SATURDAY
NOAH
The ball hit the rim. Bounced off.
Marcus grabbed the rebound, passed it to Jared.
"Dude, what the fuck?" Marcus jogged over. "That's like your fifth miss."
Noah wiped sweat off his face. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're playing like shit."
The outdoor court was packed—Saturday mornings always were. Sun beating down, music blasting from someone's speaker, kids screaming on the next court over.
Normal.
This was supposed to be normal.
Jared took a shot. Swish.
"See?" Marcus clapped. "That's how it's done."
Noah grabbed the ball, dribbled hard, went for a layup.
Made it.
"There we go!" Marcus grinned. "He's alive."
They played another hour. Noah pushed himself harder than usual—ran faster, defended rougher. Anything to shut his brain up.
Didn't work.
Every time he stopped moving, there it was.
Atlas's hand on his shoulder.
The chair spinning.
Close enough to kiss.
His bag on the sideline started buzzing.
He ignored it.
"Yo, Noah!"
He blinked.
Marcus was staring at him. "You coming or what?"
"Where?"
"Coffee. Like we just said. Two seconds ago."
"Yeah. Sure."
They walked to the cafe two blocks over. Same place they always went. Jared ordered some fancy oat milk thing, Marcus got black coffee. Noah just wanted water.
His phone started going off in his pocket as they sat down.
He pulled out his phone.
Emma
Missed Call (2)
He swiped it away.
Marcus stretched out in his chair. "So Jared's seeing someone."
Jared kicked him under the table. "Shut up."
"What? I'm proud of you, man."
"It's been two dates."
"Two good dates though, right?"
Jared's face went red. "Yeah. Good dates."
Noah's phone lit up again on the table.
Emma:Can we talk?
He typed: Busy. I'll call you later.
Hit send.
Flipped the phone face down.
Marcus turned to him. "What about you? How's work?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"Yeah."
"Dude." Marcus leaned forward. "You've been weird all morning. What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit."
Noah's jaw tightened. "I said nothing."
Silence.
Jared cleared his throat. "Marcus, didn't you say you had to pick up that thing?"
"What thing?"
"The thing. For later."
"Oh. Right. Yeah." Marcus stood up. "Be right back."
He left.
Noah stared at his water bottle.
Jared waited a beat. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You're really not."
Noah looked up.
Jared's face was open, concerned. No judgment there.
"Is it work?" Jared asked. "Or like... someone at work?"
Noah's throat went tight.
"There's this person," he said quietly.
Jared nodded. Waited.
"It's—" Noah stopped. "Complicated."
"Work complicated or feelings complicated?"
"Both."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
Jared took a sip of his coffee. "Want my completely unsolicited opinion?"
"Not really."
"Too bad. Here it is." Jared set his cup down. "Sometimes the scariest thing isn't the thing itself. It's admitting you actually want it."
Noah stared at him.
"I spent two years," Jared continued, "convincing myself I didn't want to date anyone. Too messy, too risky, whatever. You know what the real problem was?"
"What?"
"I was terrified it might actually work out."
Noah's chest hurt.
"So." Jared leaned back. "This person. Do you want them?"
The question sat there between them.
Heavy.
Noah couldn't answer.
His phone was face down on the table. Screen dark.
Find yourself another distraction.
His own words.
Don't cross lines you draw.
"I don't know," Noah said finally.
Jared smiled—sad, knowing. "Yeah you do."
Marcus came back with a bag from the corner store.
"Got the thing!" He dropped into his chair. "What'd I miss?"
"Nothing," both of them said at the same time.
ATLAS
The garage was cool and quiet.
Atlas ran his hand along the Rover's hood. Checked tire pressure, oil, suspension.
Everything perfect.
Like always.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Alice:eta?? people are asking
He typed back: 20 minutes
Alice:youre never late. something wrong?
No
Alice:...okay
He put his phone away.
Stared at the car.
Last night kept playing in his head—Noah pushing him away, walking out, that look on his face.
You're messing with my head.
How?
Atlas's hand curled into a fist.
He hadn't slept. Barely ate. Spent the whole night pacing and drinking whiskey that did fuck all to help.
His phone went off again.
Alice:seriously are you okay
He ignored it.
Grabbed his keys, got in the car.
Fifteen-minute drive. Desert road leading to the off-road track Alice's family owned. He could already see cars parked when he pulled up.
