MONDAY MORNING
Noah woke to cold sheets.
Again.
He reached across the bed before opening his eyes. Empty. The space beside him already cool—Atlas had been gone for hours.
The room felt too big. Too quiet. Wrong somehow.
He grabbed his phone. 6:47 AM.
No messages.
Noah sat up. Stared at the empty pillow beside him. The indentation where Atlas's head had been was barely there. Like he'd never existed at all.
He's in LA. It's fine. Everything's fine.
His chest disagreed—tight, like someone was sitting on it.
He got up. Showered. The water scalding. Dressed in the dark blue shirt Atlas had picked out. The fabric felt expensive. Like wearing someone else's skin.
By seven-thirty, he was out the door.
---
OFFICE
The building was nearly empty. Only a handful of early risers scattered across floors. Noah's footsteps echoed too loud in the hallway.
He dropped his bag at his desk. Logged in. Opened his email—forty-three unread since Friday.
He worked through them mechanically. Automated reports. Meeting requests. Delete, respond, forward. The rhythm of it calming.
His phone buzzed.
Atlas: Good morning ❤️
Something in Noah's chest loosened. He typed back: Good morning ❤️
Then: How are you?
Atlas: Meeting. Will call after.
Noah sent a heart emoji. Set his phone face-down. Stared at his computer screen.
The spreadsheet blurred. Numbers stopped making sense.
Stop thinking.
He pulled up a report. Forced himself to focus.
But his mind kept circling back. To his mom's text yesterday. To the careful way she'd phrased it.
Just want to spend time with you.
Noah's fingers stilled on the keyboard.
What if she knows. What if she's guessing. What if Lydia said something—
He shook his head. Pulled up another report.
Hours passed. The office filled up around him.
---
AFTERNOON
Noah was coming back from the bathroom when he nearly collided with his father.
"Noah." His father stopped. Straightened his already-straight tie.
"Dad."
"Your mother's staying at your place tonight."
Noah's stomach dropped. He kept his face carefully blank. "Okay."
His father studied him. Looking for cracks. "She wanted me to tell you."
"Thanks."
His father nodded once. Walked away.
Noah stood in the hallway. Heart pounding against his ribs. He counted to ten. Then twenty.
Why is she staying over? She never stays over. Never.
---
Back in his office, Noah closed the door. Sat at his desk. His hands found his coffee mug—gripped it too tight.
3:17 PM.
He pulled out his phone. Scrolled through messages from friends. Responded to a few without really reading them. His thumb kept hitting the wrong keys.
At 3:45, his phone rang. FaceTime. Atlas's name.
Noah's face broke into a smile before he could stop it. He answered.
Atlas appeared. Loosened tie. Tired eyes. That smile that made Noah's chest hurt in a good way.
"Hey," Noah said.
"Hey." Atlas's whole expression softened. "Miss you."
"Miss you too." Noah leaned back in his chair. Let himself just look at Atlas for a second. Memorize him. "Meetings bad?"
"Boring as hell." Atlas smiled. "Would rather be there."
"Liar. You love boring meetings."
"Only when you're there to distract me." Atlas's voice dropped. Got that tone. "Under the table."
Noah's face heated. "Stop."
"Make me."
They talked for twenty minutes. Nothing important. Everything important. The sound of Atlas's voice. The way he looked at Noah through the screen like he was the only thing in the world.
"Should go," Atlas said finally. Reluctant. "Got another one in ten."
"Okay."
"Tonight?" Atlas asked. "After dinner? Call me?"
"Yeah."
"Miss you," Atlas said again. Softer this time.
"Miss you too."
The screen went black.
Noah sat there. Staring at his reflection in the dark phone. That ache spreading through his chest like ink in water.
---
LATER
At four-thirty, his office door opened.
Noah looked up. His mom stood in the doorway.
He stood immediately. Crossed the room. She pulled him into a hug—held on longer than usual. Her perfume familiar. Expensive and floral and home.
"Came to kidnap you," she said when she pulled back. Smiling. But something in her eyes looked careful. Calculated.
