Friday. 7:00 PM.
The elevator rose smooth and quiet.
Noah stared at the polished doors. His reflection looked like shit—tie loose, hair a mess, dark circles.
You can do this.
Work. Get in, get the job done, get out.
Two hours tops. Maybe less if he moved fast.
Then the weekend. Basketball. Beer. Normal shit.
His phone buzzed.
Marcus: yo still down for tomorrow? 10am
Yeah I'm in
Marcus: sick. jared's bringing beer after
Perfect
The elevator slowed.
Floor 42. Penthouse.
Doors slid open.
He took a breath.
Just work.
Stepped out.
Long hallway. One door at the end.
He walked up. Knocked twice.
Footsteps.
The door opened—same guy from before, mid-thirties, professional.
"Mr. Wells."
"Hey."
"Mr. Sterling's upstairs in his study. I can show you—"
"I got it. Thanks."
The guy stepped aside.
Noah walked in.
The place looked different without a party happening. Lights on but dim. No music. Just the city humming outside.
Stairs on the right.
He climbed.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
The party flashed back—this staircase, looking for Atlas, finding him with that guy, the way he—
Stop.
Top of the stairs. Hallway. Door cracked open at the end.
Light spilling out.
Noah stopped outside.
Breathed.
Pushed it wider.
The study was nothing like the conference room at Sterling Holdings.
This was... lived in.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city spread out below, lights everywhere. Soft lighting—no fluorescents. Leather chairs that looked expensive and comfortable. Bookshelves packed with actual books, not just for show. A big desk covered in papers, coffee cups, notes.
Warm grays. Deep blues. Calming.
Atlas sat at the desk, laptop open. Cigarette between his fingers, smoke drifting up lazy.
He looked up.
"Noah."
Not a greeting. Just—acknowledgment.
"Hey."
Atlas nodded at the chair next to him. "Sit."
Noah walked over.
There was a tray on the desk—cheese, crackers, grapes. Two glasses. Whiskey bottle.
He sat down.
Close.
Atlas was in all black—loose joggers, soft t-shirt. Comfortable.
Still looked—
Fuck.
Good. He looked good.
The smell hit Noah right away. Different cologne, darker. Mixed with cigarette smoke.
His chest went tight.
Atlas scrolled through something on his laptop, didn't look over.
"Long day?" Casual.
"Yeah."
"You eat anything?"
"Had lunch."
"That was hours ago." Atlas gestured at the tray. "Help yourself. Want coffee? Water?"
"Just water."
Atlas picked up his phone, typed something, set it back down.
Silence.
Noah opened his laptop. Started pulling up files.
Atlas glanced at him. Brief. Then back to his screen.
"Presentation's Thursday," Atlas said. "Investors will be there. High stakes."
"Got it."
"Want to run through market analysis first. Then projections."
"Sure."
Atlas reached across Noah for the folder on the table.
His shoulder brushed Noah's.
Quick. Accidental.
Noah's breath caught.
His hand went to his thigh under the table. Gripped hard.
Atlas pulled back with the folder, flipped it open like nothing happened.
Started reading.
Noah stared at his screen.
Made himself breathe normal.
Atlas's voice cut through. "Who prepared this section?"
Noah looked up.
Atlas was watching him. Face blank.
Like he hadn't just—
"CFO's team," Noah said. "I reviewed it."
"It's good."
"Thanks."
Their eyes met.
Quick. Electric.
Noah looked away first.
Focused on his laptop.
Atlas kept talking—revenue models, market penetration, implementation.
Noah took notes.
Nodded when he should.
Commented when asked.
Professional.
Atlas's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen. "Give me a sec."
Answered. "Alice. Hey."
His voice changed—lighter, friendly.
"Yeah, Sunday. I'm ready... No, I'm not bringing the Rover, that's overkill... You're bringing what? Jesus, Alice..."
He laughed. Actually laughed.
"Fine. But when you roll it, I'm not helping... Yeah yeah. See you Sunday."
Hung up.