Alice was leaning against her truck, sunglasses on, arms crossed.
She straightened when she saw him.
"Finally." She walked over as he got out, looked him up and down. "Jesus, did you sleep?"
"I'm fine."
"You look like death."
"Thanks."
"I'm serious, Atlas. What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Bullshit." She pulled her sunglasses down, stared at him. "How'd your work thing go yesterday?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"Yeah."
She didn't believe him. He could tell.
"Atlas—"
"Can we just race?"
She studied him another second, then pushed her sunglasses back up. "Fine. But you're buying drinks after."
"Deal."
They walked over to where everyone was gathering. Six cars total. Familiar faces—people Atlas had known for years. Good people. Normal people.
People who didn't make his chest feel like it was caving in.
The race started.
Atlas took the first turn too fast. Felt the car slide before he corrected.
Alice's voice crackled through the radio. "Ease up, Sterling. It's not the Indy 500."
He didn't ease up.
Second turn. Third. His hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles went white.
Usually this helped—the speed, the focus, the control.
Today it just made everything worse.
Every time he tried to focus, he saw Noah's face.
You're messing with my head.
The ramp came up fast.
He hit it.
The car launched.
For a second—nothing. Just air, just silence.
Then the landing.
Hard.
Harder than it should've been.
The car bounced, shook. Something in the back rattled loud.
"Fuck!" Alice's voice. "Atlas, slow down!"
He did. Finally.
Pulled over to the side and just sat there.
Breathing hard.
Alice's truck pulled up next to him. She got out, walked over, knocked on his window.
He rolled it down.
"What the hell was that?" she asked.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You almost rolled the fucking car."
"I had it under control."
"Did you?" She leaned against the door. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're driving like someone with a death wish."
Atlas didn't answer.
Alice sighed, pulled off her sunglasses. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Atlas. Come on."
"I said I'm fine."
"And I'm saying you're full of shit." She crossed her arms. "I've known you for thirteen years. I know when something's wrong."
Silence.
Then: "It's just work."
"Work."
"Yeah."
"What kind of work makes you drive like that?"
He didn't answer.
Alice watched him, then shook her head. "You know what your problem is?"
"What?"
"You try to control everything. And when you can't, you lose your fucking mind."
His jaw tightened.
"I'm not—"
"You are." She softened slightly. "Look. I don't know what happened yesterday, and I'm not gonna push. But whatever it is? You can't control it out of existence."
She put her sunglasses back on.
"Come on. Let's get drinks. You need one."
SUNDAY
NOAH
Sunday sucked.
Noah woke up late, stayed in bed another hour staring at his ceiling.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Emma
Missed Call (4)
He turned it face down.
Got up. Made coffee. Sat on his couch.
TV on but he wasn't watching it.
The screen on the coffee table lit up.
He grabbed it.
Emma:Noah please. Can we just talk?
He stared at the message.
Typed: I'll call when I can.
Deleted it.
Typed: Not a good time.
Deleted that too.
Finally typed: I'll call you later.
Sent it.
Set the phone down.
It lit up immediately.
Emma:I love you
Noah's stomach dropped.
He stared at the screen.
Three words. Simple, direct.
Wrong.
He locked the phone without responding.
Left it on the coffee table.
Marcus had texted earlier: last night was fun. same time next week?
He'd replied: yeah
Nothing since.
Jared's words wouldn't leave him alone.
Do you want them?
Yeah you do.
Noah grabbed his phone again. Opened Instagram.
Scrolled.
Didn't even know what he was looking for until he typed it.
Atlas Sterling
Private account. Profile picture was just a silhouette shot—probably from some company event.
68 posts. 847 followers.
Noah stared at it.
Thumb hovering over the follow button.
What are you doing?
If he hit follow, Atlas would get a notification. Would see Noah's name pop up. Would know Noah was looking.
His thumb moved.
Hit Follow.
The button changed immediately.
Requested
Noah's heart stopped.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
He hit unfollow.
The button went back to Follow.
Did the request go through? Did Atlas see it?
"Fuck."
He threw the phone on the couch.
Stood up. Started pacing.
This was stupid. All of it.
Atlas was his supervisor. Nothing more.
Friday night was just—stress, tension, proximity.
Didn't mean anything.
You're messing with my head.
