SUNDAY
Noah woke first.
Atlas slept. Face slack. Unguarded in ways Noah rarely saw in daylight.
Noah didn't move. Lay there with his head still on Atlas's chest. Listening to his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. Not racing.
When was the last time you were truly at peace?
His hand moved to Atlas's chest. Fingers tracing idle patterns over his sternum. Feeling the rise and fall. The warmth of skin. The realness of him.
He watched Atlas sleep. The way his jaw sat loose instead of clenched. The way his breathing came easy instead of controlled. The way he didn't look like he was holding the world together with sheer force of will.
Will things be okay? Can they be?
Noah's thumb traced Atlas's collarbone. Felt the bone beneath skin. Solid.
Everything felt good yesterday. Without that look. Without—
"You watching me?"
Atlas's voice cut through. Still rough with sleep. Eyes barely cracked open. A small smile tugging at his mouth.
Noah didn't look away. Didn't pretend. "Yeah."
"And?" Atlas's eyes opened more. That crooked smile forming. Sleep-soft. "How do I look?"
Noah leaned closer. His hand still on Atlas's chest. Felt his heartbeat pick up slightly. "Dangerous."
"Yeah?"
"Really fucking hot too."
Atlas laughed. Low and genuine. Pulled Noah down by the back of his neck. Kissed him slow. Taking his time. No urgency.
When they broke apart, Atlas glanced at the clock on the nightstand. His expression shifted. Subtle. "I have an opening this afternoon. Art thing. Then dinner after." He paused. His thumb rubbing Noah's hip in slow circles. "Come with me?"
Noah hesitated. A beat. "I have tennis. With Clara and Elias. Then this party thing at someone's place."
Atlas's thumb stopped moving.
Noah felt it. The pause. Three seconds of absolute stillness before the circles resumed.
Then—"Who's going?" Atlas's voice unchanged. Casual. "To tennis?"
Noah watched Atlas's face. Waited for the jaw to tighten. The barely concealed control. "Clara. Elias."
The circles continued. But the pressure increased. Not painful. Just—present. "Just them?"
"I don't know who else. Maybe some of their friends."
Atlas nodded once. His jaw shifted—barely visible, like he was testing how his teeth fit together. "Okay."
Noah waited. For more. For the follow-up questions. For where exactly is this party or how many people or that particular tone that meant Atlas was filing information away.
Nothing came. Just Atlas smiling. Eyes warm. But his thumb on Noah's hip pressed harder with each circle.
"I'll pick you up tonight," Atlas said. His voice even. "After the party. Text me when."
He kissed Noah. Light. Quick. But his hand on Noah's hip tightened for just a second—grip firm enough that Noah felt each finger individually.
Noah stared at him. You're not okay with this. I can feel it.
"You're sure?" Noah asked. "About tonight?"
"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know. You seem—" Noah stopped. Shook his head. "Nothing."
Atlas's eyes searched his face. His hand on Noah's hip squeezed in rhythm—once, twice, three times. Each one slightly harder. "What?"
"You're different."
"Different how?"
"Calmer. About this."
Atlas's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. The corners of his mouth lifted but his jaw stayed tight. "Should I not be?"
"No. You should be. It's—good."
"Then what's the problem?"
"There isn't one." Noah kissed him. Quick. "It's good. This is good."
Atlas pulled him closer. His other hand finding Noah's jaw. Holding him there. His thumb pressed against Noah's pulse point—not checking, claiming. "Shower?"
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"We can actually shower if you want."
"We definitely won't."
"Probably not."
YACHT
The morning sun was warm on the top deck. The water calm. City sounds distant. Breakfast spread across the table—fresh fruit, pastries, coffee, juice.
Alice and Sienna were already there when Atlas and Noah came up. Standing at the railing. Alice's head on Sienna's shoulder. Both watching the water.
Sienna heard them first. Turned. Smiled. "Morning."
"Morning," Noah said.
Alice turned too. Looked at them both. Her expression warm. "Sleep well?"
"Very," Atlas said. His hand finding the small of Noah's back as they walked to the table.
They sat. Atlas pulled his chair close. Their shoulders touching. Noah reached for coffee. Atlas reached across him for a pastry. His arm brushing Noah's. Deliberate.
Noah didn't look. Shifted his coffee cup closer to Atlas's plate. Automatic.
