MONDAY
Noah woke to emptiness.
His fingers reached across cold sheets before his eyes opened. Nothing. The pillow held an indent but no warmth. A single black hair caught the light—evidence Atlas had been there.
Rowing. He's at rowing.
Grey morning light filtered through the blinds. 6:47 AM. No messages.
Last night came back in fragments. Getting into bed. Atlas's arm around him. Then—nothing. He'd fallen asleep fast. Too fast.
Was he already pulling away? Or am I—
Noah shoved the thought down. Got up. The apartment silent except for distant traffic.
---
SHOWER
The water scalded. Noah let it beat against his shoulders anyway.
Mark and Elias yesterday. Two years together, still laughing. Alice and Sienna. Six years. Friends first.
Friends first.
Noah pressed his forehead against the tile.
When do we get that? The easy part?
They'd jumped into fire. No foundation. Just want. Need. Possession.
Is that enough?
---
GETTING READY
Noah's fingers fumbled with his tie. The knot sat crooked no matter how many times he adjusted it.
7:26 AM. Atlas should be back by now.
His thumb hovered over Atlas's name.
Don't be that person.
He called anyway.
Four rings. Voicemail.
He texted: Hey. You good? Just checking in.
Delivered. Not read.
Noah grabbed his bag. Left.
---
OFFICE
Clara and Elias were laughing by the coffee machine when Noah walked in. They turned, smiles fading slightly at his expression.
"Morning," Noah said. The smile took effort.
Elias tilted his head. "You sleep okay?"
"Fine."
They exchanged a look. Didn't push.
At his desk, Noah stared at spreadsheets that wouldn't focus. His phone buzzed.
Atlas: I'm good. Hit the gym early. Went straight to the office after. Crazy busy.
Noah's chest loosened slightly. He typed: Glad you're okay.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared.
Atlas: Busy day ahead. I'll call you later.
Short. Clipped. No emoji. No "miss you."
Clara watched him set his phone down too hard. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah." The painted-on smile again.
She didn't look convinced but turned back to her screen.
---
LUNCH
The sandwich shop was too loud. Clara and Elias argued about data, stealing food from each other's plates. Noah pushed lettuce around his plate.
"You're quiet today," Clara said. Gentle.
"Just tired."
Elias leaned back. "Mark says when I'm in my head too much, I should just—" He opened his palms like releasing birds. "Let it go."
"Easier said than done."
"True. But it sounds good when he says it."
They walked back. Clara squeezed Noah's arm once. "You know you can talk to us, right?"
"I know."
---
AFTERNOON
His phone buzzed every twenty minutes. Lydia. Marcus. The Arts Club.
Never Atlas.
At four, Clara brought him coffee. Set it down. Squeezed his shoulder. Said nothing.
Noah's throat tightened.
His phone buzzed.
Atlas: What time should I pick you up?
Noah's face changed without permission—a real smile breaking through.
Noah: Leaving at 6.
Atlas: Okay.
One word. But it was something.
---
"Alright, I'm dead," Elias announced, closing his laptop. "Brain stopped working an hour ago."
They walked out together. Clara spotted a friend, jogged off. Elias and Noah stood in the evening air.
"You sure you're good?" Elias asked.
Noah hesitated. "How do you and Mark do it?"
"Do what?"
"Make it look easy."
Elias laughed. Genuine. "It's not easy. We fight. We figure shit out. We don't pretend everything's perfect."
"Things okay?" Careful.
"Yeah. I think so." Noah spotted the car. "I gotta go."
---
IN THE CAR
"Hey."
Atlas looked at him. Scanned his face quickly. "Hey."
Noah leaned over. Quick kiss. Tasted coffee.
Atlas's fingers spread on his jaw. Held him there. Thumb brushing his cheekbone once. Let go.
"How was your day?"
"Long." Atlas pulled into traffic. Shoulders rolling back—a small adjustment. "Work's insane. Year-end shit. Mitchell's being difficult." Quick glance. "Yours?"
"Fine. Same as always."