"Dad's gonna kill me for leaving early," Noah tried to joke.
"I'll handle him." Her voice went serious. Final.
Something in Noah's stomach twisted. Dropped.
---
THE CAR
They drove in silence at first. Her driver navigating traffic smoothly.
Noah watched buildings blur past. His hands in his lap—fingers twisting together, then apart, then together again.
"What did you and Lydia do this week?" his mom asked. Casual. Too casual.
"Normal stuff. Dinner. Watched movies. Nothing crazy."
"She mentioned someone named Sienna?"
Noah's hands stilled. He swallowed. "Yeah. Friend of mine."
"You've never mentioned her." His mom glanced at him. Her face neutral. "New friend?"
"Pretty recent. Yeah."
"Interesting."
The word sat between them. Heavy.
Noah's fingers started moving again. Twisting. His thumbnail digging into his palm.
Three blocks of silence.
His mom reached over. Touched his knee once. Then pulled her hand back.
---
RESTAURANT
Their usual place. The French restaurant on the Upper East Side. White tablecloths. Soft lighting. Waiters who knew them by name.
His mom ordered wine. Noah asked for water—his voice coming out rougher than intended.
"Wine for you too," his mom told the waiter. Smiled at Noah. "Keep me company."
The waiter left.
His mom studied him across the table. "You changed your style."
Noah looked down at his shirt. Touched the fabric. "You like it?"
"I do." She smiled. "It suits you. Very sophisticated."
The wine came. His mom lifted her glass. Noah lifted his—hands wrapped around it like a lifeline.
The food came. They ate in near silence. Noah pushed pasta around his plate. Took small bites. His mom barely touched her fish—just moved it around with her fork.
Something hung between them. Patient. Waiting.
Noah's shoulders stayed tight. He couldn't quite meet her eyes. Kept glancing up, then away. Testing. Measuring.
---
NOAH'S APARTMENT
His mom stood on the sidewalk. Looked up at the building. "This is better than your last place."
"Thanks." Noah's voice came out small.
Inside, Noah showed her to the guest room. She set down her bag slowly. Looked around like she was cataloging everything.
"It's lovely," she said.
Noah's breath came out shaky. Relief flooding through him. "Glad you like it."
He gave her a quick tour. She moved through the space like she was memorizing it. Her fingers trailing over surfaces—the back of the couch, the kitchen counter, the edge of a bookshelf.
"Beautiful," she said. Then turned to him. Smiled. "You've done well."
"Want coffee?" Noah asked. His hands already moving toward the machine.
"Actually—" His mom opened her bag. Pulled out a bottle. Green glass. Expensive label. "I brought something special. From England."
Noah stopped moving. Stared at the bottle.
"Let's have this instead," his mom said. Light. Easy.
"Oh. Sure. Yeah."
His mom moved into the kitchen. Found glasses like she'd been here before. A corkscrew. She moved with practiced ease—no hesitation.
She set everything up on the coffee table. Arranged it carefully. The bottle. Two glasses. A small dish she pulled from her bag with fancy crackers.
The sound of wine hitting crystal was too loud in the quiet apartment.
"You'll love this," she said. "Discovered it in a little vineyard outside London."
They sat. His mom on the couch—one leg tucked under her, relaxed. Noah in the armchair across from her—his body angled slightly away, spine straight.
She told him about England. The countryside. Old estates. Her voice was light. Casual. Like this was normal.
Noah's hands gripped his wine glass. Both hands. The stem between his palms.
"Do you like it?" she asked after his first sip.
"It's good." His voice sounded far away. Like it belonged to someone else.
They talked. Small things. Safe things. Noah felt the wine warming his blood. Making the edges softer. His shoulders dropped half an inch.
His mom watched him over her glass. Not obvious. Just observing. The way she used to when he was small and sick—checking for fever without touching.
After the second glass, his mom pulled out a small box. Gold foil. Expensive. "Try these with the wine. Whiskey chocolates. Also from London."
Noah laughed. It came out shaky. "You trying to get me drunk?"
His mom smiled. Didn't answer. Just pushed the box toward him.
