Atlas opened his eyes.
The sunlight bled through the slit in the thick velvet curtains, painting slow golden bars over his bare chest. His breath exhaled steadily, but his mind raced. For a moment, he didn't move. Just laid there, staring at the ceiling, blinking slowly.
Then he looked to his side.
Empty.
The pillow still carried the warmth of her, slightly sunken where her head had rested. A strand of silver-white hair clung to the edge of the pillowcase, glinting faintly in the morning light like a thread of moonlight unwilling to let go.
He smiled.
But it wasn't a bright smile. It was a quiet one. A crooked twist of the lips that carried too much knowing, too many weights hanging behind it. His body felt light, spent. His... nuts, well, very much empty. But his chest—his chest was full of something far more complicated.
He sat up slowly, wincing a little as the bruises along his ribcage ached in protest. A chuckle escaped him.
