. Just absorb his words into my brain.
My skin.
Because I think… I think I have my answer.
Because I think I’m going to say it.
“You care about me,” I tell him as if he doesn’t know.
And he says, lying again as if I’m going to believe him this time, “I
care about you as much as I care about the next person.”
I put my hands on his chest, a daring move but it doesn’t feel like it. It
feels right, especially when his chest flexes and I feel his heartbeats under
my palm. “You like me.”
“I don’t.”
“You have an elevated heart rate.”
“That’s because I’m taking offence,” he murmurs. “To the way you’re
touching me. Inappropriately.”
“This could all become completely appropriate. But you’re the one
who wants to be my tutor,” I tell him.
 “I’m also your TA.”
“Only for this semester.”
He sighs. “Penelope —”
I love it when he says my name, but now is not the time to let him
talk. So I say, “I get an elevated heart rate too, Atlas.” His heart pounds
even harder and I press my hand against his chest. “When I see you.”
“What?”
Smiling, I lean against his body. “I also get sweaty palms and my
belly flutters.”
“Your belly flutters.”
“Yes. I think it’s all the dopamine in my brain.”
He sweeps his eyes all over my face. “Or it could be bad tacos.”
I shake my head. “I don’t even like tacos. You should remember that
for our next date.”
“There’s not going to be a next date.”
“I think there will be. Because all that dopamine in my brain is
because of you. Because I like you too.”
His eyes flare. “You like me.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Ever since that day. Ever since I woke up in your
arms and saw your green, green eyes.” I frown, continuing, “But I didn’t
think… I didn’t think you’d want to have anything to do with me. I didn’t
think you’d… want me. Because of, you know, Heartstone and my illness
and all the stuff that’s wrong with me —”
He finally puts his hands on me. He grabs my waist and pulls my
torso to his, making me go flush with his body. With those green eyes
shooting fire, he says, declares actually, “That’s bullshit. That’s fucking
bullshit, Penelope. There’s nothing wrong with you. Not one thing. And I
don’t ever want to hear you say that, you got it? Never.”
 I fist his shirt, looking up at him, happiness bursting inside my chest.
“You’re glaring at me like you glare at your books. Or rather squint.”
His fingers dig into my waist. “I glare at my books because I can’t
focus. Because I’m focusing on something else.”
“On what?”
His chest moves against mine, scraping against my breasts. “On you.”
My eyes go wide and he says, “I always sit at one of those tables by the
computers, right across from the windows, because you sit by the windows.
I’m at the library so much because you’re at the library so much. I’ve spent
more time at the library since you started here than I’ve done all my life.”
“I didn’t —”
“That’s because you never pay attention to anything other than your
fucking books.”
“Says the nerd of this college,” I mutter, chuckling.
Amusement and something dangerous pass through his eyes. “I’m
still your tutor.”
“So?”
He squeezes my waist. “So watch what you say to me.”
I chuckle again. “Okay. I think it’s time for me to shut up then.”
Glancing down at my lips, he rasps, “I think so too.”
And I finally, finally attack him.
I reach up and put my mouth on his. And I know he’ll kiss me back.
I know he’ll move his lips against mine like he did last night. Even
though he’s bigger than me and he can very easily leave.
He’ll still kiss me back because he likes me.
He’s always liked me.
So all safe and bold in the knowledge, I thrust my tongue inside his
mouth and he groans. He tightens his arms around me and pushes his
tongue into my mouth.
Making this kiss the most wonderful thing I’ve ever experienced.
We have a lot to talk about, starting with him actually saying the
words that he likes me. To all the other details and concerns he had about
tutoring me and being my TA.
But I don’t care about those things right now.
I only care about this.
Him.
About the fact that the guy I’ve been crushing on for the past year,
has been crushing on me too. And I’m so glad that I took a chance.
I stepped out of my comfort zone and fell into his arms.