The chocolate was rich. Bitter-sweet. The whiskey burned his throat—made his eyes water slightly.
"That's really good," Noah said. His voice steadier now. The alcohol smoothing out the rough edges.
"Knew you'd like it." His mom poured him more wine. Her movements slow. Deliberate.
They sat in silence. Noah's fingers traced the rim of his glass. Around and around. A nervous habit from childhood.
His mom watched. Her own glass held loosely in one hand. She took small sips—barely drinking.
Then she set her glass down. Patted the cushion beside her. "Come here. I missed you."
Noah's heart kicked against his ribs. He stood. His legs felt slightly unsteady. Moved to the couch. Sat close but not touching.
She pulled him in immediately. Arms around him. One hand on his back.
Noah let himself lean in. Breathed in her perfume. Felt something in his chest crack slightly.
The silence stretched. One minute. Two. Maybe more.
His mom's hand moved to his back. Slow circles. The way she used to when he was small and couldn't sleep.
Noah's breathing evened out. His body relaxing despite itself.
"So," she said quietly. Almost gentle. " Tell me about your new love."
Noah stopped breathing.
Every muscle locked. His hands went rigid in his lap—fingers splayed, then curling into fists.
His mom felt it. Her hand stilled on his back. Just for a second.
Then she took his wine glass. Set it on the table with a soft clink. Took his hand. Her fingers warm around his cold ones.
"You can tell me," she said. Soft. Patient. "It's okay."
Noah couldn't speak. His throat had closed completely. His mind racing—how does she know what did she see what did Lydia say how much does she know when did she figure it out what if—
Seconds passed. Maybe minutes. Noah couldn't tell.
"It's new," he managed finally. His voice barely there. Strangled.
His mom's thumb rubbed across his knuckles. Slow. Steady. "Lydia met them. So they must be important."
Noah looked at her face. At the careful way she watched him. Waiting. Not pushing. Just... there.
If I tell her everything maybe it'll be okay maybe she'll understand maybe she already knows maybe—
But his throat closed again. Words stuck behind his teeth. Choking him.
"Don't put so much pressure on yourself," his mom said. She pulled him closer. Against her shoulder. "Whatever it is, I'm here."
Noah's throat knotted. His eyes burned. He blinked hard. Once. Twice.
"No matter what happens," she continued. Her hand rubbing his back again. Steady. Grounding. "I'm on your side. Always."
Noah leaned into her shoulder. Felt his eyes fill. The tears hot behind his lids.
What does she know if I tell her would she be angry would she yell would she cry would Dad find out what if—
His mom's other hand moved to his hair. Played with it gently. Tucking a piece behind his ear. The familiar gesture breaking something in his chest.
Noah's grip on her tightened. His fingers clutching her sweater. The tears threatening to spill.
Then his mom said, very quietly: "Atlas."
Everything stopped.
Noah's breath. His heartbeat. Time itself.
The room went silent. Even the city noise outside disappeared.
"Atlas?" his mom said again. Gentle. Testing. "It's Atlas, isn't it?"
The tears came before Noah could stop them.
Hot. Fast. Spilling over and down his cheeks.
The wine. The exhaustion. The fear he'd been carrying for months. It crashed over him all at once—a wave pulling him under.
He tried to hide it. Pressed his face into her shoulder hard. But his body shook. Gave him away.
His mom's arms tightened. One hand in his hair. The other on his back. She made soft sounds. Wordless. The same ones from childhood.
"Shh," she whispered. "It's okay. You're okay."
Noah couldn't stop. The sobs came harder. Wrenching out of him. His fingers clutched her sweater so tight his knuckles went white. His whole body shaking with it.
His mom didn't let go. Just held him. Rocked slightly. Let him break apart.
Time stopped meaning anything. Could've been minutes. Could've been hours.
When Noah could finally breathe again—his breath coming in shaky gasps—his mom's voice came soft: "How long?"
Noah's voice cracked. Broke. "About two months."
Silence. His mom's hand stilled in his hair for just a second. Then started moving again.
"Do you love him?"
Noah nodded against her shoulder. Couldn't make his voice work. His throat too tight.