Alice and Sienna exchanged a look across the table. Small smiles. Sienna's hand found Alice's under the table.
"The gala's in ten days," Alice said. Looking at Atlas. Casual. "You're bringing Noah, right?"
"If he wants to come," Atlas said. Glanced at Noah. Question there but no pressure.
"What kind of gala?" Noah asked.
"The boring kind," Sienna said. Apologetic. "Rich people pretending to care about art."
"I pretend to care about things all the time," Noah said. Grinning. "I'll fit right in."
Alice laughed. "You'll be fine. Atlas will protect you from the worst of it."
They ate. Talked about Yale. Old professors. Ridiculous stories. Marcus Chen who'd become a tech CEO. Sarah Rodriguez who'd become a Supreme Court clerk.
Easy conversation. The kind that filled space without demanding anything.
Noah noticed—Atlas's hand. On his thigh under the table. Not gripping exactly. But present. His thumb moving in slow circles. The pressure varied—sometimes barely there, sometimes firm enough to leave an indent in Noah's jeans.
Noah stole a piece of bacon from Atlas's plate.
Atlas's hand on his thigh went completely still. Two seconds. Then the circles resumed—faster now, the pressure slightly harder.
Atlas stole a strawberry from Noah's. His jaw flexed once. Then his mouth curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Alice's gaze flicked between them. She took a sip of coffee. Said nothing.
They said goodbye at the car. Atlas's hand on Noah's lower back. Light. But his fingers pressed in—not quite digging, but Noah could feel each one individually through his shirt.
Alice hugged Noah. Held him longer than necessary. "Take care of yourself," she said. Quiet. Meaningful.
"I will."
Sienna hugged him too. "Come by this week if you have time."
"I'll try," Noah said.
Alice hugged Atlas. Sienna took her hand. They walked back toward the yacht together.
Atlas walked to the car. His hand stayed on Noah's back. When they passed other people on the dock, his hand spread wider. His palm flat. His fingers splayed possessively.
They got in the car.
Atlas drove in silence for a while. His hand finding Noah's thigh at the first red light. Resting there. His thumb moving. But the rhythm was off—three circles, pause, two circles, pause, one hard press.
"Tuesday night," Atlas said. Eyes on the road. His voice even. "There's a thing. Dinner. Boring work people." He paused. His hand on Noah's thigh pressed down—firm, almost uncomfortable. "Come with me?"
"What kind of thing?"
"Does it matter?"
Noah looked at him. Atlas's profile. The way he held the steering wheel. One-handed. Loose. But his knuckles were white. "No. I guess not."
"So yes?"
"Yeah. Okay."
Atlas glanced at him. Quick. Then back to the road. His jaw worked—left side tensing, relaxing, tensing again. "Good."
They drove. Atlas's hand stayed on Noah's thigh. The pressure kept changing—light touch, firm grip, crushing press, back to light. Like Atlas couldn't find the right amount.
Noah watched the city pass. Buildings. People. Normal Sunday morning.
Atlas glanced at him. More than once. His eyes flicking over. Checking. His breathing slightly elevated—not obvious, but Noah could hear it in the quiet car.
"What?" Noah asked finally.
"Nothing."
"You keep looking at me."
"Can't help it." But his voice was tight. The words came out slightly clipped.
"That's cheesy."
"True though."
Noah pulled out his phone. Opened the camera. Pointed it at Atlas.
"Don't—" Atlas started. But then made a face. Scrunched his nose. Crossed his eyes. The tension breaking for a moment.
Noah laughed. Took the photo. "I'm posting this."
"You wouldn't."
"I absolutely would."
"Do it then." Atlas's voice challenged. But his hand on Noah's thigh went rigid—every muscle in his hand tense. "Put it on your Instagram."
Noah stared at him. "You want me to post a picture of you?"
"Why not?"
"On my public Instagram."
"Yeah."
"Where people can see."
"That's generally how Instagram works." His thumb on Noah's thigh pressed down. Almost painful.
Noah looked at the photo. Atlas making a stupid face. "Maybe someday."
"Maybe someday what?"
"I'll post it."
Atlas's hand loosened. But his jaw stayed clenched. "Yeah. Maybe."
