Atlas closed the door with a quiet click, the sound echoing just faintly in the stillness. The room felt like a bubble—sealed off from the rest of the world. No shouting from the party, no hallway chatter, no expectations pressing in on either of them. Just this space. Just them.
When Baxter said, “I’m always ready to be myself…” Atlas paused, hand still resting against the door. That hit harder than he expected—because he wasn’t used to saying that. Not here. Not anywhere. Not until tonight.
He turned slowly, his expression softer than it had been all night. Not guarded. Not flirty. Just quiet and present.
“Then you’re already doing better than most,” he murmured, walking toward Baxter without rushing. “Took me years to figure out who the hell that even is.”
As he reached him, Atlas didn’t pull him in like he had before. This time, he just brushed his fingers against Baxter’s hand and then let them trail up his arm, slow and unhurried, until his hand rested lightly on the side of his neck—thumb brushing beneath his jaw, grounding them both.
“You’re in my space now,” he said, but there was no warning in it. Just something soft and almost reverent. “The studio’s the only place I ever let myself exist without a filter.”
He searched Baxter’s eyes for a moment, like he was looking for any trace of judgment—but finding none. That was new. That was everything.
Then he leaned in—not with fire this time, but with something deeper, something that asked: Are you really still here with me?
And when their lips met again, it was gentle. Slow. Like it wasn’t about heat anymore, but trust.
When he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“So… where do you wanna start, gymnast? Talking? Sketching? Laying on the couch tangled up in silence?”
Because for once, Atlas wasn’t offering options as a way out.
He was offering them as a way in.
@ChayChay05
