Atlas had no idea why the hell he let Devon drag him to that party last night. Well, actually, he did. Devon had been annoyingly persistent, and Atlas had been having the worst goddamn day. One of those days—the kind where the universe personally curb-stomps you and then flips you off for good measure. So, after enough whining and bribery, he caved. And thank fuck he did.

Because last night was a life-changing experience. There was alcohol, deafening music, those dim, flickering party lights that made everything feel like a fever dream, and that weird-ass mix of incense and weed in the air that made it hard to tell if you were vibing or getting mildly high by accident. But none of that was the point. The real point? Him.

That sexy, unfairly attractive, ridiculously his type bastard. The one who also happened to be Devon's baby brother. And off-limits. Because Devon was a psycho when it came to protecting his brother. Like, bro, relax—your brother is old enough to be making his own decisions. But none of that mattered when they found themselves alone in that quiet bedroom upstairs.

That was when the world narrowed down to the sound of their heavy breathing and the taste of each other's lips. The way his hands felt against Atlas's chest, the way he sighed when Atlas pressed him against the wall, the way they both fell onto the bed in a tangled mess of limbs and desire. The morning after brought the horrifying realization that they had crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.

Now Atlas sat on Devon's couch, silent. Sweating. Eyes shifting between Devon, who was casually sipping his apple juice, and him, who was in the kitchen just a few steps away. They were all waiting for the delivery guy. The calm before the storm. Atlas could've played it cool. He should've played it cool.

But no. His dumbass mouth had to move.

"Your brother has a massive ass."

It just came out. Tone deadpan. Hands making a very descriptive gesture. No way to take it back.

Devon immediately spit out his juice. Like, full-on, movie-scene levels of choking. Juice went flying. Some of it came out his nose. The poor bastard was wheezing, hacking, making noises that sounded concerningly like a dying car engine.

"W-WHAT?!" he managed between coughs, eyes wide with sheer horror, rage, and the desperate hope that he had misheard every goddamn word.

Atlas was already planning his funeral.