Tuesday morning, 7:00 AM.
Noah's alarm went off like a fucking air raid siren.
Slapped at his phone. Missed. Tried again. Finally killed the noise.
Lay there. Eyes closed. Head pounding like someone was using his skull as a drum.
What the hell happened last night?
Fragments came back slow. The bar. Marcus and Jared. Whiskey.
Atlas.
Sat up too fast. Room spun. Waited for it to stop.
Bathroom. Stumbled there. Turned on the shower cold.
Stepped under the spray.
Ice water hit like a slap. Gasped. Stayed under it anyway.
Pieces kept surfacing while he stood there shivering. Atlas walking into the bar. That woman in the black dress. The way Noah's stomach had twisted for no reason.
The hallway. Bathroom door opening.
Atlas right there. Cigarette smoke. Wall against Noah's back—
Then nothing.
How did he get home?
Couldn't remember. Everything after that moment just... blank.
Got out. Towel. Stared at himself in the mirror.
Looked like death. Pale, bloodshot eyes, hair dripping.
Walked back to the bedroom. Phone on the nightstand.
Picked it up.
Marcus: dude you get home okay?
Sent at 1:47 AM.
Yeah. I'm good.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Marcus: atlas sterling literally carried you to his carMarcus: his DRIVER took you homeMarcus: you were so fucking gone
Atlas.
Atlas took him home.
Noah's stomach dropped.
What?
Marcus: yeah man, we were gonna get you an uber but he just showed up and was like "i'll take him"Marcus: very mr darcy of him ngl
They weren't close.
They weren't anything.
So why would Atlas—
Another message. Emma.
Emma: Hey babe! Crazy day. Can we raincheck dinner? I know you have that big report due tomorrow anyway. Let's catch up after ❤️
The report.
Wednesday. 5 PM.
Shit.
Opened his laptop. Files everywhere, notes scattered, spreadsheet half-finished.
Last save: Monday, 4:47 PM.
Before the bar. Before he got drunk and apparently blacked out.
"Fucking idiot."
Coffee. He needed coffee.
Started typing.
---
The day disappeared into spreadsheets and projections, revenue models and risk assessments. Coffee went cold. Drank it anyway. Made more. Repeat.
Hours blurred together.
At some point the sun moved across the window. Didn't notice.
Just kept working.
Market viability. Implementation timeline. Budget projections.
His eyes burned. Fingers cramped. Didn't stop.
By Wednesday afternoon, the report was done.
2:37 PM.
Read through it one more time. Checked every number, every citation, every word.
Solid. It was solid.
Hit send.
To: Atlas SterlingSubject: Mobile Payment Integration - Final AnalysisAttached: Sterling_Wells_Integration_Report_Final.pdf
Sent.
Sat back. Exhaled.
Phone buzzed.
Atlas Sterling: Received. See you at 5.
Two hours.
Looked down at himself. Same shirt from yesterday. Coffee stains. He smelled like exhaustion and desperation.
Right.
Shower. Clean clothes. Look like a human being.
Stood up. Legs protested. How long had he been sitting?
Went to the bathroom. Shower on. Hot this time.
Stood under the spray. Let the heat work into his shoulders.
Two hours until he had to face Atlas.
After whatever happened Monday night.
After Atlas drove him home.
After—what? What else?
Couldn't remember. Didn't matter.
This was work. Professional. Just a meeting.
Got out. Towel. Mirror.
Steam cleared slow, showing him looking slightly less dead than before.
Walked to his closet.
Stared at his shirts.
The blue one. No, too casual.
The gray. Professional. Clean lines.
Pulled it out. Then stopped.
Why was he thinking about this?
It was just a meeting. Didn't matter what he wore.
Put the gray shirt back. Grabbed the navy instead. Then put that back too.
Stood there like an idiot, staring at fabric.
Grabbed the first shirt his hand touched. White. Simple. Fine.