Noah's own voice.
How?
Atlas's.
He sat back down.
Picked up his phone.
Emma's message was still there.
I love you
Unanswered.
He should respond. Say something. Anything.
But he didn't.
Just stared at it, then swiped away.
Opened Instagram again.
Atlas's profile.
Private. Locked. Unreachable.
Like everything else about him.
Noah set the phone down.
Stood up again.
Paced more.
The apartment felt too small, too quiet.
He needed to get out, do something, anything.
But he didn't move.
Just stood there in his living room staring at nothing.
Thinking about smoke curling up between them.
About Atlas's hand on his shoulder.
About the way he looked at Noah like he could see everything Noah was trying to hide.
The phone buzzed again.
He grabbed it.
Marcus:you good bro?
Yeah. Just tired.
Marcus:fair. get some rest
Noah looked at the time.
6:47 PM.
The whole day gone. Wasted.
Tomorrow was Monday.
Back to work. Back to Sterling Holdings.
Back to Atlas.
His stomach dropped.
He didn't know if he was dreading it or desperate for it.
Maybe both.
ATLAS
Atlas stood in his study.
Same spot as Friday night.
Different feeling entirely.
The off-road race had been a disaster. He'd barely spoken to anyone after, made some excuse, left early.
Alice had texted three times since.
He'd ignored all of them.
Now he stood here with a glass of whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other.
Staring out at the city.
Sunday evening. Sun setting, sky going orange then purple then dark.
He should eat something. Shower. Sleep.
Didn't do any of it.
Just stood there.
Alice's words kept coming back.
You try to control everything. And when you can't, you lose your fucking mind.
She wasn't wrong.
Control was how he functioned, how he kept everything together.
Work. Life. Relationships.
All of it carefully managed, carefully maintained.
Then Noah walked into that penthouse party three weeks ago and—
Not much.
Not enough that most people would notice.
But enough that Atlas did.
Enough that Friday night happened.
You're messing with my head.
Noah's voice. Breaking. Raw.
Atlas took a drag. Smoke filled his lungs, burned.
He'd fucked up.
Pushed too hard, got too close.
Crossed a line he shouldn't have.
Noah worked for him. That alone made it complicated.
Add in their history—or lack of it. Fifteen years old, barely more than acquaintances.
Add in the fact that Noah clearly wanted nothing to do with him outside of work.
Work people.
Atlas's jaw clenched.
He stubbed out his cigarette, lit another immediately.
Monday. Tomorrow.
Presentation Thursday. Two reports due Wednesday.
Work to do.
That's what mattered.
Not whatever the fuck Friday night was.
He set his drink down.
Opened his messages.
Noah's name sat there. Last message from Wednesday—work-related.
Atlas's thumb hovered.
Then typed.
Monday. 9 AM. Sterling Holdings, 18th floor.
Read it twice.
Professional. Direct. Clear.
Sent it.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Atlas waited.
The reply came.
Got it.
That's it. Two words.
Atlas stared at the screen.
Wanted to type more. Ask if he was okay. Apologize for Friday.
Something.
But he didn't.
Just locked his phone.
Set it on the desk.
Picked up his whiskey.
Drank.
Tomorrow.
Back to work. Back to normal.
Back to control.
He told himself he believed it.
Sounded like bullshit.
NOAH
The message sat on Noah's screen.
Monday. 9 AM. Sterling Holdings, 18th floor.
He read it three times.
9 AM. Early.
18th floor. Not the conference room. Not Atlas's office.
Somewhere else.
His chest tightened.
He typed: Got it.
Sent it.
Stared at the screen.
Waiting.
Three dots appeared.
Noah's heart jumped.
Then they disappeared.
Nothing else came.
Above Atlas's message, Emma's text sat unanswered.
I love you
Noah's thumb hovered.
He should respond. Say something.
But what?
He locked the phone without answering.
Set it down.
Stood there in his dark apartment.
Outside, the city hummed—cars, voices, life.
Inside, just silence.
And the weight of tomorrow morning.
9 AM.
18th floor.
Atlas.
Noah closed his eyes.
Saw him standing there—smoke, that look, the intensity.
What else do you want from me?
His own voice.
I want you to stop lying.
Atlas's.
Monday.
The weekend was over.
Whatever came next—he'd deal with it then.
He had to.