Looked at Noah. "Sorry. Off-road race Sunday. Friend's been planning it for months."
"Sounds fun."
"You should come."
The invitation just hung there.
Noah's fingers stopped moving on the keyboard.
"I've got plans."
"Yeah? What kind?"
"Basketball with friends."
"Afternoon?"
"Probably all day. Hanging out after."
Atlas leaned back in his chair, studying him. "When do you not have plans?"
"When I don't."
"Mm."
The guy from downstairs appeared with water. Set it in front of Noah. Left.
"You sure you don't want anything else?" Atlas asked. "You look like you haven't eaten in a week."
"I'm good."
Atlas poured himself whiskey—two fingers, neat.
Took a sip. Set it down.
Picked up his cigarette.
Looked at Noah over the glass.
"Want one?" He gestured at the whiskey.
"No thanks."
"Might help you relax."
"I'm relaxed."
Atlas's mouth curved slightly. Something dangerous in his eyes.
"Are you."
Not a question.
He took a drag. Smoke drifted between them.
Noah looked away—at the windows, the city, his laptop. Anywhere but Atlas.
"You okay?" Atlas asked.
Quiet. Careful.
Noah's gaze snapped back.
Atlas sat there—whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other. Smoke curling around him.
He looked—
Stop.
"I'm fine," Noah said.
"You seem tense."
"I'm not."
Atlas just watched him.
Didn't believe it.
"Sunday," Atlas said again. "Off-road racing. No work talk. Just—fun."
"I told you. I have plans."
"Cancel them."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because—" Noah's jaw tightened. "Because I don't want to spend my weekend with work people."
It came out sharper than he meant.
Atlas went very still.
Set his glass down slow.
"Work people," he repeated. Flat.
Fuck.
"Yeah."
"Is that what we are?" Atlas asked. "Coworkers?"
"You're my supervisor."
"I'm your supervisor." Atlas leaned forward. "We've known each other since we were fifteen, Noah."
"So?"
"So I'm just another supervisor to you."
"I know you as much as I know anyone else."
That landed wrong. Noah saw it in Atlas's eyes.
Something shifted. Hardened.
"Anyone else," Atlas said. Quiet. "You see yourself as 'anyone else'?"
Noah's throat closed up.
"You know the answer to that."
"Do I."
Silence.
Atlas stubbed out his cigarette. Immediately lit another one.
"Why are you always defensive around me?" he asked.
The question hit hard.
"What?"
"You heard me. Every time we're alone, you put up walls. Why?"
"How do you want me to be around you?" Noah shot back.
"Yourself."
"People are themselves around people they trust."
Atlas's eyes narrowed. "And you don't trust me."
"Trust is built, Atlas. It's not automatic."
"So that's a no."
"That's a—" Noah stopped. Breathed. "Can we just focus on work?"
Atlas stared at him for a long moment.
Then picked up another folder. "Fine. Work."
They went through three more reports.
Atlas moved his chair closer at some point—to see Noah's screen better, he said.
Their thighs almost touched.
Almost.
Not quite.
But close enough that Noah felt heat between them. Close enough his skin felt too tight.
Atlas's arm brushed his when he reached for his coffee.
Noah's hand clenched around his pen.
"Presentation's Thursday," Atlas said. "Two PM. Investors, board, both our fathers."
"Got it."
"Want to run through it Monday. Then again Wednesday. Make sure it's tight."
"Okay."
"Need two more reports by Wednesday. Market comparison and risk mitigation."
"I'll have them ready."
"Good."
Atlas closed his laptop.
Noah exhaled.
Started packing his stuff.
"Noah."
He froze.
Atlas's hand landed on his shoulder.
Firm. Warm.
Then pulled.
The chair spun.
Noah's heart stopped.
Atlas was right there. Hand still on Noah's shoulder. Close enough to—
Close enough to kiss.
Noah couldn't breathe.
"What's the problem?" Atlas asked. Voice low.
"There's no problem."
"Then why are you acting like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like you can't stand being in the same room as me."