Pants. The charcoal ones. Shoes—
Went to the bathroom. Cologne on the counter.
Reached for it. Paused.
Did he need cologne? For a work meeting?
He always wore cologne to work. This wasn't different.
Except it felt different.
Sprayed it anyway. Two pumps. Normal amount.
Checked himself in the mirror.
Professional. Put-together. Like he hadn't spent forty-eight hours awake running on coffee and anxiety.
His phone buzzed.
4:10 PM.
Shit.
Grabbed his keys. Laptop bag. Out the door.
---
Sterling Holdings. Glass and steel and money.
Noah stepped into the elevator. Pressed 18.
Watched the numbers climb.
His reflection in the polished doors looked nervous.
Was he nervous?
This was fine. Just a meeting. He'd done this before.
Except—
Atlas had driven him home Monday night. And Noah didn't remember. And something about that felt important.
Elevator doors opened.
Reception. The blonde woman smiled. "Mr. Wells. Mr. Sterling is in Conference Room B."
"Thanks."
Down the hallway. Polished floors. Everything pristine.
Stopped outside the door.
Breathed.
Knocked.
"Come in."
Pushed the door open.
Atlas sat at the head of the table. Laptop open. White shirt, sleeves rolled up. Hair perfect. Looked like he'd slept ten hours and woke up ready to own the world.
Noah felt like a mess in comparison.
"Noah."
Atlas didn't smile. Didn't stand. Just gestured to the chair.
Not across from him.
Next to him.
Noah walked over. Set his laptop down.
Close. They were sitting close.
"Sit."
Did.
The AC hummed overhead. Somewhere down the hall, phones rang.
Atlas opened the report on his screen. Scrolled through it.
Noah waited.
His shoulders tensed up. Jaw tight. Everything wound like a spring.
Atlas's posture was different too. Controlled, like always, but—rigid. Like he was consciously holding himself in place.
"Report's comprehensive," Atlas said finally. Eyes on the screen. Not on Noah. "You covered the main points."
"Thanks."
Atlas scrolled. Noah tried not to watch him. Failed.
"Market viability section is strong," Atlas said. Still not looking at him. "Good data synthesis."
"Appreciate it."
The keyboard clicked faintly under Atlas's fingers.
This was wrong. Meetings with Atlas were efficient, direct. This felt like they were both walking on broken glass.
"Risk assessment needs work."
Atlas finally turned to face him.
Their eyes met.
Something passed between them. Quick. Electric.
Then Atlas looked away first.
Pointed at the screen. "Here. You identified the regulatory concerns but didn't propose mitigation strategies."
"Right. I can add—"
"We'll add them now." Atlas was already typing. "Compliance roadmap. Three-phase implementation."
His fingers moved fast. Noah watched them. Watched the way Atlas's forearm flexed when he typed.
Looked away.
Focused on his own laptop.
They worked without talking. Atlas pointing out gaps. Noah filling them in.
Professional.
Except neither of them were looking at each other. And every time their hands got close—reaching for the same document, pointing at the same line—they both pulled back.
Like touching would break something.
An hour passed.
Atlas leaned back. "Implementation timeline works. Budget projections are solid."
"Good."
The AC kicked on again. Low hum filled the room.
"You put this together in two days," Atlas said.
Not a question. Observation.
"Yeah."
"Alone."
"Yeah."
Atlas's attention shifted to him. Full focus. Something in his expression Noah couldn't read.
"That's good work."
The words came out quiet. Almost careful.
"Thanks."
They kept going. Revenue models. Market projections. Regulatory compliance.
Every section reviewed, refined, polished.
At some point, Atlas shifted his chair closer. So they could both see the same screen, he said. Made sense. Professional.
Except now Noah could feel every micro-movement. Atlas reaching for his coffee. Atlas leaning forward to type. Atlas's knee coming within inches of his.
Not touching. Never quite touching.
