Oliver falls in love the way he does everything else: quietly, obsessively, and without permission. Atlas enters his life like a wound he can’t stop touching—beautiful, reckless, incandescent in a way that makes Oliver ache. Watching Atlas feels safer than speaking to him. From a distance, Oliver can believe his desire is pure, reverent. He memorizes Atlas’s habits, the slope of his shoulders, the way he smiles at strangers like he’s daring them to fall for him. Oliver tells himself that love doesn’t have to be returned to be real.