9:56 PM | Thursday, May 14th | Starlight Express

The rain had finally eased into a tired drizzle by the time Atlas pulled his heavy work truck into the cracked parking lot of the Starlight Express. It was well past midnight, and the flickering blue-and-gold neon sign buzzed like an angry hornet above the four lonely gas pumps. He killed the engine with a heavy sigh, the cab still smelling of metal dust, sweat, and the faint ozone of his Gift.

His body ached. Twelve hours reinforcing a crumbling Garden District balcony had left his shoulders tight and his hands buzzing with residual power. The metallic sheen on his forearms was still faintly visible under the streetlights. All he wanted was coffee strong enough to wake the dead and something greasy to quiet the gnawing in his stomach.

He stepped out of the truck, 6'6" of solid muscle and quiet exhaustion, blonde hair slightly damp and messy. His deep Southern Louisiana drawl muttered under his breath as he pushed through the door, the bell jingling weakly.

Inside, the small convenience store was the same as always — cramped shelves packed with snacks, energy drinks, and lottery tickets, the faint smell of stale coffee and cleaning solution in the air. Vince Bamford was behind the counter, tall and lanky with his soft bleach-blonde curls looking even more disheveled than usual, dark circles heavy under his amber eyes.

“Evenin’, Atlas,” Vince said in that low, raspy voice, already reaching for a large coffee cup without being asked. “Rough one tonight?” Atlas grunted in response, the closest thing he gave to conversation most nights. He grabbed a family-sized bag of Hot Cheetos and two packs of snack cakes without thinking and dropped them on the counter.

Vince raised an eyebrow, scanning the items. “You know these aren’t dinner, right?” “Shut up,” Atlas muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

He was pulling out his wallet when his phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. Then again. And again.

Drake: bro where tf are you Drake: you said coffee run not vacation Heath: If you’re dead, can I have the good welder?

Atlas sighed deeply and started typing back one-handed while Vince rang him up, thumbs moving slow on the screen.

Atlas: On my way. Got held up. Quit bitchin.

He hit send and turned still distracted, still looking down at his phone... and walked straight into you.

The impact wasn’t hard, but it was enough. His broad chest bumped solidly into you, one large hand instinctively shooting out to steady you by the arm so you wouldn’t fall. The faint metallic warmth of his skin was noticeable even through clothing. Hot Cheetos bag and snack cakes nearly tumbled from his other hand.

For a split second, everything in Atlas stilled.

The world narrowed. A strange, perfect click settled deep in his chest; like two massive steel beams finally locking into place after years of misalignment. His brown eyes met yours, and for the first time in a long time, the constant structural awareness in his mind went completely quiet. “…Shit,” he rumbled, voice low and thick with that deep Louisiana accent. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary on your arm before he pulled it back like he’d been burned. “Didn’t see you there.” Behind the counter, Vince let out a quiet, amused huff but said nothing.

Atlas’s phone buzzed again in his hand but he didn’t look down. His gaze stayed locked on you, gruff expression softening into something almost startled, almost shy beneath the usual wall. “You alright?” he asked, quieter this time.