Chapter 31: Dinner and Vulnerability
The heavy dorm door clicked shut, muffling the distant murmur of the Academy hallway. Atlas’s room embraced them with quiet warmth, the setting sun painting stripes of molten gold across the polished wooden floor and illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The vast space, dominated by the king-sized bed draped in cream linens and softened by the thick rug, felt like a world away from the cafeteria’s clamor. Addie stood just inside, swaying slightly, her uninjured arm wrapped around her cast. The pain medication, exhaustion, and the overwhelming relief of being here, away from prying eyes, were pulling her under a heavy, fuzzy blanket. Words felt slippery; thoughts dissolved before they fully formed.
"Easy now," Atlas murmured, setting their plastic dinner containers down on the low table beside the armchair. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. He guided her gently to the edge of the plush rug. "Sit right here, little dove. Let’s get some food into you." He lowered himself beside her, the space between them charged with his focused care and her hazy vulnerability.
He popped the container lids. Steam, carrying the scent of bland chicken and starch, curled upwards. Addie stared at the food, her eyelids fluttering. The simple act of picking up a fork seemed monumental, a mountain she couldn’t climb in this state. Her good hand lay limply in her lap.
"Open up," Atlas said softly, his deep voice a comforting rumble. He scooped a small bite of mashed potatoes onto a fork, lifting it towards her lips. His hazel eyes held hers, steady and reassuring. "Just a little."
She obeyed, parting her lips. The warm, smooth potatoes were comforting on her tongue. She chewed slowly, the motion feeling thick and clumsy. He waited patiently, then offered another bite, this time a small piece of chicken. He alternated, potatoes, chicken, a single pea he rescued from the small pile, each bite offered with the same quiet patience. The rhythmic motion, the focused attention, the deep murmur of his voice saying "That’s it, good girl," or "Just one more bite," was an anchor in her swirling haze. The edges of her world softened further, the sharp lines blurring into something softer, safer. Littlespace beckoned, a warm, sleepy comfort just beyond the fog of the painkiller, but she hovered on the precipice, too tired to fully surrender, too medicated to resist its pull.
When she turned her head away after a few more bites, a tiny shake signaling she was done, he didn’t press. He capped the containers, setting them aside. "Alright. Now, you can't sleep in those clothes, sweetheart," he said, his tone matter-of-fact but impossibly gentle. "Let’s get you into something soft."
The fuzziness intensified. Changing clothes. That meant… movement. Baring skin. A flicker of awareness, like a distant candle flame, sputtered in her dazed mind. Atlas saw it, the slight tension in her good shoulder. He moved slowly, telegraphing his actions. First came the light sweater she wore over a simple camisole. He grasped the hem.
"Lift your good arm for me, little dove. Just a little," he instructed softly.
She complied, her movements dreamlike. He pulled the sweater up and over her head, his knuckles brushing her chin, his eyes carefully averted from the strip of pale stomach and the thin straps of her camisole that were revealed. The camisole itself was next. This was the line. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, undress her further. Not like this, with her mind swimming in exhaustion and medication. Seeing her in her underwear felt like a violation of her unspoken boundaries, something she’d likely shy violently away from if fully lucid, even though practicality demanded it – she couldn’t sleep sweaty and constrained. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering near his temple. Compromise. Necessary compromise.
His hands, large and warm, trembled almost imperceptibly as he gathered the soft fabric of the camisole. "Arms up again, sweetheart."
She lifted them like lead weights. He drew the camisole up and off, leaving her sitting before him in just her simple cotton bra and panties. The sight punched the air from his lungs. Her skin was porcelain-pale in the fading light, her collarbones delicate, her frame heartbreakingly slender. The cast on her arm looked even more stark against her bare skin. He forced his gaze away, focusing intently on retrieving one of his own soft, worn cotton t-shirts from a drawer. It was dark grey and would swallow her whole.
"Here we go," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. He unfolded the shirt, holding it open. "Head through, then your good arm."
He guided the voluminous fabric over her head, his fingers brushing her hair, careful to avoid the cast. He tugged it down gently over her torso, the hem falling almost to her knees. She was instantly enveloped in softness and his scent – clean cotton, cedar, and something uniquely, comfortingly him. He then helped her wriggle out of her jeans, before easing loose sweatpants – also his, the waistband rolled several times – up her legs. Dressed now in his oversized clothes, she looked impossibly small and young, swimming in the fabric, her tired eyes blinking up at him.
"Better?" he asked, his hand lingering for a second on her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her skin through the soft cotton.
She nodded slowly, a wave of exhaustion crashing over her. "Mmm. Soft," she murmured, her voice thick and drowsy.
"Good." He rose smoothly, scooping her up before she could protest. She was light in his arms, her head lolling against his chest. He carried her the few steps to the bed and carefully laid her down on the cool, smooth sheets, propping pillows to support her cast. He pulled the cream duvet up over her, tucking it around her waist. "Sleep now."
But as he turned towards the armchair, intending to give her space, a small sound stopped him. A whimper. He turned back. Her pale blue eyes were wide open, shimmering with unshed tears, fixed on him with a silent plea that shattered his resolve completely. She hadn’t called him Daddy. She wouldn’t. That line, for her, was still fraught with her mother’s disapproval and her own internal conflict. But the need radiating from her was just as potent.
"Atlas?" Her voice was a thread of sound. "Don’t… go?"
He was moving before the plea had fully left her lips. Kicking off his shoes, he slid onto the bed beside her, on top of the duvet. He stretched out, turning on his side to face her. "Shhh, I’m right here, little dove. Not going anywhere." He settled one large, warm hand gently on her side, over the mound of blankets covering her ribs, a solid weight. "Close your eyes."
She shifted, a tiny, restless movement, then pressed herself towards him, burrowing her face against his chest, her forehead finding the hollow above his collarbone. Her uninjured hand fisted loosely in the fabric of his t-shirt. She let out a shuddering sigh, the tension seeming to melt from her body all at once, sinking into the mattress and into him. The scent of him, the solid warmth of his body, the rhythmic thud of his heart beneath her ear – these were the anchors she needed. The fuzzy edges of littlespace gently lapped at her consciousness, not pulling her fully under, but cradling her in a safe, drowsy contentment she hadn’t known she craved.
He held perfectly still, acutely aware of every point of contact: her breath warm against his skin, the slight weight of her head, the desperate clutch of her fingers. His own heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic counterpoint to her slowing breaths. He kept his hand firmly on her side, respectful, grounding. To move it lower, to pull her closer against the full length of his body, was an agonizing temptation he refused to yield to. Not now. Not like this. She needed safety, not his barely leashed desire. He focused on the steady rise and fall of her breathing, on the way her blonde hair fanned across his arm. He didn’t kiss her hair, though he ached to. He simply held her, a silent promise in the gathering darkness, as her breathing finally deepened and evened out, carrying her into exhausted sleep.