His mom pulled back slowly. Cupped his face. Her palms cool against his hot, wet cheeks. Made him look at her.
Her eyes searched his. Not judging. Just looking. Seeing him.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of," she said. Firm. Clear. Each word deliberate. "Do you hear me? Nothing."
Noah's face was burning. Wet. Red from crying. He tried to look away but she held his face steady.
"Don't hide from me," his mom said. Her voice went softer. "Not ever. Not from me."
Noah tried to smile. Failed completely. Hugged her again instead. Pressed his face into her shoulder. Breathing hard.
She held him. One hand stroking his hair. The other on his back.
After a long moment, she asked quietly: "Do you trust him?"
Noah pulled back. Looked down at his hands in his lap. They were shaking. Trembling like he was cold.
He took a breath. Another. "Yes."
His mom watched him. Silent. The moment stretched. Taut.
Noah couldn't read her expression. Couldn't tell what she was thinking.
Then she said, careful and quiet: "I don't."
Noah's head snapped up. Stared at her. His eyes wide.
"You're very different people," his mom continued. Her voice measured. Each word chosen. "Different personalities. Different... worlds."
She tucked his hair behind his ear. A gentle gesture that felt heavy.
"Is that the problem?" Noah asked. His voice rough. Raw. "That we're different?"
"If it was anyone else—" His mom paused. Looked at their joined hands. "Maybe I'd understand. But Atlas..." She trailed off. Let the name hang there.
"Why him, Noah?" She looked at him directly. "Is it just—is he handsome? Attractive? Is that why?"
"I don't—" Noah's voice broke. "I don't know."
His mom lifted his hand. Held it between both of hers. Her skin warm. "You know how the Sterlins family is. How rigid they are. How... controlling."
She looked at him directly. Unblinking. "In this situation, you're the one who'll get hurt."
Noah's chest felt like it was caving in. He could barely breathe. "I know."
"It's not just his family." His mom's voice went softer. Sadder. "Atlas himself—even as a child, he was cold. Controlled. Remote." She paused. "He's still that way, Noah. He hasn't changed. People don't change."
"I know." Noah's voice cracked. Split open.
"Things that don't matter at the beginning," his mom said slowly, "they become problems later. Serious problems. The things you think you can live with—you can't. Not forever."
Silence pressed down. Heavy. Suffocating.
Then, quiet but final: "If you stay with Atlas, you're going to be the one who gets hurt."
Noah's vision blurred. Fresh tears sliding down his already-wet face. His breath coming in shallow gasps.
He reached for the wine bottle with shaking hands. Poured badly—some spilled on the table, dark against the wood. Drank the whole glass in one go. The wine burning his throat. Making his eyes water more.
His mom watched. Didn't stop him. Just watched.
"Sometimes," she said very quietly, "it's better to hurt now. A little. While it's still early." She paused. "Than to hurt so much more later. When you're in too deep."
"He doesn't hurt me." But Noah's voice was barely there. Uncertain. Shaking.
"Everything's still new," his mom said. "Still exciting. Still easy." She touched his face. "Wait until it's not."
She took both his hands again. Held tight. Her grip almost painful. "No matter what happens—no matter what you choose—I'm here. If anything goes wrong, if anything happens, if you need me—I'm here. Always."
She squeezed his hands. "Do you understand? Always."
Noah nodded. Couldn't speak. His throat too tight.
Then his mom took a breath. Her expression shifted. Lighter. Like flipping a switch. Forcing brightness.
"What was his name?" she asked. Almost playful. "Your friend. The one with blue eyes. Blond hair."
Noah looked at her. Blinked. Then laughed—wet and choked and broken. "Miles?"
"Yes! Miles." His mom's eyes brightened. Forced enthusiasm. "He was lovely. Charming. Sweet. Kind." She paused. "Why not someone like him?"
"Mom."
"I'm serious." She reached for her own glass. Took a small sip. Barely any. "Why do you like cold and complicated?"
She laughed. Like this was a normal conversation. Like Noah's face wasn't still wet. Like his hands weren't still shaking.