NOAH'S APARTMENT
Atlas dropped him off with a kiss that lasted too long for being parked on a public street. His hand on Noah's jaw. Holding him there. His thumb pressing against Noah's pulse point—feeling the rhythm, counting beats.
"Text me when you're ready tonight," Atlas said. His voice even. Controlled.
"I will."
"Have fun." But his eyes didn't match the words. They tracked over Noah's face—memorizing, cataloging, afraid.
Noah got out. Walked toward his building. Turned back once.
Atlas was still there. Watching. His hands on the steering wheel. Both hands now. Gripping. His knuckles bone-white against the leather.
Noah waved. Atlas waved back. Then drove away.
You're not okay with this.
TENNIS COURTS
The courts were packed. Sunday afternoon. Everyone and their dog playing tennis. The sound of balls hitting rackets. Competitive yelling. Laughter.
Clara waved from court three. Bright smile. Elias next to her. And someone else—tall, brown hair, easy smile, wearing a faded college shirt.
Noah walked over. His racket bag over his shoulder. "Hey."
Clara immediately hugged him. "You made it!"
"Told you I would."
Elias hugged him too. "Ready to get your ass kicked?"
"In your dreams."
"Noah, this is Mark." Elias gestured to the tall guy. His hand landing on Mark's shoulder. Casual. Natural. Staying there for a beat before dropping. "Mark, this is Noah. The one I told you about."
Mark extended his hand. Warm grip. Genuine smile. "Heard a lot about you. All good things."
"All lies," Noah said. Grinning. Shook his hand.
"Probably," Mark agreed. Easy. His arm going around Elias's waist. Brief. Then dropping.
They moved onto the court. Sorted teams. Clara and Noah against Elias and Mark.
Mark served first. Fast. Clean. The ball barely cleared the net. Landed inside the line.
"Show-off," Elias called.
"You love it," Mark called back.
They played. Not serious. No one keeping real score. Laughing when someone missed badly. Cheering ridiculous shots. Trash-talking without bite.
Noah found himself relaxing. That constant tension in his shoulders—easing. The anxiety that lived in his chest—quiet.
He watched them between points. The way Elias and Mark moved around each other. Like choreography they'd practiced without meaning to. Mark's hand on Elias's shoulder between serves. Brief. Easy. Elias leaning back into him without thinking.
The way Mark touched Elias's back when walking past. How Elias's hand found Mark's arm when laughing. Small touches. Unconscious. Natural.
They've been doing this a while. You can tell.
Clara moved closer during a water break. Noticed Noah watching them. "They live together," she said. Quiet. "Two years in June."
"They're good together," Noah said.
"Yeah." Clara unscrewed her water bottle. "Took them time though. They were friends for like a year before anything happened."
"Friends first?"
"Best friends. Elias said it was terrifying. Risking the friendship." She took a drink. "But they work at it. It's not perfect but—" She shrugged. "They try."
"Game point!" Elias yelled.
They finished. Clara and Noah won by two points. Barely.
"You hustled me," Elias said. Laughing. Slightly breathless. "You said you were rusty."
"I said I hadn't played in a while. Different thing."
"Semantics."
"Victory."
They walked off the court. Clara and Noah ahead. Laughing about something Elias had said.
Noah glanced back.
Elias and Mark. Walking close. Their shoulders bumping with each step. Hands brushing but not quite holding. Mark saying something. Elias throwing his head back laughing. Then leaning into Mark. Mark's arm going around his shoulders. Brief. Then dropping.
Elias isn't like this with anyone else. I've never seen him—
"They're always like that," Clara said. Following his gaze. Grinning. "It's disgusting."
"It's nice," Noah said. Quiet.
"Yeah. It is."
They grabbed a booth at the diner near campus. Ordered too much food. Talked about everything and nothing.
The party tonight. Who was going. Who was bringing who. The last party where someone had jumped off the roof into the pool.
Noah's phone buzzed. He glanced at it.
Atlas: Miss you.
Noah smiled. Typed back under the table: Miss you too.
Set his phone down face-down. Looked up. Clara was watching him. Small smile.
"Someone special?" she asked. Light. Not prying.
"Yeah," Noah said. Left it at that.
They were laughing about something when Noah's phone buzzed again.
He glanced at it.
Atlas: Who's at tennis?
Noah's smile faltered.
He typed back: Clara, Elias, and Elias's boyfriend Mark. Why?