But the awareness—constant, electric, impossible to ignore.
Another hour passed.
The tension didn't disappear. Just... shifted. Became something they both pretended not to notice.
Every time Noah leaned in to see the screen, he felt Atlas tense beside him.
Every time their hands almost touched, they both pulled back like they'd been burned.
At 7:45, Atlas closed his laptop.
"We're done."
Noah exhaled. Didn't realize he'd been holding his breath.
"I'll send the revised version to the team tomorrow," Atlas said. "We present Friday."
Friday. Two days.
"Okay."
"There's more work coming," Atlas continued. "This integration project needs dedicated oversight. I want you leading the implementation timeline."
"Me?"
"You proved you can handle complex analysis under pressure. I need someone I can trust with this."
Trust.
Coming from Atlas, that word felt significant.
"Okay. Yeah. I can do that."
"We'll need to meet regularly. Weekly, at minimum. Go over progress, address issues."
Weekly meetings with Atlas.
"Sure."
"Friday night. 7 PM. My place."
Noah's brain stuttered. "Your place?"
"Easier than staying late here. We can go over the presentation strategy without interruption."
Made sense. Logical.
So why did it feel like—
"I—" Noah's mouth went dry. "Could we do Monday instead? I've got something Friday."
Lie. Weak lie. But something about going to Atlas's apartment—
Bad idea. Obviously bad idea.
Atlas looked at him. That same measuring stare.
"No," he said. Simple. "Friday works better for me."
Not a suggestion.
"I'm not sure I can move—"
"Is it work-related?" Atlas's tone stayed level. Professional. "Your Friday plans?"
Trapped. Cleanly trapped.
"No."
"Then move them. This is priority."
Noah's jaw tightened. "Fine. Friday at 7."
"Good."
Atlas's eyes dropped to his laptop. Conversation over.
Noah started packing up his stuff. Hands fumbling with the charger.
Almost had everything gathered when—
Froze.
He should say something. About Monday. About Atlas driving him home.
It felt wrong not to acknowledge it.
Set the laptop bag down. Looked at Atlas.
Atlas was watching him. Had been watching him, apparently.
"Um." Noah's throat went dry. "Before I go. I just—"
Stopped. This was harder than it should be.
Atlas waited. Expression unreadable.
"About Monday night." The words came out quiet. Noah couldn't quite meet his eyes. "My friends told me you... gave me a ride home."
Atlas's fingers stilled on the keyboard.
"I don't really remember any of it. So. Thank you. For doing that." Looked up. Met Atlas's gaze. "And if I said or did anything inappropriate, or if I was an asshole, I'm really sorry. I don't usually get that drunk."
The words tumbled out awkward, sincere.
Atlas went very still.
Something flickered in his expression. Too fast to read.
"You don't remember," Atlas said.
Not a question. Statement. Careful.
"No. I—" Noah's face heated. "The last thing I remember clearly is seeing you in the hallway. Outside the bathroom. After that it's just... blank. I don't know what happened or what I said or—"
"You don't remember the car," Atlas interrupted. Voice quiet. Controlled.
"No."
"The drive."
"No."
"Me walking you to your door."
Every word landed heavy.
Noah shook his head. "Nothing. I'm sorry. I woke up Tuesday morning with the worst hangover of my life and no memory of how I got home."
Atlas's eyes flicked to the floor. Nothing.
Then back to Noah.
Atlas leaned back in his chair. Studying him. Eyes dark and unreadable.
The room felt smaller suddenly.
"Do you not remember?" He stopped. "Or do you not want to remember?"
The question landed like a punch.
Noah's breath caught. "What?"
"It's a simple question."
"I—" His throat closed. "I genuinely don't remember. I'm not avoiding it or blocking it out. I just—I was too drunk. Everything after that hallway is gone."
Atlas watched him for a long moment.
Noah couldn't read his expression. Couldn't tell if he believed him or not.