Atlas's palm settled on Noah's thigh. His thumb traced circles. Light. Barely there. The rhythm matched his breathing—in, circle, out, circle.
"Missed you today," Noah said quietly.
Atlas's expression softened. "Missed you too."
The words felt real but spoken through glass.
"Sorry about this morning. Left early. Didn't want to wake you." His thumb paused. Resumed. "You looked peaceful."
They drove in silence. The circles continued. Mechanical.
"Tomorrow night," Atlas said. "The University Club thing. Can you leave early?"
"Five?"
"Yeah. Have you been before?"
"No."
Small smile. "It's boring. Networking. But at least you'll be there."
Noah tried to relax into the touch. But something felt different.
---
PENTHOUSE
Atlas unlocked the door—three clicks. Keys aligned with the table edge. Jacket smoothed on the hook. Bag handles facing out.
He turned. Walked over. Kissed Noah. Soft. Brief.
"I need to shower. Then we can order food."
Upstairs. Noah stood alone. The apartment too quiet.
He pressed his forehead against the window. The glass cool.
Stop making problems where there aren't any.
But his chest stayed tight.
---
Atlas came down. Hair damp. A droplet on his neck. They sat at the counter, thighs touching.
"Italian?"
"Sure."
He ordered. His fingers immediately laced with Noah's. They ate in silence. Atlas talked about work—Mitchell, Alice's notes, client issues. Surface level.
Noah watched the way he chewed. Mechanical. Looking for anger, tension.
Found only exhaustion. And careful distance.
"You're quiet," Atlas observed.
"Just listening."
Atlas's eyes searched his face. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"You seem—" Fingers tapped the counter once. Twice. "Distant."
The irony burned Noah's throat. I'm distant?
"Just tired."
They cleaned up. Atlas washed. Noah dried. Their touches brief. Like handling glass.
---
NIGHT
"Want to play something?"
GTA loaded. They played in silence. Noah died twice. Not focusing.
"Tired?"
"A little."
Atlas paused the game. Reached for his whiskey. The amber caught the light. Ice clinked. He studied the glass. Sipped slowly.
"Hey," Noah said quietly.
Atlas looked at him.
"You good? Really?"
No expression change. Another sip. Glass centered on the coaster. "Yeah. Why?"
"You just seem tired."
"I am tired." Small smile. Effortful. "Long few days."
Atlas pulled him close. Noah went willingly. Desperate for contact.
"You sure you're good?" Muffled against Atlas's shirt.
Atlas's palm moved up his back. Counting vertebrae. "I'm good."
Too fast. Too easy. Like a reflex.
They held each other. Noah counted heartbeats through Atlas's chest. Slightly fast. Not quite steady.
Atlas pulled back. Fingers spread from jaw to temple. "Can't pick you up tomorrow. Meeting runs late. Meet me here? Around five?"
"Okay."
"Let's go to bed."
---
BEDROOM
They moved around each other. Familiar choreography. Never touching.
In bed, Noah curled into Atlas immediately. Atlas's arm came around him. Light. Resting on his shoulder. Not gripping.
Noah pressed closer. Atlas traced circles on his shoulder. Gentle. Distant. The pressure so light Noah had to concentrate to feel it.
Is this about Sunday? Tennis? Me having friends?
But Atlas wasn't acting jealous. Wasn't angry. Just—withdrawn.
And somehow that felt worse.
Yesterday—white knuckles, crushing grip, barely controlled tension.
Today—careful gentleness. Polite distance.
What changed?
Atlas's breathing deepened. Four seconds in. Four seconds out. The circles continued. Automatic. Habit instead of need.
Maybe he's just tired.
But Noah didn't believe it.
The rhythm stayed perfect. Too perfect.
Tomorrow. I'll ask tomorrow.
Sleep pulled at him. Atlas's circles never stopped. Light. Distant. Safe.
But Atlas's chest stayed tense against Noah's back. Muscles that wouldn't relax. A heart beating too fast for true sleep.
Noah's last thought before darkness took him: Atlas's thumb had stopped moving. His palm still there but frozen.
Like he'd already left.
Or maybe tired is just the name we give to pulling away.