OceanofPDF.com
Chapter Six
“Atlas,” I gasp, trying to get his attention.
But of course, he doesn’t give it to me.
Or at least, not in the way that I want him to. Instead, at my gasp, his
fingers tighten around my thighs even more and his mouth latches onto me
harder.
Down there.
On my pussy.
I can’t believe I used that word. Even in my head. I can’t believe I use
that word regularly. I say it in my head; I say it out loud.
I say it to another person even.
To him.
Who shows no signs of slowing down and oh my fucking God, I’m
going to die. I’m going to come, and I tell him that, fisting his rich dark hair
and arching off the chair he has me pinned in. “I’m going to…”
Before I can say it though, my core clenches and then, the very thing I
was going to warn him about is upon me. And all the words and thoughts in
my head turn liquid and non-sensical.
Everything in the world turns non-sensical except him.
And his rough hands and his soft hair and his warm mouth.
That’s still moving on me, sucking on my clit, on my drenched pussy,
drinking all my juices down. And maybe that’s why I don’t notice when he
emerges from between my spread legs and stands up, his hands that were
gripping my thighs go up to my waist and he picks me up from my chair
and puts me on the table.
He picks me up like I weigh nothing. Like he loves picking me up in
his arms.
 And when I gather my senses enough to look at him, I whisper,
running my fingers over his sculpted shoulders and biceps. “I love it when
you do that.”
His eyes are a dark green and his mouth is all wet and beautiful as he
says, “What, when I eat your pussy and you flood my mouth? Or when I do
this…” At ‘this’, he enters me with his thick cock, all suddenly and
amazingly, and I arch up again, moaning as he continues in that raspy tone
of his, “Stick it in and make you drench my cock.”
I moan again, my fingers fisting his shirt.
I have to.
Just look at the way he talks to me.
Just look at the way he looks at me. Like I’m beautiful. Like I’m this
sexy little thing he can’t wait to eat up, lick and suck on.
Like I make him hungry.
So of course, he’s the only person I can say all the filthy, delicious
things to. And it’s been this way from the start.
From the day I kiss-attacked him at the library a couple of months
ago, and he didn’t stop me. I knew he wouldn’t but still.
The confirmation was amazing.
And the date after that. That was amazing as well.
A proper, nice date that I insisted he take me on right after that kiss. I
didn’t even care that we had a tutoring session scheduled just then. I wanted
to be with him. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to spend time with him
without textbooks and all.
That’s not to say that spending times with him while we’ve got
textbooks scattered around isn’t fun but still. In fact, somehow tutoring
sessions with him are even more fun. So much so that we had to move them
from the library to his apartment.
 Like this one.
Where he has such a grip on me, such a tight, strong, possessive grip.
His fingers pulling and tugging at my haphazard clothes and my disheveled
hair, as he starts moving inside me, and I answer his question from before,
“This. Both. Everything. But I…”
He hums, rubbing his nose up and down the column of my throat,
angling his hips in the way that makes him rub all the wonderful places
inside of me, reducing me to a puddle.
Only then, he growls, “But you what?”
I tighten my thighs around his waist and pull him closer. “But I
only…” I pause to moan because he bites the side of my neck. “I only g-got
a B.”
On the test I mean.
I had a biochem test last week and I got the grades today. A mere B.
Something that would’ve sent me panicking and hyperventilating.
But it doesn’t.
Not anymore.
I’m proud of my grade.
I’m proud that I studied; I gave it my best and improved from before.
And I think my tutor thinks that as well.
Because up until now, he was moving slowly, lazily, going all the way
in and all the way out, making me feel every inch of his dick and God, it’s a
big dick. I’m not going to lie, I kind of freaked out when I saw it the first
time.
Maybe it happens to all the twenty-year-old virgins out there but the
sight of his thick cock scared me a little and I thought that it was never ever
going to fit.
It did though.
 It does.
So amazingly.
Anyway, at my stumbling words, his pace increases. His jabs are
short and fast, and I don’t know which is better, his long and lazy strokes or
his short and intense thrusts that move and jerk my entire body. That make
me bounce and steal my breath.
“Plus,” he rasps, his fingers at my breast now.
“What?” I ask, thrusting my chest up to give him more access.
He appreciates that by squeezing and kneading my flesh and
whispering over my lips, “B plus. Not a B. And this is your fucking
reward.”
See?
He is proud and he is right.
This is my reward.
I’ve worked hard and I deserve this.
I deserve to have his mouth envelope mine and I deserve this shivery
sensation that rolls through my body, my pussy when he begins to kiss me
like that.
When he begins to eat my lips like he just ate my pussy.
When we come up for air, I whisper, panting, “I l-love this too.”
His eyes look both alert and drugged somehow as he says, “Good.