"The hallway," Atlas repeated. Quiet.
"Yeah. You were there. You were smoking. And you—"
Stopped.
Because there was something. Vague, blurry.
Wall against his back. Atlas close. Too close.
Heat.
His pulse kicked up just thinking about it.
Atlas's eyes narrowed. Like he could see the thought forming.
"And I what?" he prompted. Voice low.
"I don't know." Noah's hands were shaking. "It's not clear. Just—you were there. And then nothing."
Not quite true.
That hallway. Even thinking about it—his skin too tight, breath going shallow.
But he couldn't grab hold of it.
Atlas stood.
Slow. Deliberate.
Walked around the table. Came to stand in front of Noah.
Close. Not as close as—
As what?
Noah met his eyes.
" You didn't do anything wrong. You were just... yourself," Atlas said. Quiet. Final.
The words should've been reassuring.
Weren't.
Because the way Atlas said them—loaded, heavy with meaning—made Noah feel like he'd missed something crucial.
"Then why—" Noah's voice came out rough. "Why does it feel like something happened?"
Atlas's jaw tightened.
" You were just... yourself," he said.
The words hung between them.
Noah's heart hammered against his ribs.
"I don't understand."
Atlas stepped back. " It's late. You should leave."
Dismissed.
Just like that.
Noah stood. Grabbed his bag.
Started for the door.
Hand on the handle when Atlas spoke again.
"Noah."
Froze. Didn't turn.
"You fell asleep in my car. I made sure you got home safe. That's all."
That's all.
So why did those two words feel like a lie?
"Okay," Noah said. "Thanks again."
Walked out. Door clicked shut.
Hallway. Empty. Just him and the sound of his own breathing.
What the hell just happened?
---
Elevator. Ground floor. Parking garage.
Got in his car. Sat in the dark.
Atlas's voice kept echoing.
Do you not remember, or do you not want to remember?
You were yourself.
What did that mean?
Started the car. Pulled out.
Traffic was light. Highway mostly empty.
His mind circled back to Monday night. Trying to grab those missing pieces.
The bar. Atlas walking in. That woman in the black dress. The weird twist in Noah's stomach.
Bathroom. Hallway.
Atlas there. Wall hard against Noah's back.
The memory sharpened suddenly.
Atlas's hand on his arm. Grip tight. Close enough to feel heat between them.
"Are you playing a game?"
His voice. Low. Dangerous.
What had Noah said?
What had he done?
The memory broke apart before he could grab it.
But his body remembered. The way his pulse kicked up now, just thinking about it. The way his skin felt too warm.
Another fragment surfaced.
Car. Backseat. City lights sliding past.
His head on something solid.
Warm.
Atlas's shoulder.
Oh god.
He'd fallen asleep on Atlas.
Heat flooded his face.
That's why Atlas asked if he remembered. That's why the whole conversation felt loaded.
Noah had literally passed out on him.
Pulled into his apartment complex. Parked. Killed the engine.
Sat there.
This was fine. Just embarrassing. Everyone had drunk stories. This was just another one.
Didn't mean anything.
Except—
Why did Atlas drive him home personally instead of putting him in an Uber?
You were yourself.
Those words wouldn't leave him alone.
What had he said or done that made Atlas look at him like—
Like what?
Couldn't finish the thought.
Got out of the car. Walked to his apartment.
Inside, the quiet pressed down on everything.
Went to the bedroom. Lay down on the bed fully dressed.
Stared at the ceiling.
Friday. 7 PM. Atlas's place.
Where they'd be alone.
Why did that thought make his pulse race?
This was work. Strategy session. Professional.
That's all.
Rolled onto his side. Pulled the pillow over his head.
Sleep. He needed sleep.
But even as exhaustion pulled him under—
Atlas's voice echoed.
"You were yourself."
What did that mean?
What version of himself had he been?
And why did breathing feel different when Atlas looked at him like that?