Noah woke up with Luna digging her claws into his ribs.
Not painful—just insistent. Her way of saying I'm awake, you're awake, let's make that official.
Sunny was somewhere near his feet, a warm weight he couldn't quite locate without moving. He didn't move yet. Just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, on that water stain that looked like a comma.
Wednesday.
The thought arrived with his pulse: Atlas.
Board meeting today. He'd be there.
Noah's mouth curved before he could stop it. He pressed his face into the pillow, tried to kill the smile. It stayed.
His phone said 5:47. Too early for a workday, but his body was already humming, already alert.
He sat up. Luna protested with a chirp. Sunny didn't even wake.
---
Downstairs, he put the kettle on and stood at the window while it heated. The park was just starting—one jogger, one dog walker, a bus rolling past with its lights still on. The sky was doing that thing where it goes from gray to gold at the edges.
He thought about Sunday. Atlas holding Sunny. Their shoulders pressed together at the table. That last look in the car before Noah got out.
His reflection in the window glass was grinning like an idiot.
"Stop," he told it.
It didn't.
From upstairs, Sunny barked. Sharp, awake now, demanding.
"Yeah, okay. I'm coming."
---
The park was cold enough to see his breath. Bare branches, wet grass, Sunny pulling him toward every smell. His mind kept circling back—board meeting, his father's scrutiny, the way Atlas had looked at him in past meetings. Professional. Distant.
Would today be different?
His shoe caught on uneven pavement. He stumbled forward, caught himself.
Sunny turned around, ears up, checking if he was okay.
"I'm fine."
He wasn't sure that was true.
---
Back home, he fed Luna and Sunny side by side, watched their heads bob in sync over their bowls.
When did this become routine?
He showered too hot, let the water beat against his neck and shoulders until his skin turned pink. Got out, stood dripping in front of the closet.
The new suit. Black, clean lines. He'd bought it two weeks ago—same day as the cologne. Part of rebuilding. Part of becoming someone who had his shit together, or at least looked like it.
He put it on. White shirt. Left the tie off for now.
In the mirror: someone who could pass for confident.
He'd take it.
---
Downstairs he made eggs without thinking, muscle memory taking over. Crack, whisk, pour. Toast popped. Coffee brewed. The rhythm was automatic now.
A month ago he couldn't cook to save his life. Weird how fast things changed when you needed them to.
He made a plate, took one bite. Couldn't taste it. His stomach was somewhere else.
He went upstairs, knocked on Lydia's door.
"Breakfast."
A groan from inside. "What time is it?"
"Time to get up."
"Nooo. I'm so tired. Not going."
Usually he'd push. Today he didn't have it in him. "Fine. Stay in bed."
"Love you," came the muffled response.
"Yeah. You too."
All his focus was somewhere else. On someone else. Someone he'd see in two hours.
---
The parking garage was half-empty, his steps echoing off concrete.
He was early. Good. He could—
"Noah."
He stopped walking.
That voice. Low, familiar. It went up his spine before his brain placed it.
He turned around.
Atlas was standing by the elevators. Ten feet away. Navy suit. Hair pushed back but not styled—the way it looked when he'd been running his hands through it.
They stared at each other.
Noah's heartbeat kicked up a notch. Annoying.
Atlas looked—rested. The exhaustion that used to live in his face was gone. His shoulders were loose, not that rigid line Noah remembered. And the way he was standing there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone—
Comfortable. Open.
"Hey." Noah's voice came out steadier than expected.
Atlas walked toward him. Not rushed, not slow. Just—purposeful.
Each step closer, Noah felt it. The space between them shrinking. His own breathing getting louder in his ears.
Up close, Atlas was—
The suit emphasized the width of his shoulders, the way his body filled space without trying.
His jaw was freshly shaved, sharp in the fluorescent light. His eyes—dark brown, almost black in this light—were already on Noah's face.
Watching him.
"Morning." Atlas stopped about two feet away. His voice was rougher than usual. Morning voice, maybe.
"You're early."
"Didn't want to hit traffic."
Noah's hands were in his pockets. He didn't remember putting them there.
Atlas's mouth did this thing—not quite a smile, just the corner lifting. "Smart."
They stood there.
Two seconds. Three. Four.
The air between them felt dense. Like it had a texture.
Noah needed to say something.
Atlas's throat moved. He swallowed. His thumb was doing that thing against his phone—brushing the edge, once, twice. That nervous habit Noah had almost forgotten.
"How are you?" Atlas asked. Casual on the surface, careful underneath.