Because in two point five seconds, I’m going to spin you around and bend
you over the table.”
I bite my lip at his words, at the reminder of the words that I said to
him in the library that day. “Why?”
Instead of answering me, he does the thing that he just said he would.
Detaching himself from me, he picks me up, sets me down on the floor, and
spins me around, bending me over the table, over the open notebooks.
 I grip one of them, fisting and crumpling the paper and look back,
“Atlas, I –”
He cuts off my words by entering me again. Only this time he’s much
deeper and he feels much bigger. My spine arches in response and he comes
down at me, covering my back with his panting chest.
“Because I don’t think we should waste time,” he rasps, answering
my question from earlier, his jabs short and fast again. “I think we should
get back to it.”
“G-Get back to what?”
He grabs my hair in his fist, his dick still moving inside of me, as he
whispers, “Studying.”
“What?”
“Because I want you to get an A next time,” he growls, pulling at my
hair, stretching my neck. That stretch translates to a tight clench in my
pussy and he growls, his other hand squeezing my waist. I gasp out his
name, making him growl again, before he continues, “And you know why I
want you to get an A, Penelope?”
“Why?”
He waits for the course of three strokes. The three strokes that bring
me so, so close to the edge. That bring me right there where I want to fall,
where I want to fly and I can’t wait.
I can’t wait for him to push me off this cliff so I can spread my wings.
But he doesn’t.
He goes back to slow and lazy strokes as that hand on my waist
moves. It gropes and squeezes my thighs, my ass before it makes its way
down to the crease.
Between my ass.
 And it’s not as if all he does when he gets there, between my ass
cheeks, is go up and down the length, no. He hones in and circles my hole
with his thumb. Slowly and methodically.
Hypnotically even.
Because as much as his thumb down there scares me, I can’t help how
wet I get.
I can’t help panting and turning my head to the side to watch him
with wide eyes.
His lips stretch up on one side as he says, “Because I want this.” To
emphasize what he means, he puts pressure on it, my hole, with his thumb
as if wanting entry. I tense up and his lips stretch up even more. “I want in
here, Penelope.”
My channel spasms. “You want my a-ass?”
“Fuck yes,” he rasps, watching me back. “I want your ass. I want to
fuck it like I’m fucking your pussy. I want to fuck it and wreck it and make
you come while I’m fucking it. While I’m wrecking the fuck out of it.”
His words make me roll my head back and forth on his shoulder. “But
I think… I think it’ll hurt.”
He groans at my words and his smooth pacing falters. But he recovers
quickly and says, “Yeah, it will. It will hurt so good. It will hurt because I’m
too big and your asshole is too small. It’ll hurt my dick and it’ll hurt your
ass. But not more than you can handle. Not more than we can handle.”
I moan, my pussy gushing at his graphic words. “I’m scared.”
He kisses my hair. “I know, baby.” His thumb on my ass, pushing
harder. “But I’ve got you.”
I don’t even have to think about it after that.
After the words he’s just spoken.
I know he’s got me.
 I know he’ll take care of me. He took care of me when we had sex the
first time, not very long ago, and he’s taken care of me every time since.
And I know he will take care with this as well. So it’s an easy answer for
me when he asks, “Will you, Penelope? Will you be a good girl and focus
and study hard?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah? Will you get an A so I can fuck your ass?”
“God, yes.”
I’ll do anything. Anything at all right now. Whatever he wants me to.
And so when he tells me to focus on the notebook beside me, I do it. When
he tells me to read the paragraph out loud, I do that too. I read the
equations, the solutions, the diagrams, everything.
And when he tells me to come, I do that too.
It’s that easy with him.
So easy.
I never thought things would be easy for a girl like me. Even before I
was diagnosed, I knew I was different. I was an outsider.
I mean I still am. To my other classmates, to my parents who are so
not happy about me dating a guy. They think it’s going to take my focus
away from my studies when I’m barely holding it together.
But I don’t care.
Atlas makes me feel cherished.
Treasured.
With him, I belong.
Especially when he showers kisses in my hair, the side of my face.
When he turns me around and puts me back on the table. And this time
when I run my fingers over his biceps, I whisper, “I love how strong you
are. That’s what I meant.”
 Settling between my thighs, he sinks his fingers in my hair and looks
down at me. “What?”
I keep caressing his arms; turns out he did build them and sculpt them
at the gym. When he’s not spending his time with me or studying, he’s at
the gym. He says it helps him focus.
“Before,” I explain. “When you picked me up and put me on the
table.”
He hums, his lips skimming over mine.
“I love when you pick me up,” I say. “I loved it that first day.”
“And you didn’t even know my name,” he growls, his fingers
growing tighter in my hair.
I bite my lip.
