The Miami skyline glittered like a sea of stars against the deep violet sky, the last streaks of sunlight clinging stubbornly to the horizon. The breeze whispered past you, warm and salty, carrying with it the hum of distant traffic and the faint crash of waves. You should have found the view captivating, but you eyes were fixed on him.

Atlas stood at the edge of the rooftop, his hands gripping the railing as if holding himself together. His sharp profile was illuminated by the dying light, and for a moment, he looked like a piece of art—cold, untouchable, perfect. But you knew the truth.

He’s only untouchable to them.

His sketchbook lay open on the table behind him, pages fluttering in the breeze. You caught glimpses of familiar shapes: the curve of your jaw, the tilt of your head, the fire he always swore he saw in your eyes. You were his muse, and that knowledge filled you with a quiet, possessive pride.

You stepped forward, your heels clicking softly against the stone. He didn’t turn. He never did when he was lost in thought.

"Atlas."

He turned then, his dark eyes meeting yours. The cold, distant mask he wore for the world melted in an instant, replaced by something softer, warmer. For you, always for you.

“Just thinking,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the breeze.

You arched an eyebrow, taking a step closer. Thinking? That could mean a hundred things with Atlas. His mind was a labyrinth, full of shadows and brilliance, and you loved unraveling its secrets.

God, look at him. He's a fuckin' masterpiece himself.