"Good." Noah heard his own voice come out quieter than he meant. "You?"
"Good."
Atlas's eyes were still on his face. Not aggressive, not demanding. Just—there. Steady.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable. But it wasn't empty either.
Then Atlas took a half-step back. Not much. Just enough to break whatever magnetic thing was happening.
He tilted his head toward the elevators. "Coffee first?"
Noah's pulse jumped. "Yeah. Sure."
---
They walked side by side. Close enough that Noah caught it—that smell. Cedar and something clean, something sharp. The cologne Atlas wore. The one Noah still smelled in his own sheets sometimes, even though it had been weeks.
His hands curled tighter in his pockets.
The elevator was crowded—three other people squeezed in behind them. Noah and Atlas moved to opposite corners without discussing it. Professional distance. Smart.
But in the polished steel doors, their reflections were visible. Warped, ghosted, but there.
Noah's eyes found Atlas's reflection. Met. Held.
Two seconds. Three.
Noah looked away first. Pulled out his phone, stared at his home screen without seeing it.
The elevator hummed upward. Someone's cologne was too strong. Someone's breathing too loud. But Noah's whole focus had narrowed to one point—Atlas, diagonal across the elevator, six feet away but too close and not close enough at the same time.
He glanced up.
Atlas was looking at his phone now. Face neutral, professional.
But his jaw was tight. That muscle near his ear jumped once.
38th floor. Two people got off.
More space now. But neither of them moved closer.
42nd floor. One more person gone.
The woman in the corner was still scrolling her tablet, oblivious.
Atlas shifted his weight. His shoulder came off the wall.
Noah's pulse spiked—
But Atlas just rolled his shoulders back, adjusted his stance. Looked up at the floor numbers.
45th floor. The woman left.
The doors closed.
Just them.
Neither spoke.
Noah could hear Atlas breathing. Or maybe that was his own breath, too loud in the quiet.
Noah's hand hung loose at his side.
So did Atlas's.
Six inches apart. Maybe less.
Noah's pinky twitched. Not on purpose. Just—moved. Millimeters.
Found the edge of Atlas's sleeve where it met his wrist.
Not skin. Just fabric.
The lightest pressure.
Noah stopped breathing.
Atlas went completely still.
Three seconds. Four.
Then Atlas's thumb moved. Slow. Deliberate.
Pressed back through the fabric. Against Noah's knuckle.
Not a grip. Not even a hold. Just—
I feel it too.
The contact lasted maybe four heartbeats.
Then Atlas pulled back. His hand returned to neutral.
The warmth stayed.
47th floor.
Ding.
The doors opened.
Noah pulled his hand away like he'd been shocked. Curled his fingers into his palm.
Atlas said nothing. Just let out a breath—quiet, controlled.
They stepped out into the bright hallway.
Noah's pinky finger was still burning.
---
The rooftop terrace was almost empty. Just one couple in the far corner, hunched over laptops.
The city spread out below—steel and glass catching early light, traffic hum muted by distance and wind.
They stood at the railing. Side by side.
Noah wrapped both hands around his coffee cup. The heat bled through, just short of painful. He didn't let go. Needed something to anchor to.
"So," Atlas said. His voice was low. "Board meeting."
"Yeah."
"Your father's going to ask about the reports."
Noah nodded. Took a sip. Too hot. He didn't flinch. "Finished the revisions. Sent them Monday night. Late."
"I saw." Pause. Atlas's fingers tapped the railing. Once. Twice. "They were solid. Better than solid."
Something in Noah's ribcage loosened.
"You think they'll approve the expansion?"
Atlas was quiet. Noah glanced over.
Atlas was watching the street below, profile sharp against gray sky. The wind moved his hair slightly. His jaw was set, thinking.
"Depends on margins," Atlas said finally. "If we can show—"
He stopped. Turned his head.
Their eyes met.
Noah forgot what they were talking about.
Atlas's gaze dropped. Not fast. Slow, deliberate. To Noah's mouth.
Stayed there. One heartbeat. Two.
Then back up.
Noah's ears went hot. His next breath didn't come right. He looked away—back at the street, anywhere else.
"Sorry." Atlas's voice was rough now, scraped. "What was I—"
"Margins." Noah supplied. His own voice came out wrong—too low. He cleared his throat.
"Right." Atlas smiled. Small, lopsided. Almost shy. "Margins."
They both looked at the street.
A bus passed. Someone honked three times. A dog barked.
Normal sounds. Normal morning.
Except Noah could feel every inch of Atlas beside him. The space between their shoulders—four inches, maybe less. Heat radiating off him through fabric. The way his breathing had gone slightly faster.