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Atlas: Just curious. Have fun.
Noah stared at the screen.
There it is.
He put his phone away. Looked up.
Clara was watching him. Her expression shifted—concern bleeding through before she covered it. But she didn't ask.
Mark was telling a story about a client who'd tried to pay in Bitcoin. Elias laughing. Their shoulders touching.
Noah watched them. The ease. The naturalness.
"You okay?" Clara asked. Quiet. Just to him.
"Yeah." Noah forced a smile. "Just—thinking."
"About?"
Noah hesitated. Looked at Mark and Elias. Then back at Clara. "How long did it take them? To be like that?"
Clara followed his gaze. "Two years and they still have their moments." She paused. Looked at Noah. Really looked. "But they figure their shit out. Both of them."
Noah nodded. Said nothing.
But the weight in his chest didn't lift.
THE PARTY
The house was already packed when they arrived. Music too loud. People everywhere. The particular chaos of a Harvard party—cheap beer, everyone networking while pretending not to.
Clara pulled Noah through. Introduced him to people. Names he'd forget. Faces that blurred.
Elias and Mark stayed close. Mark's hand occasionally finding Elias's back. Elias leaning into him. Small touches. Constant.
They found a corner. Grabbed drinks. Formed their own bubble in the chaos.
Someone told a story about a professor who'd fallen asleep during their own lecture. Everyone laughed.
Another person talked about their startup. VR something. Mark asked good questions. Elias made jokes.
Noah found himself laughing. The anxiety quiet. Not gone. Waiting. But quiet.
Clara touched his shoulder. "You good? Not too boring?"
"I'm great," Noah said. Meant it.
His phone buzzed.
Atlas: When should I pick you up?
Noah smiled at the screen. Typed: Whenever you want.
Atlas: Hour?
Noah: Perfect.
He put his phone away. Looked around. Everyone talking. Laughing. Living.
This is what normal feels like. I forgot.
An hour later, his phone buzzed again.
Atlas: Outside. Whenever you're ready. No rush.
Noah drained his drink. "I gotta go."
Clara hugged him. "See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Definitely."
Mark and Elias walked him out. Both gave him solid hugs.
"Good meeting you," Mark said. Genuine.
"You too."
Elias squeezed his shoulder. "You good getting home?"
"My friend is right outside."
"Okay. Text when you get there."
"I'm not twelve."
"Text anyway."
Noah laughed. Walked to the street.
Atlas's car. Idling at the curb. Noah could see him through the windshield. On his phone. His jaw tight. Not looking up. His other hand gripping the steering wheel.
Noah opened the door. Slid in. Leaned over. Kissed Atlas. Quick but real.
"Hey," Noah said. Grinning.
Atlas looked at him. His eyes scanning Noah's face. His smile. His loose shoulders. His easy breathing.
His jaw flexed. Once. Twice. His hand on the steering wheel tightened—knuckles going white.
Then he smiled. But it didn't reach his eyes. "You had fun," Atlas said. Not a question. His voice carefully even.
"Yeah," Noah said. Still smiling. "I really did."
"Good." Atlas's hand found Noah's thigh. Squeezed. Hard enough that Noah felt the pressure in his bone. Then loosened. "I'm glad."
He pulled out. Started driving. His hand stayed on Noah's thigh. The grip kept changing—firm, crushing, light, firm again. Like Atlas was testing how hard he could press before Noah said something.
Noah watched him. Waited for it. The questions. The careful interrogation.
The silence stretched.
Finally—"That guy at tennis." Atlas's voice casual. Too casual. His hand on Noah's thigh went rigid. "Next to Elias. His boyfriend?"
Noah glanced at him. Waited for the rest. "Yeah. Mark. They live together."
"Huh." Atlas's thumb on Noah's thigh stopped moving completely. Three seconds of absolute stillness. Then resumed—but faster now, harder. "Didn't know Elias was—" He stopped. His jaw clenched so hard he heard a pop in his ear. Visibly this time. Then forced itself to relax.
"Was what?"
"Nothing." Atlas's hand tightened. "Didn't know."
Silence. Atlas's jaw worked. Left side, right side, grinding his teeth. His breathing elevated—not panting, but faster than normal. His hand on Noah's thigh moved in rhythm—squeeze, release, squeeze, release. Mechanical.
You're not okay. You're pretending. But you're not okay.