"You and Miles were so close at Yale," she continued. Her voice light. Easy.
"Mom." Noah shook his head. "Are you seriously surprised it's Atlas? Just—just Atlas specifically?"
His mom laughed. Actually laughed. "Yes. I always thought—eventually you'd tell me. I knew that. I've known for years." She touched his face. "But I thought you'd be smarter about who you picked."
Noah stared at her. Then laughed despite everything. Despite the tears. Despite it all. "You're unbelievable."
"What did you expect?" His mom smiled. Soft. Real. "That I'd yell? Cry? Throw you out? Disown you?"
She touched his face with both hands. Held his head. "I'm your mother. I know you. I've always known."
Noah pulled her into a hug. Tight. Desperate. The relief flooding through him almost as intense as the fear had been.
But when he pulled back, his mom's face was serious again. The lightness gone.
"Think about Miles," she said. Not joking this time. Dead serious.
Noah wiped his face with his sleeve. "How did you know? About Atlas?"
"I saw you. Yesterday. At the club." His mom's voice went matter-of-fact. Clinical. "Atlas's hand on your back. The way he touched your shirt. How he opened your car door."
She paused. Looked at him directly. "The way you looked at each other."
Noah's face burned. Fresh heat crawling up his neck. "Oh god."
"Be more careful in public," his mom said. Gentle but firm. Final. "People notice more than you think. Much more."
A pause. Then: "He spent time with Lydia this week?"
"Lydia loves Atlas," Noah said quietly. Looking down.
"Lydia loves everything you love," his mom said. Her voice going soft. Understanding. "That's who she is. She loves you. So she loves what you love. Unconditional."
Noah looked down. His fingers twisting together in his lap again. "What about Dad?"
"Let me handle your father." His mom's voice went hard. Sharp as glass. "But Noah—you need time. Real time. To be sure about this. About Atlas."
She set down her glass. Looked at him directly. Unblinking.
"Our family and the Sterlins—we've had business together for years. Decades. Important partnerships." She paused. Let the weight settle. "If things between you and Atlas go badly..." She trailed off. Didn't finish. Didn't need to.
Noah understood. Felt it settle on his shoulders like wet concrete. Heavy. Immovable.
He stood. Walked to the window. Stared out at the city lights blurring through his tears. His hands braced on the windowsill.
"Do you think—" His voice broke. He tried again. "Do you think we won't work?"
His mom came to stand beside him. Her hand on his waist. Her head on his shoulder.
Noah put his arm around her. Pulled her close.
"For me," she said quietly, "only you matter. Your happiness. That's all I care about." She paused. "Atlas—I don't care about him. At all."
She turned Noah to face her. Her hands on his arms. Gripping tight.
"Promise me one thing."
"What?"
"The moment you're unhappy—" Her voice went hard. Final. "The moment you're not at peace, the moment something feels wrong—you end it." Her eyes bored into his. "No wasting time. No second chances. No waiting to see if it gets better. You end it immediately."
Noah stared at her. His breath shallow. Uneven.
"Promise me," she said again. Harder.
"I promise." The words felt like giving something away. Something he wasn't ready to lose.
"Are you happy with Dad?" Noah asked suddenly. Needing to know. Needing to understand.
"Yes." No hesitation. Immediate. "He can be strict with you kids. Hard on you. But he's good to me. Disciplined. Reliable." She smiled slightly. "Fun."
"Fun?" Noah laughed despite himself. Wet and broken. "Dad? Fun? Are you serious?"
"Only with me," his mom said. Almost smug. Pleased with herself.
Noah hugged her. Buried his face in her shoulder. "I'm glad you came."
"I'm always here. You just have to call." She held him tight. Rocked slightly. "Always. No matter what."
They stood at the window. Watching the city lights. Noah felt lighter and heavier at the same time. Like he could breathe but the air was thinner.
"If you need a doctor," his mom said casually. Too casual. "For anything. Checkups. Tests. Protection. Whatever. Let me know."
Noah's entire face went nuclear. "Mom. No. That's—that's—no."