If Noah shifted his weight—just slightly—their arms would touch.
He didn't shift. Held himself rigid.
"You nervous?" Atlas asked quietly. "About the meeting?"
"A little." The honesty surprised him. "My father's been—he's been watching me."
He stopped.
Atlas's hand tightened on his cup. Visible.
The silence had weight now.
Noah turned. Looked at Atlas fully.
Atlas's expression was guarded.
More silence. But different now—like standing at a cliff edge, looking down, not sure whether to jump or step back.
Noah drank his coffee. It had cooled enough to taste. Bitter, strong.
"Should head down," Atlas said. But he didn't move. "Starts in fifteen."
"Right." Noah didn't move either.
Wind picked up. Noah felt it on his face, cold against the heat still in his cheeks.
Atlas turned. Looked at him again—full attention, all of it. His pupils were huge, blown wide.
"Noah—"
"Yeah?"
Atlas's mouth opened. His hand lifted slightly off the railing, then stopped. Dropped back.
Whatever he was going to say—he didn't.
"Nothing." His jaw set. "Let's go."
They walked back inside.
Noah's cup was empty. He didn't remember drinking it.
---
The conference room was already half-full.
Noah's father stood near the windows with Atlas's father. Both in dark suits, both holding coffee, mid-conversation.
They turned. Looked at the door.
At Noah and Atlas standing there.
Noah felt it physically—his father's gaze. Sharp. Assessing. Taking inventory.
His spine straightened without him meaning to.
Beside him, Atlas went very still.
The moment stretched. Three seconds. Four.
Noah's father's expression didn't change. But his eyes moved—from Noah to Atlas, back to Noah. Slow. Deliberate.
Atlas's father said something. Low. Noah couldn't hear it.
Noah's father nodded once. Turned back to the window.
Done assessing.
But Noah felt it—the weight of what his father had just catalogued.
He walked toward his father's side of the table. Atlas moved toward his own father's side. Natural separation. Like choreography.
Noah sat. Two seats down from his father.
His father glanced at him. "Morning."
"Morning."
That was it.
But Noah's hands were cold under the table. He pressed them against his thighs.
Across the room, Atlas was sitting down. His father leaned in, said something. Atlas nodded, responded. His face was calm.
But his fingers drummed once on the table. Then went still.
Their eyes met across the room.
Brief. Understanding.
We're being watched.
Then both looked away.
The meeting started.
Financial reports. Compliance updates. International expansion proposals.
Noah took notes. His handwriting was clean, methodical. He was good at this—the analysis, the patterns, reducing complexity to data points.
Made sense. Was controllable.
Someone from legal was talking about EU regulations. Noah highlighted a section, cross-referenced with the Sterling analysis. Found a potential conflict. Made a note.
Atlas spoke.
Noah's pen stopped.
He didn't look up. Just listened.
Atlas's voice was different here. Authoritative. Clean. He was presenting Q4 growth strategy, walking through slides with the kind of fluency that came from complete mastery.
No hesitation. No wasted words.
Noah had forgotten this. How good Atlas was at this.
His sternum ached.
He forced his eyes back to his notes. Wrote something. Crossed it out.
He glanced up.
Atlas was looking at him.
Not obviously. His body was angled toward the screen. But his eyes—
They cut to Noah. Held for a fraction of a second.
Then back to the room.
Noah's pen moved again. But he wasn't writing anything real. Just lines. Shapes.
Someone asked Atlas a question. He answered, gestured to a slide, made a point about risk mitigation.
Another glance. Quick.
Noah looked down at his paper.
Focus.
Twenty minutes later, his father spoke.
"Noah."
His head snapped up.
"You reviewed the updated analysis?"
Every eye in the room turned.
"Yes." His voice was steady. "I sent revisions Monday night. The vendor contract issue is addressed, and I've included alternative growth models based on three market scenarios."
His father nodded. "Your recommendation?"
Noah didn't hesitate. "Proceed cautiously. Fundamentals are strong, but market share is static. I'd suggest phased approach—six-month assessment periods before full commitment."
Silence.
His father's expression didn't shift. But something in his eyes changed.
Approval, maybe.
"Good."
That was it.
But Noah felt it—relief he hadn't known he was holding.
The meeting moved on.
He exhaled slowly. Looked down.
Felt eyes on him again.
Atlas.
When their gazes met this time, Atlas's mouth curved. Just barely.
Proud.
Noah's face went warm.
He looked away fast.
The warmth stayed.