He still gets irritated over that. That I didn’t remember his name. That
later when I asked him to tutor me, I never called him by his name.
“I knew,” I tell him like I always tell him. “I knew your name that day
too. In the classroom. I was just…”
“Just what?”
“Too shy to say it,” I whisper, blushing.
Which is ridiculous considering what we just did. What I just agreed
to.
He fists my hair and pulls my head back. My channel spasms with the
aftershocks of my orgasm. “Say it then.”
“Atlas,” I whisper and then because I’m idiot – maybe – I add, “I love
you.”
He stiffens.
Oh fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
What did I do?
 What the fuck did I do?
You stupid, stupid girl.
We’ve only been going out a couple of months. In fact, even less than
that. After the kiss at the library, Atlas was still hesitant for the next couple
of weeks. He still thought that it was unprofessional, but I was adamant.
Something I never thought I’d be.
But I was taking a chance. I was doing something for myself for the
first time ever. So I kept at it until he gave in; I knew he wanted to. And so
we officially started going out.
I’ve ruined it now, haven’t I?
By using the L word.
“I didn’t mean it,” I blurt out when all he does is stare at me with his
gorgeous green eyes.
At my words though, those eyes narrow. “What?”
“I-I mean, it’s…” I swallow, fisting his shirt sleeves. “I shouldn’t
have said that. I’m not… It’s too soon, I know. We’ve only been going out a
few weeks. And yeah, sex is good. God, sex is freaking phenomenal. I
didn’t even know sex could be this good but I…” I swallow again. “I get
that it’s too soon. Plus we don’t even know what the future holds. Well, I
mean we know for you. Like, you’ll end up at Harvard and be this amazing
doctor. And I still have like, two more years to go and… I understand. I
swear I’m not being a clueless recent non-virgin right now.”
“A clueless recent non-virgin.”
I blush harder. “You know, girl loses her virginity and gets all
emotional about it, thinks she’s in love and all that. I’m not being that right
now.” Even though my cheeks are flushed, I raise my chin to hopefully
imply that I’m determined. “I’m not that. I can handle myself.”
All the sex haze is gone from his face now.
 Great job, Penny.
His features have hardened, his jaw going tight as he repeats, “You
can handle yourself.”
“Yes,” I say, making a promise to myself that I will. “I can.”
I’m not going to ruin it by being sappy. Even though every time we
have sex, all I want to do is declare my love for him.
It’s immature, isn’t it? Girly.
I admit that I have zero experience when it comes to dating and sex
but even I know – I can feel it – that our sex is intense. Too intense
sometimes.
This craving that we have for each other is crazy.
It’s pure chemistry.
That doesn’t mean that we should start shouting out our love for each
other. Love takes time to build, doesn’t it?
He stares at me for a few seconds. Then, “You can.”
“Yeah. Totally. I can handle myself.”
Only I have zero confidence in my abilities to control myself.
Because the thing is that I am sappy. And I am girly, and I am in love
with him.
But I do everything to keep my mouth shut and my expression neutral
as he keeps staring at me with harsh eyes and his jaw keeps ticking with
anger. Then, he scoffs, “Well, good. I’m fucking glad.”
Before I can react to that, he moves away.
He even turns away from me, walking across the room, righting his
clothes, raking his fingers through his hair. My heart thumps in my chest,
twists itself and pounds, and I jump down from the table and push my dress
down. I’ve started wearing dresses to our tutoring sessions; easy access.
 “Atlas.” I approach him where he’s standing at the window. “What’s
wrong?”
When I touch his back, his muscles flex and he turns around.
“Nothing. Let’s get back to it.”
I press my hand on his chest. “No, tell me. What’s wrong? What did
I… What did I say?”
He looks down at me, his eyes shimmering. “Nothing, apparently.”
“But I thought... I swear I didn’t mean it. Please –”
“Yeah, I fucking got that.”
I fist his shirt. “Then, what’s –”
“Look, I don’t have time for this, all right?” He rakes his fingers
through his hair again. “I’ve got a test of my own. So let’s fucking finish
your shit so I can get back to mine.”
God, he can be such a jerk sometimes. Even now.
But I was never afraid of his rudeness. Not then and definitely not
now. Clenching my teeth, I say, “No. Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
His chest moves under my fist. “Penelope, let me –"
“No, you don’t get to be an asshole right now.” I speak over him,
going toe to toe. “You don’t get to shut me out. Especially when I’ve been
so considerate and mature about this whole thing.”
His brows draw together. “Considerate.”
Yes.
I lied about my feelings in order to spare his. Although I’m not going
to tell him that. “I slipped up, okay? I’m not well versed in dating
etiquettes. I made a mistake and I owned it. And I apologized. The least you
could do is tell me what your problem is.”
“My problem,” he almost thunders, “is that you can handle yourself.”
“What?”
 “You can, can’t you?” He bends down over me now, hovering.
“Because apparently it’s too soon. Because apparently, we’ve only been
