Noah was still in his car when his phone buzzed.
Atlas: [address pin]
Noah: 30 minutes
He started the engine.
Rain streaked across the windshield, thin lines catching the city glow.
Helen's words looped in his head—soft, precise, impossible to shake.
Control. Not love. Not loyalty.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to push the sound of her voice out with rhythm.
Didn't work.
His chest felt tight, like he'd been holding something in since that conversation.
She hadn't yelled. She didn't have to. Every word had landed like a rule he was supposed to follow.
He knew she meant to protect him. That made it worse.
A red light. He stared at it longer than he needed to.
They'll never understand this, he thought. But he will. He always does.
Atlas.
The thought loosened something in him. Not relief—something gentler, smaller.
He exhaled. We'll figure it out, he told himself, half-believing it.
The light turned green. He drove. One hand on the wheel, the other pressed absently against his chest,
like he could steady whatever was still shaking inside.
---
He handed his keys to the valet, stepped inside.
The elevator hummed. He watched numbers light up one by one—keeping his thoughts quiet.
Doors slid open. Warmth spilled out—the kind of quiet that costs money.
Muted jazz. Clean lines. Brass and glass catching late-city light.
Air smelled faintly of coffee and polish.
A hostess led him through the half-empty space. Tables by the window overlooked the avenue—rain still glimmering on asphalt.
And there he was.
Atlas.
Already seated, half-turned toward the window.
Noah's mouth curved—small, real. He crossed the room.
---
Atlas saw him. Everything in his posture shifted. Stood, hand finding Noah's lower back as Noah reached him.
They sat. Atlas's palm settled on Noah's thigh under the table, leaned in. "Missed you."
Heat crept up Noah's neck. "Missed you too."
The waiter appeared. Set down two glasses of white wine—cold, silent, crystal catching light.
Brief quiet. Then menus.
Ordered plates to share: smoked salmon, then filet mignon.
Simple haricots verts on the side. A bottle of Chablis.
Nothing showy.
But every detail—the wine, the silence, the way they kept finding each other across the table—spoke in their language.
---
Work. Deadlines. A client who kept rescheduling.
Between words, smiles lingered — like they hadn't seen each other in weeks instead of hours.
But they kept catching each other mid-sentence. Smiling like they hadn't been together in weeks instead of hours.
---
After dinner, waiting for the elevator, their shoulders touched. Then their hands—fingers tangling briefly.
The elevator opened.
Atlas's cousin Charles stepped out with three friends.
"Atlas!" Charles pulled him into a brief hug. Nodded at Noah. "Hey."
Introduced his friends—quick handshakes, polite smiles.
"We should all grab dinner sometime," Charles said as they parted.
"Yeah. Sure."
---
In the elevator, Noah and Atlas stood side by side.
Noah's hand found the small of Atlas's back. Light pressure.
Atlas turned his head slightly. Smiled. "I'm good."
Noah's fingers pressed once, then relaxed.
---
The valet brought their cars. Atlas and Noah drove one behind the other through the city.
Atlas called. They talked about nothing—stupid things, made fun of cars passing them, laughed at ridiculous license plates.
---
They parked in the garage. Climbed upstairs together.
Door opened. Sunny and Luna mobbed them.
Noah scooped Sunny up, kissed her head. She wiggled, tongue assaulting his face. Then Atlas's.
Luna wound around their legs, purring aggressively.
Atlas picked her up. "She's getting so big."
They moved to the living room. Lydia was on the couch, laptop balanced on her knees.
"Hey," they said.
"There's pizza in the kitchen if you want," Lydia said without glancing up.
Noah turned to Atlas. "Let's try it."
They grabbed slices, settled onto the couch.
Lydia's eyes flicked up. Grinned. "Romantic dinner?" Made a face. "Boring."
Noah and Atlas exchanged glances. Both smiled.
"Working on your projects?" Noah asked.
"Watching a show." Lydia's attention stayed on the screen. "Why, did you guys come back hungry?"
