The meeting ended. People stood, gathered papers, started conversations.
Noah packed his laptop. Slow, methodical.
His father had already left.
Atlas was across the room talking to his father. Both heads bent close, voices low.
Noah headed for the exit.
"Noah."
He stopped. Turned.
Atlas was walking toward him. His father had gone. They were alone in the hallway now—not really alone, people were passing, heading to offices and meetings—but it felt alone.
Atlas stopped in front of him. Close. Professional distance, but—
Noah could see the small details. A crease in Atlas's collar. His cufflinks catching light. The way his tie was loosened just slightly.
"Lunch?" Atlas asked. Simple. Direct.
Noah's first instinct: yes.
His second: "I'll pay. If we go."
Atlas's eyebrows went up. "You don't have to—"
"I know." Noah met his eyes. Held them. "But I want to."
Atlas's expression shifted. Understanding.
"Okay," he said. Soft. "Okay."
They walked to the elevator.
Noah pressed the button. Waited.
"Anywhere specific?" Atlas asked.
"You pick."
The elevator arrived. Empty.
They got in. Stood side by side. Closer than this morning.
"There's a place in Tribeca," Atlas said. "Italian. Good pasta."
"Sounds good."
The elevator descended. Noah watched the numbers.
Atlas shifted beside him. Noah felt it—hyperaware of every small movement.
But Atlas was just checking his phone.
"I'll text you the address."
"Okay."
Garage level. Doors opened.
"See you there?" Atlas asked.
"Yeah."
He walked toward his car.
Watched him go—watched the way Atlas moved, all that controlled power, shoulders back.
Noah exhaled.
His hands were shaking.
---
The restaurant was quiet. Mid-week lunch, early enough to miss the rush.
They sat by the window. Natural light, white tablecloth, the distant sounds of kitchen work.
The waiter came. Atlas looked at Noah across the menu. "Do you trust me?"
The question landed heavier than it should.
Noah's throat tightened. "Yeah."
Atlas ordered for both of them in Italian—fluid, confident. The waiter nodded, left.
They sat with water glasses and bread between them.
Silence. Not uncomfortable. Full.
"Your analysis," Atlas said finally. "Your father approved it. In front of everyone."
Noah shrugged, reaching for water. "It was good work."
"It was." Atlas leaned forward. Elbows on the table. The position brought him closer—Noah could see a crease in his shirt sleeve where he'd rolled it during the meeting, then rolled it back down. "But you handled the pressure. When he put you on the spot."
"He does that."
"I know." Atlas's voice dropped. "But you didn't flinch."
Noah's chest warmed. "Learned from the best."
The words escaped before he could catch them.
Atlas went completely still. His eyes locked on Noah's face.
"Did you?"
The question was quiet. Careful. Like it mattered more than it should.
Noah's mouth went dry. "I—yeah. You're good at this. The business stuff. I've always—"
He stopped. Dangerous territory.
"Always what?" Atlas's voice was soft. His gaze hadn't moved.
"Nothing."
"Noah."
The way he said his name.
"I've always watched you," Noah said. Quiet. "In meetings. The way you present. How you command a room. It's—" He stopped. "Impressive."
Atlas's expression cracked. Raw vulnerability flickering across his face.
"You never said that."
"Thought you knew."
"I didn't."
Their eyes held. Noah could see Atlas's pulse in his throat. Fast. Visible.
The waiter appeared. Set down plates. Pasta, salad, bread steaming.
Neither looked at the food.
"There's a lot we didn't say," Atlas said finally. His voice was rough.
Noah's throat tightened. "Yeah."
---
They started eating. The pasta was good—rich, complex. Noah barely tasted it.
Atlas talked about the meeting, the tech partnership, concerns about timeline. His hands moved when he explained things, elegant and certain.
And Noah watched. The way light caught on Atlas's hands. The way his eyes lit up when he hit a point he cared about. The way he paused sometimes, checking if Noah was following.
Always checking. Making sure Noah was with him.
When had Noah started noticing again?
"—don't you think?"
Noah blinked. "Sorry?"
Atlas smiled. Knowing. "You weren't listening."
"I was."
"You were staring."
Heat flooded Noah's face. "I wasn't—"
"You were." Atlas's tone was gentle. Almost teasing.
Noah looked down at his plate. Moved pasta around, couldn't meet Atlas's eyes.
When he glanced up, Atlas was still watching.
Their gazes met.
Atlas's eyes dropped. Slow. Deliberate. To Noah's mouth.
Noah's dimples were probably showing now—that thing that happened when he smiled despite himself. Atlas's expression shifted.
Then Atlas's gaze returned. Held.
And winked.
Small. Quick. Devastating.
Noah forgot how to breathe.
That's not fair.
Atlas knew exactly what he was doing. That tiny acknowledgment of whatever was building between them.
