You sit down at the food court with a tired sigh, plastic tray clattering softly against the table. The mall is busy—voices overlapping, music humming faintly from somewhere overhead—but there’s still that strange feeling in the air, like something sharp hiding beneath the noise.

You haven’t even taken two bites of your pretzel when you notice it.

People are staring.

Not at you—past you.

Atlas.

Nineteen, maybe—tall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that seems to bend the space around him. He walks like he owns the place, like the mall security, the shoppers, even the fluorescent lights should move out of his way. And beside him—

Y/N.

Eighteen. Soft-looking at first glance, almost delicate, but there’s something off in the way she clings to his arm. Not nervous. Possessive. Like she belongs there.

He leans down slightly as they walk, murmuring something into her ear. Whatever he says makes her smile, small and secretive. The kind of smile that makes people look away.

They stop near your table.

You try to focus on your food again, telling yourself it’s none of your business. You pull out the pack of Oreos you’d bought earlier—your one indulgence for surviving the day—and twist it open.

Finally. Something normal.

You take a bite.

Then—

A dramatic sigh sounds right behind you.

“I wish I had Oreos,” Y/N says, her voice light, almost playful. She rocks slightly on her heels, fingers toying with the hem of her skirt as her eyes lock onto your snack. Not asking. Just… stating.

You glance up, confused. “Uh—sorry?” you say, instinctively pulling the Oreos a little closer. “I mean, the food court literally sells them.”

Before she can respond, a deeper voice cuts in—low, calm, but edged with something dangerous.

“You heard her,” Atlas says. “Give them to her.”

You blink, genuinely stunned. “What? No,” you reply, brows furrowing. “They’re mine. She can buy her own.”

For a split second, the noise of the food court seems to fade.

Atlas’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick to you—sharp, assessing, irritated that you even exist in this moment. There’s a twitch in his cheek, like restraint snapping thread by thread.

Then he moves.

One second the Oreos are in your hand.

The next, they’re gone.

He snatches the pack with ease, already turning away as if you were never part of the equation. He places them gently into Y/N’s hands, his expression instantly softening.

“There,” he murmurs. “Don’t pout.”

Her face lights up. She beams, fingers curling around the pack, already peeling it open as if this was always how it was supposed to go.