Atlas and Noah's eyes met again. Smiles widened.
"We'll be upstairs," Noah said.
---
They changed into sweats. Grabbed a couple beers. Sprawled on the wide couch by the bedroom window.
Noah lay against Atlas's shoulder.
After a while, Atlas asked, "How'd it go with your mom?"
Noah told him. Didn't skip details.
Then Atlas told him. Everything said. Everything not said.
"We need to be careful," Noah said quietly.
Atlas went rigid beneath him. Noah felt every muscle lock. Tilted his head up, pressed his mouth to Atlas's jaw—soft, lingering. "I don't want you getting hurt."
"How long?" Atlas's words came out hoarse. "How long are we gonna hide?"
"I don't know." Noah pressed his face into Atlas's shoulder. Breathed him in.
Silence.
Then Atlas: "You know they're gonna try to split us up."
Noah's breathing changed—shorter, shallower. Atlas's chest rose and fell faster beneath him.
Noah's eyes stung. Hot. Atlas blinked rapidly, jaw clenching.
"I know." Noah's voice cracked. Like his lungs were too small.
"When it comes..." Atlas swallowed hard. "Can we—will we hold against it?"
"As long as you're with me."
Atlas turned. Caught Noah's face between his palms and kissed him—desperate, consuming, trying to prove something neither could say. Noah's hands fisted in Atlas's shirt, pulling him closer, closer, like he could crawl inside and stay there.
When they broke apart, both gasping, foreheads pressed together, they stayed frozen.
Didn't speak. Just listened to each other breathe—ragged, uneven.
Noah pulled back first. Eyes wet but holding Atlas's gaze. "I love you."
"I love you too." Atlas's voice was wrecked. He gathered Noah against his chest—arms tight, possessive.
Noah kissed his neck—open-mouthed, lingering. Then pulled back slightly. "What else are you thinking about?"
"Your family's reaction." Atlas's throat worked.
"They can't stop us from seeing each other." But Noah's voice wavered.
"They can." Atlas said it flat. Final.
"My father wouldn't go that far." Noah said it. Didn't believe it.
Noah's stomach twisted. He shifted, propped himself up on one elbow. Looked down at Atlas—almost pleading, almost playful. "Please. Let's not think about it. Let's... do something."
Atlas searched his face. "What do you want?" Leaned up, kissed the corner of Noah's mouth.
"Chess."
Atlas laughed—genuine, surprised, the sound breaking tension. "You're gonna cheat."
"No I'm not." Noah grinned.
---
City lights blurred against glass.
Chessboard sat between them—black and white pieces half-scattered, mid-battle.
Only sound was the faint ticking of the clock. The clink of glass when they set down their beers.
Atlas moved a pawn. Calm, deliberate.
Noah watched him. Fingers hovering near his queen—not moving yet.
"You're too careful."
"You play like it's already over."
Atlas's mouth curved—small, knowing. "Maybe it is."
"Then why are you nervous?"
Atlas's eyes flicked up. Held Noah's across the board—silent check.
"'Cause I never know what you'll sacrifice next."
Noah moved his bishop—clean strike.
Atlas leaned back. Studied the board. Then Noah's face.
"You just exposed your king."
"Maybe I trust you not to take it."
Pause. The tension shifted—no longer about the game.
"That's not how this works."
"Isn't it?" Noah's voice dropped. "Every time we play... I lose something. Don't even care."
Atlas exhaled—half laugh, half confession.
He reached across the board. Captured Noah's queen. Didn't look at the piece. Only at Noah.
" You're exposed."
"Finally."
They held each other's gaze. Neither moved to end it.
City hummed below—soft, distant. Like the world they were both refusing to return to.
Between them, the chessboard waited. Suspended. Unfinished.
They moved to the bed. Atlas pulled Noah close.
Noah felt it immediately—Atlas's body still wire-tight, muscles tense under his hands. Coiled.
They both fell asleep without thinking about what would happen when the time came.