Playing a game.
And Noah was losing.
He looked away fast. Grabbed his water, drank. His hand wasn't entirely steady.
Across the table, Atlas's mouth curved. Satisfied.
---
Silence for a moment. Then—
"Did Lydia send you the photos?" Atlas asked.
Noah looked up. "What?"
"From Sunday." Atlas pulled out his phone. "She sent me about forty."
"Oh god." Noah covered his face with one hand. "I told her to stop."
"Don't." Atlas's voice was warm. "They're good."
Noah peeked through his fingers. "They're embarrassing."
"They're not."
"There's one with Sunny on my head."
"That one's my favorite."
Noah dropped his hand. Stared. "Seriously?"
Atlas turned his phone around.
There—Noah laughing, Sunny sitting on top of his head, paws tangled in his hair. His face was scrunched up, his gamzeleri deep, genuine joy.
"You saved it?" Noah's voice came out strange.
"Yeah." Atlas looked at the photo, then at Noah. Something soft in his face. "You look happy."
Noah's ribcage cracked. "I was."
Atlas's eyes searched his face. "Good."
He put his phone away but didn't look away.
"There were a lot," Noah said, trying to redirect. "Excessive amount."
"She's enthusiastic."
"She's obsessed."
"She loves you." Atlas's voice went quieter. "Wants to capture the moments."
Noah's throat went tight.
"The one of us," Atlas continued, even quieter, "by the water. Do you remember?"
Noah remembered. Them side by side. Hudson behind them. Atlas holding Sunny. Both laughing.
Natural. Like they fit.
"Yeah," Noah said. "I remember."
Atlas's fingers tightened on his glass. "I look at it sometimes."
Noah's breath stopped. "Why?"
Atlas looked up. Met his eyes directly.
"Because I'm trying to remember what it feels like." His voice was raw.
The honesty was devastating.
Atlas continued. Softer. "The one you were laughing with."
Their eyes held. The restaurant faded.
"I look at them too," Noah said. "The photos."
Atlas's breath caught. Audible.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The air felt impossible.
"We should—" Atlas stopped. "Probably get back."
"Right." Noah sat back. "Yeah."
But neither signaled the waiter.
Not yet.
---
Eventually the check came. Noah grabbed it before Atlas could react.
"I said I was paying."
Atlas raised his hands. Surrender. But he was smiling.
Noah handed his card to the waiter.
They sat back. The meal was over. Soon they'd leave. Back to work. Back to distance.
Noah didn't want it to end.
"Do you have plans tonight?" Atlas asked. His fingers tapped his thigh. Nervous.
"No. Why?"
"Meeting some friends for drinks." Atlas met his eyes. "I want you to meet them. Properly. If you want."
Noah stared. His heart hammering.
"You want me to—"
"Yeah." Atlas's voice was quiet. Certain. "If you want to."
This was huge.
"Why?"
Atlas didn't flinch. "Because they're important to me." Pause. His eyes intense. "And I want them to know you."
Know you. Not meet you.
The difference mattered.
"Okay," Noah said. Quiet. "Okay."
Atlas's whole face changed. Relief, hope, something else.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Atlas smiled—full, real, reaching his eyes.
"I'll send you the address."
"Okay."
They stood. Outside on the sidewalk, people passing, city sounds around them.
Neither wanted to leave.
"See you tonight," Atlas said finally.
"See you tonight."
They separated. After a few steps, Noah looked back.
Atlas was still there. Watching.
They both smiled.
---
Noah went back to the office. Clara and Elias noticed something—his mood, maybe, the way he couldn't stop checking his phone—but they didn't push.
When the address came through from Atlas, Noah stared at it longer than necessary.
He left work early. Went home. Changed. Tried on three different shirts before settling on the first one.
---
230 Fifth Rooftop.
Noah stepped out of the elevator into warm light and overlapping conversations.
The bar was busy. Jazz playing, something old and smooth. People in expensive casual, holding drinks, laughing.
He scanned.
Found Atlas.
Far corner. Windows behind him, city lights just starting to emerge.
He was with four people. All of them looked like they belonged here.
Noah's stomach tightened.
He walked toward them.
One of the women—blonde, sharp, elegant—said something. Atlas turned.
Their eyes met across the bar.
Atlas's face changed. Opened. That real smile.
He stood. Walked toward Noah. Met him halfway.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Two feet apart. Bar noise around them fading.
Atlas looked good. Dark jeans, gray sweater, sleeves pushed to elbows. Relaxed. Hair slightly messed. His forearms were visible—tanned, muscular.
Noah's mouth went dry.
"Thanks for coming." Atlas's voice was quiet. Just for Noah.
"Thanks for inviting me."
Something passed between them.
Atlas gestured. "Come on."
---
They walked together.
"Everyone," Atlas said, "this is Noah."
