Monday morning sucked ass.
Noah's laptop took three tries to boot up. Coffee went cold while he waited, and his inbox was a nightmare—47 unread emails screaming for attention.
One new.
From: Atlas Sterling
Subject: Mobile Payment Integration — Analysis Required
Stomach dropped before he even clicked it.
Noah,
Comprehensive analysis of the mobile payment integration framework by Wednesday, 5 PM.
Focus areas:
– Market viability
– Risk assessment
– Implementation timeline
– Budget projections
We'll review in my office, Wednesday at 5.
A.S.
Wednesday.
Two fucking days.
"You've got to be shitting me."
A couple of heads turned at nearby desks. Noah didn't give a single fuck.
Cracked his knuckles, closed the email, pulled up a blank spreadsheet.
Fine. Atlas wanted perfect?
He'd get perfect.
---
Three PM. Eyes like sandpaper, numbers splitting into doubles every time he blinked.
Phone lit up.
Marcus: drinks tonight? 6:30, usual spot?
Jared: im in
Marcus: @Noah don't tell me corporate already ate you alive
Stared at the screen.
Hadn't been out in... what, three weeks? A month?
Yeah. I'm in.
Three beer emojis flooded the group chat immediately.
Half-smiled despite himself, chugged the cold coffee, turned back to the hellscape of cells and formulas.
---
6:30 PM.
The bar smelled like whiskey, wood polish, and way too many people crammed into one space. Loud, warm, borderline suffocating—the kind of crowded where you couldn't move without bumping into someone's drink or elbow. Marcus and Jared had already snagged the booth by the window, halfway through their first beers.
"Noah freaking Wells." Marcus grinned. "Dude. You look like absolute shit."
"Thanks, man. Love you too."
"Long week?"
"It's Monday."
Jared cracked up. "Jesus Christ. That bad?"
Noah's smile came easy. Automatic. Muscle memory from better days.
For like five seconds, he forgot about impossible deadlines and Atlas Sterling's ice-cold emails that always felt like barely-concealed threats.
They fell into the usual rhythm. Marcus's train wreck of a Tinder date. Jared's boyfriend adopting yet another stray cat despite their lease only allowing two.
Normal shit. Easy shit.
Door swung open.
Atlas.
Black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cutting through the crowd like everyone else was just set decoration. Some woman in a sleek black dress beside him—elegant, polished, new girlfriend maybe?—two guys trailing behind in that expensive-casual way that screamed money without trying.
Noah's stomach did something weird. Stupid.
They claimed a table near the bar.
Back to the wall, Atlas faced the entire room.
Faced Noah.
Their eyes met across the chaos and the bar's noise just—pulled back. Like someone had turned down the volume on everything except Noah's pulse.
Looked away first.
His pulse didn't get the memo.
"Holy shit," Marcus whispered.
Jared followed the stare. "Wait. That's Atlas Sterling. The guy from the business section, right?"
"Yeah," Noah said, aiming for casual. "We work together."
Marcus's eyebrow shot up. "He's your boss?"
"Our companies are working on a project."
Shut it down. Simple.
"Damn," Jared said, leaning back. "He's—"
"Don't."
"—hot as fuck," Marcus finished anyway.
Noah took a long pull from his whiskey. "You two are fucking idiots."
Across the room, Atlas pulled out a cigarette. Lit it right there indoors—completely illegal, nobody said shit.
Smoke curled toward the ceiling, caught the dim lighting.
His gaze cut back to Noah.
This time, Noah didn't look away. Just raised his glass. Silent. Detached.
Atlas didn't move.
Not even a blink.
Nothing.
Noah turned back to his friends, forced out a laugh at whatever Jared was saying.
Under the table, his leg wouldn't stop bouncing.
---
Hours bled together after that. Whiskey, war stories from their respective corporate hellscapes, Jared doing a truly terrible impression of his department head.
By the third drink, everything felt softer around the edges.
Three drinks. Normally he'd be fine past this point, solid and steady. Tonight wasn't normal.
Atlas became background noise. Just another face in the crowd.
Until Noah needed to piss.
"Bathroom," he muttered, sliding out of the booth.
Hallway to the restrooms was narrow, flickering overhead light making everything look vaguely horror-movie-ish, footsteps echoing way too loud on the sticky floor.
Bathroom door—cool air hit.
Washed his hands. Stared at the mirror. Cheeks flushed, eyes too bright.
Small smile. Tired but real.
Pushed the door.
Fuck—
Atlas.
Right there, leaning against the hallway wall, cigarette between two fingers, smoke drifting lazy toward the ceiling.
"Good evening, Mr. Sterling."
Voice came out light. Too light. Performative.
Atlas just stared.
Noah moved to step past.
Atlas's hand shot out. Grabbed his arm.