Noah's pulse hammered. "I'm being professional. What else do you want?"
"I want you to stop lying."
"I'm not—"
"You are." Atlas's grip tightened on his shoulder. "You've been lying since you walked in."
"Personal reasons," Noah said fast.
"Personal reasons."
"Yeah."
"What personal reasons?"
"That's—that's not your business."
"Isn't it?"
Their eyes locked.
Neither moved.
Noah could feel Atlas's breath. Could smell smoke and whiskey. That cologne.
Heat radiating off him.
"I'm being professional," Noah said again. His voice shook. "I don't know what else you want from me."
"I don't understand you," Atlas said.
"Yeah? Well I don't understand you either. And you're—" Noah's voice cracked. "You're messing with my head."
Atlas's eyes darkened.
"Am I."
"Yes."
"How?"
Noah couldn't answer.
Couldn't think.
His hand came up.
Pressed flat against Atlas's chest.
Pushed.
Hard.
Atlas stepped back.
Noah stood up fast. Chair scraped the floor.
They stared at each other.
Both breathing hard.
Both flushed.
Atlas reached for his cigarettes. Lit one. Hands steady even though his jaw was tight.
Noah grabbed his laptop. His bag.
Started for the door.
Hand on the frame when he stopped.
Turned.
Atlas stood by the desk. Smoke curling up. Eyes locked on Noah.
"Find yourself another distraction," Noah said. Voice rough. "And don't cross lines you draw."
He left.
Down the stairs. Past the guy in the living room.
Out the door.
Elevator.
Ground floor.
Parking garage.
Got in his car.
Sat there.
Heart pounding.
What the fuck just happened?
His hands shook on the wheel.
That moment—Atlas's hand on his shoulder, spinning the chair.
Close enough to—
His breath came shallow.
He started the car.
Drove.
Autopilot. Streets blurred.
His building.
Up to his apartment.
Inside.
Straight to the bedroom.
Fell onto the bed.
Stared at the ceiling.
His chest hurt.
Not anger. Not frustration.
Something else.
That moment. Atlas right there. Eyes locked. Close enough to feel his breath.
Noah's whole body felt like it was burning.
Everywhere Atlas had touched—his shoulder, the proximity—felt like fire.
He closed his eyes.
Saw Atlas staring at him. Smoke. Whiskey. That look.
Felt Atlas's hand on his shoulder.
The heat.
Fuck.
Noah rolled onto his side.
Buried his face in the pillow.
Tomorrow. Basketball. Friends. Normal life.
Two days away from this.
Away from Atlas.
Away from whatever the hell this was.
But even thinking that—
His body responded.
Heat. Want.
Don't cross lines you draw.
His own words.
But who drew the lines?
Atlas?
Or him?
And which side was he really on?
He closed his eyes.
Saw Atlas staring at him—smoke curling up, that intensity, the way he looked at Noah like he could see straight through him.
His pulse wouldn't slow down.
It meant nothing.
Had to mean nothing.
The door closed downstairs.
Atlas stood there.
Cigarette burning down between his fingers.
Didn't move for a long moment.
Then—moved fast.
Grabbed the whiskey bottle. Drained his glass. Poured another.
Drank it in one go.
Slammed the glass down.
It cracked.
Fuck.
His hand was shaking.
He lit another cigarette. Took a drag so hard it burned.
Paced to the window. Back to the desk. Window again.
Ran both hands through his hair, gripping hard enough to hurt.
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
Buzzed again.
He grabbed it.
Alice: you still coming sunday? bring your boy if you want 😏
His thumb hovered.
He typed: I fucked up
Deleted it.
Typed: He left
Deleted that too.
Threw the phone on the couch.
It bounced. Hit the floor.
He didn't pick it up.
Walked back to the window.
Pressed his forehead to the glass.
Cold.
Atlas watched his reflection in the window glass.
For a second he thought he saw Noah there—a ghost, maybe. Something.
Blinked.
Nothing.
Whatever.
Didn't matter anyway.