FRIDAY. 6:30 PM.
Noah stared at his bathroom mirror.
Light brown hair fell across his forehead. He pushed it back. It fell again.
The green in his eyes looked brighter tonight. Sharper.
He tried smiling.
Small indents appeared on both cheeks.
They looked wrong.
He grabbed a navy shirt—simple, clean.
His phone buzzed.
Marcus: outside
---
Marcus was leaning against his car when Noah came down. Took one look at him and whistled low.
"Jesus, Wells."
"Don't start."
"I was gonna say you look like you need a cheeseburger and a nap." Marcus shoved off the car. "When's the last time you actually ate?"
"This morning."
"Liar." Marcus grabbed his shoulders, turned him. "You're doing that thing where your jaw gets all tight. And dude—" He tilted his head. "—I haven't seen you actually smile in like two weeks. You know, smile smile. With the whole dimple situation."
Noah's hand went to his face automatically. "I don't have a dimple situation."
"You absolutely do. That's how Emma always knew if you were faking happy or actually happy." Marcus squeezed his shoulder. "So. You gonna tell me what's really going on? Or are we doing the 'I'm fine' bullshit all night?"
Noah pulled away. Walked toward the car.
"I broke up with Emma."
Marcus stopped. "What?"
"Thursday. I ended it."
Silence.
Then: "Fuck, man. I'm—are you okay?"
"No." Noah opened the car door. "But I will be. Let's just—can we not talk about it tonight?"
Marcus studied him. Then nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
Marcus was leaning against his car when Noah came down. Took one look at him and whistled low.
"Jesus, Wells."
"Don't start."
"I was gonna say you look like you need a cheeseburger and a nap." Marcus shoved off the car. "When's the last time you actually ate?"
"This morning."
"Liar." Marcus grabbed his shoulders, turned him. "You're doing that thing where your jaw gets all tight. And dude—" He tilted his head. "—I haven't seen you actually smile in like two weeks. You know, smile smile. With the whole dimple situation."
Noah's hand went to his face automatically. "I don't have a dimple situation."
"You absolutely do. That's how Emma always knew if you were faking happy or actually happy." Marcus squeezed his shoulder. "So. You gonna tell me what's really going on? Or are we doing the 'I'm fine' bullshit all night?"
Noah pulled away. Walked toward the car.
"I broke up with Emma."
Marcus stopped. "What?"
"Thursday. I ended it."
Silence.
Then: "Fuck, man. I'm—are you okay?"
"No." Noah opened the car door. "But I will be. Let's just—can we not talk about it tonight?"
Marcus studied him. Then nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
---
8:00 PM. THE VENUE.
The bar was packed.
Music loud, lights low, people everywhere.
Wells Corporation mixed with Sterling Holdings. Project teams, managers. No executives.
Thank fuck.
Noah grabbed a whiskey. Neat.
Alex found him near the windows and pulled him into a hug.
"Finally," Alex said. "Thought you'd gone into witness protection."
"Busy week."
"Busy or hiding?"
"Both."
Alex's arm settled around his shoulders—easy, familiar.
They grabbed a table. Jared and Sam joined them.
Drinks flowed. Stories got louder. Normal Friday shit.
Noah's second drink went down easier.
Third even easier.
By the fourth, the edges softened. Everything felt less sharp.
Alex was telling some story, animated and laughing.
Noah laughed too. Actually laughed.
"There it is," Alex said, grinning. Poked Noah's cheek. "Thought you forgot how."
"Shut up."
"I'm serious. You've been dead inside for weeks." Alex leaned against him. "This is better."
Marcus was watching them, something careful in his expression.
Then the air changed.
Noah felt it before he saw anything.
That shift—like pressure dropping before a storm.
He looked up.
Atlas.
Dark jeans, white button-down with the sleeves rolled. No tie.
Clean. Polished. Devastating.
Two guys with him Noah didn't know. Daniel behind.
Atlas scanned the room.
Then his eyes found Noah.
Locked on.
Noah's breath stopped.
Amber in the low light. Dark gold, almost copper.
He watched Atlas's gaze track over him. Over Alex's arm around his shoulders. Over how close they sat.
Atlas's jaw tightened.
His hand curled into a fist at his side.
Slow. Deliberate.
Something dangerous moved through those eyes.
Noah held that gaze.
Didn't look away.
Atlas stared back—long, hard.
Then turned and walked to the bar.
"Jesus," Marcus breathed.
Noah grabbed his drink.
Said nothing.
---
Thirty minutes later his phone rang.
Mom
"I should take this." Noah stood up. "Be right back."
He pushed through the crowd and went outside.
Cold air hit his face.
Better.
He answered. "Hey Mom."
"Noah! How are you?"
"I'm fine."