Pulled.
Back hit the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
"Are you playing a game?"
Quiet. Almost conversational.
But his grip—warm, steady, tight.
Noah met his eyes. "I don't know what you mean."
"You do."
Space between them evaporated.
Heat radiating through his shirt. Could smell smoke and leather and something expensive—cologne, maybe. Stupid expensive.
"I'm being professional," Noah said.
"Professional."
Atlas said it like the word tasted like ash.
Eyes locked.
Neither moved.
Every sound from the bar outside—music, voices, laughter—died completely.
Just pulse hammering against ribs. Just breath.
Noah's hand came up. Pressed flat against Atlas's chest.
Pushed.
Atlas stepped back. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was allowing it.
His hand dropped.
He looked away first this time.
"You—" Noah's voice shook. "You can't just—"
Stopped. Words gone. Couldn't trust his mouth.
Atlas said nothing.
That silence—worse than anything he could've said.
Noah walked.
Felt eyes on his back the whole way down the hall, burning through his shirt, until he turned the corner and could finally fucking breathe again.
---
When he got back to the booth, Marcus and Jared were dying laughing about something on Jared's phone.
"You good?" Jared asked, glancing up.
"Fine."
Way too fast.
Atlas's table sat empty now.
Grabbed his drink. Tried to forget how his skin still burned exactly where Atlas's fingers had wrapped around his arm.
---
10:00 PM hit and the world tilted sideways when Noah stood.
Too many drinks. Or too many thoughts crashing into each other. Hard to tell which.
"I'm done," he muttered.
Marcus stood to steady him. "You good to get home, man?"
"Yeah. I'm good."
Pushed through the crowd toward the exit. Cold air outside hit like a slap.
Then a familiar voice cut through the noise.
"I'll take him."
Atlas.
Standing next to a sleek black car. Daniel—Atlas's assistant, tonight behind the wheel—opened the back door without a word.
Marcus blinked. "Uh—sir?"
Atlas's tone left exactly zero room for negotiation. "I'll make sure he gets home safely."
Noah didn't argue. Couldn't trust his mouth not to say something stupid.
Atlas's arm came around his back. Firm. Steady.
Hand hesitated for a second at Noah's waist before settling there.
Marcus hesitated too, watching. "Text us when you're home, yeah?"
"Yeah," Noah mumbled. "I will."
Atlas guided him toward the car.
Noah slid in. Or Atlas helped him slide in, hard to tell, details got fuzzy.
Door closed—soft thunk.
City lights blurred past the window, streetlights smearing into neon streaks that made Noah's eyes hurt or maybe that was the whiskey, couldn't tell.
Forehead against cold glass.
Then it slipped.
Sideways, without meaning to, landing on something solid.
Atlas's shoulder.
The cold of the window to the warmth of Atlas's shoulder—his brain didn't want to register the difference, but his body already had.
Atlas went rigid. Total lockdown.
Silent. Still.
Then his hand came up—stopped halfway—dropped back to his thigh.
Stared straight ahead, jaw working like he was chewing through words he wouldn't say out loud.
Daniel's eyes flicked to the rearview.
Said nothing.
Just the sound of tires on wet asphalt and distant sirens somewhere in the city.
---
By the time they pulled up outside Noah's building, he was out cold.
Atlas carried him inside. Careful—like Noah might break.
Paused at the entrance.
Looked down.
Noah's face, slack with sleep, that small stupid smile still there.
Kept walking.
Daniel stayed by the entrance, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the empty street.
Fingerprint lock on the apartment door.
Atlas lifted Noah's hand. Pressed his thumb against the scanner.
Soft click. Green light.
Shouldered the door open.
Found the bedroom down the short hallway.
Laid Noah down on the bed. Gentle. More gentle than he'd ever been with anything in his entire life, probably.
Pulled the blanket up.
Started to turn.
Stopped.
Adjusted the pillow under Noah's head even though it was fine.
Then turned to leave.
Felt it.
Fingers wrapping loose around his wrist.
Noah's hand. Warm. Barely holding on.
Atlas stopped breathing.
Noah's eyes cracked open halfway. Unfocused. Hazy. But his smile—small, real, unguarded.
"G'night," Noah mumbled.
Atlas let out a long breath. Quiet. Controlled.
Pulled his hand free slowly.
Stood there for another few seconds. Just looking.
Then turned around fast, like staying longer would be a mistake.
Closed the bedroom door soft behind him.
---
Outside, Daniel straightened up from where he'd been leaning against the car. "All good, sir?"
Atlas nodded once. "Drive."
In the backseat, city lights washed across the window in waves.
Atlas looked at his hand.
Could still feel it—Noah's pulse under his fingertips, that warmth.
The air left him in a rush.