"Two years, Clara said," Noah offered. Testing.
"That's—" Atlas stopped. His knuckles on the steering wheel went white. Then he forced them to loosen. One finger at a time. "Good. That's good for him."
The words came out measured. Like Atlas was counting syllables. Controlling each one.
Noah stared at him. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"You seem—tense."
"I'm fine." But his hand on Noah's thigh squeezed again. His fingers digging in.
You're lying. I can see it.
"Let's go home," Atlas said. His voice tight. Clipped.
"Yours or mine?"
"Mine."
"Okay."
Noah spent the rest of the drive trying to ease whatever was coiling in Atlas. His hand on Atlas's arm. Fingers trailing up his neck.
But Atlas stayed tense. His jaw clenched. His breathing controlled but audibly forced. His hand on Noah's thigh never quite relaxing—always gripping, always pressing, always claiming.
By the time they pulled into Atlas's garage, Noah could hear Atlas's teeth grinding.
PENTHOUSE
Atlas closed the door behind them. Immediately pulled Noah in. Kissed him hard. Desperate. His hands rough. Gripping Noah's hips so hard it would leave marks. Claiming.
"Missed you," Noah said against his mouth. Hands in Atlas's hair.
"Missed you too." Atlas pulled back. His pupils blown. His chest heaving. "I need to shower. Today was—long."
"Okay."
"Make yourself comfortable. I won't be long." But his hand on Noah's waist squeezed. Possessive. His fingers pressing in like he was trying to leave permanent impressions.
Atlas went upstairs.
Noah changed into one of Atlas's shirts. Got water. Stood at the window for a minute. Looking out at the city.
Something's wrong. He's not okay with this. With me having—
He went upstairs. Got in bed. The combination of alcohol and genuine happiness making him drowsy.
His eyes got heavy.
Sleep pulled him under.
Atlas came upstairs. Towel around his waist. Hair damp. Water still beading on his shoulders.
Saw Noah asleep in his bed. Wearing Atlas's shirt. Hair messy. Face peaceful. Completely out.
He stood there. Watching.
His jaw clenched so hard something cracked in his ear. His hands fisted at his sides. Nails digging into his palms.
His breathing got rough. Ragged. His chest rising and falling too fast.
He turned away. Couldn't look at Noah sleeping so peacefully.
Went downstairs.
Poured whiskey. Four fingers. Neat. Drank half of it in one swallow. The burn not enough to touch the feeling spreading through his chest.
Grabbed his cigarettes. Stood by the window. His hand gripping the glass. His knuckles white. The glass creaking.
Lit a cigarette. Took a deep drag. Held it until his lungs burned and his vision spotted. Released through clenched teeth.
He looked happy. Without me.
Another drink. Faster this time. Poured another. His hands shaking now—barely visible but there.
He finished the drink. Poured another. Smaller. The bottle clinking against the glass. His grip unsteady.
Smoked another cigarette. Let the nicotine blur the edges of whatever was clawing at his throat.
This is fine. Just friends. He should have friends.
So why does it feel like—
He couldn't finish the thought.
His chest hurt. His throat tight. His eyes burned.
He put out his cigarette. Left the glass on the windowsill. Went back upstairs.
Slid into bed next to Noah. His movements too controlled. Too precise. Like he didn't trust himself to be anything else.
Noah immediately curled into him. Still asleep. "You're back," he mumbled. Barely conscious.
"Yeah. I'm back." His voice rougher than intended. Sharper.
Atlas's hand moved to Noah's hair. His fingers tangling in it. Then forcing himself to relax. To be soft. To touch instead of claim.
But his jaw stayed clenched. His breathing stayed elevated. His other hand fisted in the sheets. Tight. White-knuckled.
Noah settled deeper. His head on Atlas's chest. Arms around him. Breathing evening out.
Atlas stared at the ceiling. His hand moving through Noah's hair. But the movements were mechanical. Controlled. Each stroke exactly the same length.
His other hand stayed fisted in the sheets.
He didn't sleep.
Lay there. Holding Noah. Feeling him breathe. Counting each inhale. Each exhale.
This is fine. This is normal. People have friends.
So why does my chest feel hollow?
The night stretched. Long. Dark.
Atlas held on.
Tighter than he should.
Counted Noah's breaths.
And pretended he was fine.