The blonde stood. "Noah! Finally." Extended her hand. "Lisa."
Firm grip. Sharp eyes, warm smile.
"Nicholas, my boyfriend." Tall, dark-haired, easy presence.
"Mark." Athletic, expensive watch.
"Victoria." Dark hair, red lips, old money elegance.
Noah sat beside Atlas. Their thighs almost touched.
A waiter came. Noah ordered beer.
The conversation picked up. Some wedding, some event.
Lisa turned to Noah. Studied him. "You look familiar."
Noah's stomach dropped. "I—what?"
"Have we met?" She tilted her head. "Your face—"
" Wait, did you go to Exeter?" she said suddenly.
"Yeah. How—"
"My brother Max. You played tennis against him." She smiled. "You destroyed him."
"Heat crept up Noah's neck. He was suddenly embarrassed. "That was years ago."
"You were good." Lisa's eyes were warm. "I remember."
Beside him, Atlas made a sound. Almost a laugh. "Guess I missed that."
Something in his voice. Regret.
"You would've liked it," Lisa told him.
The conversation shifted. Stories, connections, laughter.
Noah started to relax.
They were warm. Real. The kind of people who didn't have to try.
These were the people from the video—the ones with their hands on Atlas, the comments saying new love.
They had partners. Their own lives.
They weren't—God. They were never what I thought they were.
I said things that night I can't take back.
And he still invited me here.
And Atlas was different here. Looser. Laughing. His whole body language changed.
Sometimes his knee bumped Noah's under the table.
First time—both pulled away fast.
Second time—they left them touching. Barely.
Under the table, hidden, that small point of contact.
Heat and pressure.
Noah drank his beer. Tried to focus.
Mark talked about his engagement. Summer wedding. Italy, maybe.
"You should come," Victoria said. Looked at Atlas, then Noah. "Both of you."
Noah's breath caught.
Atlas's knee pressed harder. Brief.
"We'll see," Atlas said. Careful.
But he didn't say no.
---
An hour passed.
Atlas leaned closer. Breath near Noah's ear. "You okay?"
Noah turned his head. Their faces inches apart.
Atlas this close—Noah could see everything. Small scar near his temple. Exact shade of his eyes—deepest brown, not black. Pupils dilated wide.
"Yeah," Noah said. "I'm good."
Atlas's gaze dropped to Noah's mouth. Lingered.
Then back up.
Heat flooded Noah's face.
Atlas pulled back. Slow. But his knee stayed pressed.
---
Eventually, Atlas leaned in again. "We can go whenever."
Noah's skin prickled. "You want to?"
"I want—" Atlas stopped. "I'm asking if you want to."
"I'm okay. If you want to stay."
"I'm asking what you want, Noah."
His name. Deliberate. Intimate.
Noah's chest tightened. "We can go."
Atlas nodded. Stood.
"Heading out."
Groans. Protests.
Lisa hugged them both. "Really good to meet you."
---
They walked to the elevator together. Atlas's hand hovering near the small of Noah's back—not touching, but close. Protective.
Inside the elevator, they stood side by side. The doors closed.
Silence.
Then Atlas spoke. "I met Lisa and Mark at a summer program in England. We were twelve."
Noah looked at him.
Atlas was staring straight ahead, jaw tight. Like he was forcing himself to say this.
"We spent most of our summers together after that. Different schools, but always the same programs." A pause. "Our families know each other. Have for years."
Noah understood.
Not surface connections for social media.
Real friends. Real history.
The elevator descended in silence.
Noah's hand hung loosely at his side.
Atlas's was right beside it—still, deliberate, fingers relaxed.
The air felt charged, heavy with everything Noah couldn't say.
Then—barely—Noah's fingers shifted.
A small movement. Almost nothing.
The side of his pinky brushed against Atlas's.
Atlas froze.
Noah didn't pull away.
His fingers trembled once, then settled.
The contact was so light it could've been an accident.
But it wasn't.
A heartbeat. Two.
Then Atlas's fingers moved. Slow. Careful.
Just enough for the tip of his index finger to trace the side of Noah's.
A silent reply.
I know.
Neither looked down.
The elevator hummed, descending.
The sound of cables, the faint echo of their breathing.
Noah felt the warmth spreading up his wrist, his pulse stuttering.
He dared a glance sideways.
Atlas was already looking at him.
Their eyes met.
A flash of color climbed up Noah's neck—heat, guilt, want.
Atlas's jaw flexed, his own cheeks flushed under the sterile light.
Neither spoke.
The contact broke only when the elevator slowed.
Ding.
They both stepped back at once, the distance snapping into place like instinct.
--
At the parking garage, they walked to their cars slowly.
Noah's mind was racing. He'd been wrong. So wrong.