"You sound tired."
"Long week."
"Is Emma there? I was thinking dinner next weekend—"
"Mom." His chest tightened. "We broke up."
Silence on the other end.
"What?"
"Thursday. We ended it."
"Oh honey." Her voice went soft. "Are you okay?"
"I'm figuring it out."
"Do you want to talk—"
"Not now. I'm at a work thing."
"Okay. Call me tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"I love you."
"Love you too."
He hung up.
Turned around.
Atlas stood there.
Close.
"How much have you had to drink?" Atlas asked.
Voice low, controlled.
But Noah heard the edge underneath.
"What?"
"How many?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's none of your business."
Atlas moved closer. "Say that again."
"It's none of your—"
Atlas closed the distance and grabbed his waist, pulled him in.
Hard.
Their bodies pressed together.
Noah's breath caught.
"Say it," Atlas said.
Noah's hands came up, pressed against Atlas's chest.
Those eyes burning into him.
"It's none of your business," he said.
Quieter this time.
Atlas's grip tightened. "You're at a company event, acting like this."
"Like what?"
"Drunk. Sloppy. All over that guy."
"Alex is my friend."
"He had his hands all over you."
"So?" Noah's fingers curled into Atlas's shirt. "Why do you care?"
Atlas stayed silent.
Just stared.
Something raw flickered in his expression.
"What do you want from me?" Noah asked, voice shaking.
Silence held between them.
Noah looked up.
"You're exhausting," he said. "I'm tired of you."
"Why."
"Because you're playing games."
"I'm not—"
"Then what is this?" Noah gestured weakly between them. "What are we doing?"
The world tilted.
Sudden.
Noah's balance went.
His hands shot out, grabbed Atlas's shirt.
Held on.
Their bodies pressed closer.
Noah's forehead almost touched Atlas's chin.
They both froze.
Atlas's heartbeat against Noah's palms—fast, hard.
Neither dared to move.
"Noah—"
"Let me go."
Atlas pulled him closer instead.
Deliberately.
Close enough their noses almost touched.
Then let go.
Stepped back.
Cold air rushed between them.
"Go inside," Atlas's words came out rough.
Noah turned.
Walked.
Found Marcus and Alex.
"I'm leaving," he said.
"You okay?" Marcus stood up. "You look—"
"I'm fine. Just tired."
He pushed through the crowd and out to the parking lot.
His car was near the back. He needed his phone charger.
Opened the door. Reached in.
"You're not driving."
Noah straightened.
Atlas stood behind him.
"I'm calling an Uber."
"No you're not."
"Yes I—"
Atlas grabbed his arm and pulled.
"What are you doing—"
"Get in the car."
"Let go—"
Atlas steered him toward the Porsche, opened the passenger door.
Pushed him in—not rough, but firm.
"I can get home myself—"
Atlas closed the door.
Walked around, got in.
The car hummed to life—silent, just pure power.
They drove without speaking.
City lights blurred past the window.
Noah closed his eyes. The world spun harder.
He opened them again, focused on the dashboard.
"Why did you come tonight?" he asked.
Atlas's knuckles went white on the wheel.
"I don't know."
"Executives weren't supposed to be there."
"I know."
"So why—"
"I don't know."
Ten minutes later they pulled up outside Noah's building.
Nice. Modern. The kind of place a junior executive could afford if they didn't eat out much.
Atlas got out, came around, opened Noah's door.
"I can walk."
"Sure you can."
Noah tried to stand.
His legs disagreed.
Atlas caught him, arm around his waist.
They made it to the elevator. Up to his floor. To his door.
Noah's hands shook trying to unlock it.
Atlas took the key and did it himself.
The apartment was small—open concept, minimal furniture. Comfortable in that carefully chosen way.
Not like Atlas's place at all.
Atlas closed the door and locked it.
Walked straight to the bathroom.
Turned on the shower—cold water.
"Get in."
Noah stared. "What?"
"You need to sober up."
"I'm not—"
"Get in."
"You can't—"
Atlas grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the spray.
"Wait—"
Cold water hit.
Like ice. Like knives.
Noah gasped—shock stealing his breath.
His entire body locked up.
"Fuck—Atlas—"
The cold cut through everything. Through the alcohol, through the fog.
It hurt.
Actually hurt.
His vision blurred, then cleared. Sharp.
Atlas held him there, arm firm around his waist.
Water soaking them both.
Noah's breath came in gasps—fast, painful.
Then something broke.
Not the cold. Something else.
Everything he'd been holding crashed down at once.
His hands came up, shoved at Atlas's chest.
"Are you insane?!" His voice cracked—raw. "Are you fucking insane?!"
Atlas didn't let go.
Just held him there under the freezing spray.
