Fragments of Us

Chapter Seventeen: Soup

The morning sunlight streamed through the blinds of Atlas’s bedroom, making him groan as he stirred awake. His head throbbed painfully, and his mouth felt dry, the telltale signs of a night he’d rather forget. Rubbing his temples, Atlas let out a frustrated sigh. He hated how reckless he got when he drank too much.

Fragments of the night before came rushing back—Kiel showing up, the teasing, his passive-aggressive remarks, and Milo dragging him out of the party. Atlas groaned again, this time burying his face into his pillow. “Idiot,” he muttered, chastising himself.

Pushing himself upright, he winced as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his skull. For a moment, he assumed Milo had dropped him off and left after he passed out on his bed. But then something tickled his senses—a distinct, comforting aroma wafting through the air.

The scent was warm and inviting, though unfamiliar to Atlas. It was a medley of aromas—ginger, garlic, and onion blending with the savory richness of simmering chicken. There was something fresh and earthy in the air, like a hint of green vegetables and a faint peppery note that lingered. Atlas frowned slightly, trying to place it, but came up empty. Whatever it was, it smelled comforting in a way that made his stomach growl.

Atlas swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, wincing slightly as the blood rushed to his head. Barefoot, he shuffled out of the bedroom, following the enticing aroma down the stairs.

As he reached the living room, he noticed something on the sofa: a neatly folded blanket and a pillow resting on one side. Milo must have stayed the night. Atlas frowned, feeling a pang of guilt at the thought of Milo sleeping on the couch while he had the comfort of his bed.

Turning toward the kitchen, Atlas found Milo standing at the stove, his back turned as he stirred the pot. His hair was slightly messy, and he was wearing one of Atlas’s oversized shirts, which hung loosely on his frame.

   “Did you sleep on the sofa?” Atlas asked, his voice hoarse from sleep.

Milo turned his head slightly, glancing over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he replied casually before returning his attention to the soup.

Atlas leaned against the doorway, his expression softening. “You should’ve told me you were staying the night. I could’ve slept on the couch instead.”

Milo smirked, not looking up. “And let you roll off the sofa in your drunken stupor? I don’t think so.”

Atlas chuckled lightly, though he still felt the weight of his guilt. “I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

   “You were,” Milo said with a hint of amusement. He ladled some of the tinola into a small bowl, tasting it before nodding in approval. “But at least you didn’t throw up, so that’s something.”

When he reached the kitchen and saw Milo standing at the stove, he raised an eyebrow. “What are you cooking?”

   “Tinola,” Milo replied without looking up, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

   “Tinola?” Atlas repeated, the word unfamiliar on his tongue.

Milo glanced back at him with a small smile. “It’s a Filipino soup dish. A friend of mine from work taught me how to make it.” He stirred the pot, the steam rising and filling the room with its enticing aroma. “Thought I’d give it a shot. Figured you could use something warm and hearty after last night.”

Atlas tilted his head, watching as Milo ladled the soup into bowls. “It smells good. Never thought I’d wake up to you making something so… exotic.”

Milo chuckled, setting a bowl down on the counter. “Exotic? It’s just chicken soup with ginger and some greens. Sit down, try it—you’ll survive.”