About Atlas's friends. About his life. About—
"Thank you," Noah said when they reached their cars. "For tonight. For introducing me to them."
Atlas looked at him. Really looked. Didn't look away.
"Thank you for coming."
They stood there. Two feet apart. The garage fluorescent and cold around them.
Noah wanted to say something. Apologize. Explain that he'd made assumptions, stupid assumptions, and he was sorry.
But the words stuck in his throat.
"Goodnight," he said instead.
"Goodnight."
They got in their cars.
Noah sat for a moment, hands on the wheel, not moving.
Watched Atlas's taillights disappear around the corner.
Then he drove home.
---
The drive was a blur.
Red lights. His GPS talking. His mind elsewhere.
Lisa. Mark. Victoria. Nicholas.
The Instagram video replayed. Atlas with them, laughing. Someone's hand on his arm. Comments: new love? who is she?
He'd thought—
God, what had he thought?
That Atlas had moved on. That those people were replacements. New romantic interests.
Noah's hands tightened on the wheel.
They were his friends.
Just friends.
People Atlas had known since he was twelve. People with their own partners, their own lives.
And Noah had accused Atlas. Not explicitly, but the implication was there. In the fight. In the breakup.
"I don't care," he'd said. About the video.
But he had cared. He'd let it poison everything.
His stomach turned.
He pulled into his building. Parked. Sat.
The engine ticked as it cooled.
He'd been wrong.
About the video. About the assumptions. About the way he'd let his insecurity convince him of things that weren't real.
His phone lit up.
He stared.
Should say it. Should apologize.
But over text?
His fingers hovered.
Noah: Thank you again. For tonight.
Not enough. But he couldn't do this over text.
Atlas: Thank you for coming.
Pause.
Noah: Sleep well.
He pocketed his phone. Got out.
---
Inside, the apartment was dark.
Lydia's door was closed. Light off.
He found Sunny and Luna on the couch. Both lifted their heads. Luna chirped. Sunny's tail thumped.
Noah sat. Gathered both into his lap.
Weight. Warmth. Uncomplicated love.
He buried his face in Sunny's fur.
"I fucked up," he whispered.
Sunny licked his chin. Luna purred.
He'd been so sure. So convinced Atlas was the problem. Cold, cruel, distant.
And Atlas had issues. Walls. Communication problems.
But Noah—
Noah had built his own walls. Made assumptions. Let fear create a narrative that wasn't real.
He thought about the meeting. His father's look. The way Atlas had presented—confident, articulate. The pride in his eyes when Noah answered correctly.
He thought about lunch. The way Atlas listened. Really listened. The way he'd asked "do you trust me?" like the answer mattered.
He thought about tonight. Being introduced to people who'd known Atlas for years. Being included. Being seen.
Atlas was trying.
Not perfectly. But trying.
And Noah needed to do the same.
His phone buzzed.
Marcus. Group chat.
Marcus: drinks this weekend?
Jared: fuck yes
Alex: I'm in
Sam: same
Noah: Yeah. I'm there.
Then, separate to Marcus: Can I ask you something?
Marcus: always
Noah: How do you know when to give someone a second chance?
Typing bubbles. Stopped. Started.
Marcus: you know the answer already
Noah: what if I hurt them?
Marcus: did you mean to?
Noah: no
Marcus: then you apologize. you do better. and you hope they give you the same chance you're giving them.
Noah stared.
Marcus: this about Atlas?
Noah: yeah
Marcus: you still love him?
The question sat there. Cursor blinking.
Did he?
He thought about Atlas's smile. The real one. The way he looked at Noah when he thought Noah wasn't watching. His laugh. His cologne. The way his hand had felt, even through fabric.
The way Noah's chest ached when they were apart.
The way everything felt right when they were together.
Noah: I think so
Marcus: then figure it out
Noah: what if he doesn't feel the same?
Marcus: dude. he invited you to meet his childhood friends. he's been staring at you like you hung the fucking moon for weeks. trust me. he feels the same.
Noah's breath caught.
Marcus: just talk to him. actual words. honest shit. you'll be fine.
Noah: thanks
Marcus: anytime brother
Noah set his phone down.
Looked at Sunny and Luna.
"I have to apologize," he told them. "To Atlas. For everything."
Sunny licked his hand.
"I don't know how. Or when. But I have to."
Luna headbutted his chin. Soft.
He smiled. Small. "Yeah. I know. I'll figure it out."
He carried them both upstairs. Set them on his bed.
Changed. Brushed his teeth. Went through motions.
In bed, Sunny curled against his chest. Luna at his feet.
He stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow. He'd figure it out tomorrow.
But tonight—
Tonight he let himself feel it.
The warmth. The hope. The fear. The possibility.
All of it.
His eyes closed.
He dreamed of dark eyes and half-smiles and hands almost touching.
And for the first time in weeks, he slept without aching.