"Breathe," Atlas said quietly.
"I am breathing—" Noah shoved again, harder. "Let me go—"
"Breathe deeper."
"Fuck you—"
But he did. He breathed.
Deep. Painful.
Again.
Again.
The cold burned. His skin felt raw.
But his head cleared.
Atlas turned off the water.
The silence was deafening.
Just their breathing—harsh in the small bathroom.
Noah stood there dripping, shaking.
Atlas stepped back and grabbed a towel from the rack.
Handed it to him.
"I'll get you clothes," Atlas said.
Left the bathroom.
Noah heard him opening drawers in the bedroom, moving around.
Came back with sweatpants and a t-shirt.
Set them on the counter.
"Change," Atlas said. "I'll be outside."
He pulled the door closed behind him.
Noah stood there.
Water dripping from his hair, his clothes, pooling on the tile.
The bathroom was simple—white subway tile, modern fixtures. Small but designed, not just functional.
Nothing like the marble and gold in Atlas's penthouse.
He stripped. Dried off. Changed.
His hands still shook.
Not from cold anymore.
From everything else.
He opened the door.
Atlas stood right there, back against the hallway wall.
Still damp. Shirt clinging to his chest.
Hair dripping.
Noah walked out and stopped.
Close. Too close.
But didn't step back.
Looked up at Atlas.
"I told you not to interfere in my life," he said.
Voice rough, still slurred slightly.
Sobering but not sober.
Atlas's eyes locked on his. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"This. Tonight. All of it."
"Why do you care?" Noah's voice rose. "Why do you keep interfering? Why—"
He stopped.
Couldn't finish.
Atlas stared at him, waiting.
"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Noah asked—quieter, broken.
Atlas just watched him.
Noah's chest hurt. His throat tight.
"I'm so tired," he said.
The words came out rough, cracked.
Not physical tired. Soul tired.
Everything tired.
Atlas saw it—understanding moving through his expression.
He reached out slowly.
Pulled Noah toward him.
Arms came around Noah's back—firm, steady.
"I'm here," Atlas said.
Quiet but sure.
"I'm here."
And Noah broke.
Completely.
The sob came without warning, tore out of his chest.
His hands fisted in Atlas's damp shirt.
Held on.
Everything he'd been holding—Emma, his father, three years of lying, the person he pretended to be—
All of it crashed down.
He cried.
Hard. Ugly. Broken.
His whole body shook with it.
Atlas just held him.
Didn't speak. Didn't move.
Just stood there—solid, real.
One hand pressed to Noah's back. The other to his head.
Holding him together while he fell apart.
Time stopped.
Noah couldn't stop crying, couldn't catch his breath.
Years of it. Years of pretending, years of being someone else.
All pouring out now.
"I've got you," Atlas said—so quiet.
Noah cried harder.
Buried his face against Atlas's shoulder.
Held on like drowning.
Finally—after minutes or hours, Noah couldn't tell—
The sobs quieted.
His breathing evened.
Exhaustion hit like a train.
His legs buckled.
Atlas caught him and lifted him.
Carried him to the bedroom.
The room was small—bed against one wall, dresser, window overlooking the city.
Everything in its place. Nothing extra.
Atlas laid him on the bed and pulled the blanket up.
Noah's eyes were already closing.
"Don't go," he whispered.
Atlas smoothed his hair back once.
"Sleep."
Noah's breathing evened out.
Deep. Steady.
Atlas stood there and watched him.
Light brown hair dark against the pillow. Face young in sleep. Peaceful.
He turned.
Left the room quietly.
Closed the apartment door behind him.
---
The hallway was empty and silent.
Atlas leaned back against the wall.
Slid down. Sat on the floor.
His hands were shaking.
He stared at them like they belonged to someone else.
Couldn't stop them.
Couldn't stop seeing Noah's face, hearing his voice break.
I'm so tired.
Why can't you leave me alone?
He pressed his palms to his eyes.
His control—everything he'd built his life around—was gone.
Shattered.
In a cramped bathroom while Noah Wells collapsed in his arms.
And he'd meant it.
I'm here.
Every word.
He stood eventually.
Walked to the elevator, down to his car.
Got in.
Didn't start the engine.
Just sat there in the dark.
His phone buzzed.
Alice:where are you
He stared at the screen.
Typed: Leaving Noah's.
Alice: what happened
He couldn't answer.
Put the phone away.
Started the car—the silent hum.
Drove through empty streets.
His hands steady on the wheel now.
But in the rearview mirror, he caught his own reflection—damp hair, exhausted eyes.
He looked away fast.
Everything else still shaking.
Still fractured.
Still changed.
I'm here, he'd said.
And he'd meant it.
That was the problem.
He'd meant every fucking word.