going out for a few weeks. Because apparently, Penelope, you haven’t been
paying fucking attention, have you?”
My chest is crashing against his as I breathe and pant. “Attention to
what?”
He chuckles harshly. “To anything at all.”
I look into eyes, green and stormy.
And that’s when I realize.
I realize what he’s saying and oh God, now I’m an idiot. Not before.
“It’s not too soon, is it?”
His nostrils flare. “No, it’s not.”
I lick my lips. “You’ve been watching me for two years now.”
His chest expands on a long breath. “I have.”
“You’ve wanted me for just as long too.”
“Yeah.”
“And you told me that.”
Another long breath. “Yes.”
He did.
Numerous times.
Well, not in so many words but I could gather.
A few days after we officially started going out, I asked him how he
knew where I lived. And he confessed that he’d followed me home a couple
of times just after I’d gotten back from Heartstone. He also told me – after a
lot and a lot of prodding – that he noticed me the first day of our class last
year. Not to mention, he would watch me at the library.
Oh and his irritation over the fact that I didn’t remember his name
even though I did.
 He told me all of it. He has shown me all of it too.
Maybe that’s why everything has been so easy with him. Maybe that’s
why I felt so safe that day in his arms.
Maybe that’s why I fell in love with him just like that.
Yet, in my nervousness, I somehow forgot.
I forgot that even though I’ve wanted him for a long time, he’s
wanted me for even longer than that. And so, this time I say it with all the
confidence. “I love you.”
Emotions ripple over his features but he remains silent.
I step even closer to him. “I know it’s too soon. We’ve only been
going out for a few weeks. But I don’t care. I don’t care if I’m being girly
or sappy.”
“Or a clueless recent non-virgin.”
“Yes. I don’t care about any of that. The truth is that I think I like it.”
“Being clueless, you mean.”
I smile. “No. Being a non-virgin. Swimming in all the hormones and
chemistry.” Reaching up, I kiss his jaw. “And love.”
He shudders and fists my hair. “Love.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You better mean it this time.”
“I do.” I wind my arms around his neck. “I guess, I still get scared by
my own emotions. And it might take me a long, long time to get over that.
But I know that I don’t have to be afraid with you.”
His fingers flex in my hair. “You don’t.”
“You’ll take care of me.”
“Fuck yes, I will.”
“Even if you’re all the way over at Harvard?” I ask, not being able to
help myself.
 Clearly, I’ve thought about this a lot, him going away and me being
left behind.
His other arm slides around my waist and he flattens me against him.
“Yes. From all the way over at Harvard.” He squeezes me. “I’ve waited a
long time, you understand? A long fucking time, Penelope. I never thought
that I’d be here. That you’d be here. With me. I never thought that I’d get to
touch you, kiss you. Be with you. Take care of you.”
“That’s because you’re a little too noble.”
He is.
I mean, who care if he’s my TA? I definitely don’t
He chuckles softly. “Yeah but I’m also an asshole when I want to be.”
I chuckle too. “Good. I’m glad you are.”
“So I’m not letting you go,” he says, his voice low, his eyes intense.
“I’m not letting you pull away from me or run away or imagine fucked up
scenarios about the future or about how it’s too soon. Nothing is too fucking
soon, yeah? Not with me and you.”
My eyes sting. “Okay.”
“You’re mine. And I’m yours. And it’s about time you realized that
it’s going to stay that way.”
“Okay.”
Another squeeze of his arm but only harder than before. “So you
better fucking mean it when you say you love me.”
“I love you,” I say at the heel of his words, without a thought, without
a hesitation or fear.
He can read it all on my face because his body relaxes and his parts
on a breath. “Good. Because I fucking love you too.”
And then we attack each other at the same time and seal our love with
a kiss.
 I’m not sure what’s going to happen in the future. When he leaves for
med school and when we’ll be miles and miles apart. But I know one thing
that he’ll keep me safe.
That I’ll be able to feel his arms around me like I do right now.
Because he’s mine and I’m his.
My chemical reaction guy.
Atlas.

THE END

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Catch up with the Heartstone gang:

Medicine Man
(Heartstone Series Book 1)
Simon and Willow’s story

Dreams of 18
(Heartstone Series Book 2)
Graham and Violet’s story

California Dreamin’
(Heartstone Series Book 3)
Fallon and Dean’s story

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 About the Author
Writer of bad romances. Aspiring Lana Del Rey of the Book World.

Saffron A. Kent is a USA Today bestselling author of Contemporary and New

Adult romance. More often than not, her love stories are edgy, forbidden and
passionate. Her work has been featured in Buzzfeed, Huffington Post, New York
Daily News and USA Today’s Happy Ever After.

She has an MFA in creative writing and she lives in New York City with her
nerdy and supportive husband. Along with a million and one books.

www.thesaffronkent.com

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