"I'm a good mother," she said primly. Serious. "You need to be safe. Careful."
"Can we please change the subject?" Noah's voice went high. Strangled. "Our relationship just leveled up like three stages today. This is way too much."
His mom laughed. Actually laughed. Cupped his face. Kissed his forehead. Her lips warm.
After a moment, she yawned. Covered her mouth. "Early meeting tomorrow. Foundation board. I should sleep."
She looked at him. Studied his face. "We'll have breakfast together? Before I go?"
"Yeah."
She hugged him one more time. Long. Tight. "I love you. I'm so proud of you. So proud."
"I love you too." Noah held on. Pressed his face into her shoulder. "Thank you. For being—thank you."
As she walked to her room, she turned back at the doorway. Grinned. "Think about Miles."
Noah shook his head. Smiled despite everything. "Goodnight, Mom."
---
In his room, Noah felt wrung out. Exhausted. Hollowed out. But lighter somehow. Like something heavy had been cut away.
He checked his phone. 10:04 PM.
Multiple texts from Atlas. Two missed calls.
Atlas: How's it going?
Atlas: You okay?
Atlas: Call me when you can
Atlas: Everything alright?
Noah's hands shook slightly as he typed: Sorry. Just saw these. Can I call?
Seconds later—FaceTime.
Noah looked at himself in the camera. His eyes were swollen. Red. Puffy. Face blotchy and tear-stained.
He answered anyway.
Atlas's face filled the screen. Hair mussed. No tie. White t-shirt. Already in bed.
"Hey," Noah said. His voice wrecked. Rough.
"Hey." Atlas studied him. His expression shifting—concern flooding in. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm good."
Atlas's eyes narrowed. Searched Noah's face through the screen. "How was it? With your mom?"
Noah hesitated. The words caught in his throat. Stuck there. "Fine. Just—normal stuff."
"Normal stuff makes you cry?" Atlas's voice was soft. Careful. Not accusing.
Noah's heart kicked. "I didn't—"
"Your eyes are red. Really red." Atlas leaned closer to his camera. "And puffy."
"Allergies. Maybe. Seasonal thing."
Atlas didn't look convinced. Didn't say anything. Just watched him.
The silence stretched. Five seconds. Ten.
"What was her reaction?" Atlas asked finally.
"Better than I expected."
"Good better or bad better?"
"Too good better." Noah tried to smile. Failed.
"How'd she figure it out?"
"She saw us. Yesterday." Noah picked at his blanket. His thumbnail catching on a thread. "At the club."
"Saw what?"
"Your hand. On my back. You touching my shirt. Opening my car door." Noah's voice went quieter. "The way we looked at each other."
Atlas was silent for a moment. His jaw shifted. "She comment on it?"
"Just said to be more careful. In public."
Atlas nodded slowly. "Smart."
They were quiet. Just looking at each other through the screen. The distance between them suddenly feeling massive.
"How were the meetings?" Noah asked. His voice rough still.
"Boring as hell. Long." Atlas's expression softened. "Missed you. A lot."
"Missed you too."
"You sure you're okay?" Atlas asked again. His eyes searching. "You look—"
"I'm fine. Promise. Just—tired. Long day."
Atlas didn't look convinced. His mouth opened. Closed. Like he wanted to push but didn't know how.
They talked for a few more minutes. Surface things. Safe things. But something hung between them. Unspoken. Heavy.
When they hung up, Noah lay in bed. Stared at the ceiling. The city lights casting shadows across the walls.
Replayed the conversation with his mom. Her words circling. Looping. Over and over.
If you stay with Atlas, you're going to be the one who gets hurt.
Sometimes it's better to hurt now than hurt more later.
The moment you're unhappy, you end it. No wasting time. No second chances.
He'd promised. Given his word.
But lying there in the dark, Atlas's face still in his mind, his voice still in his ears, Noah didn't know if he could keep that promise.
Even if he should.
Even if it was the smart thing to do.
Outside, the city hummed. Endless. Awake. Indifferent.
Noah closed his eyes.
Tried not to think about what came after.
Tried not to think about endings.
Tried not to think at all.