Noah woke up with Atlas's arm across his chest. Watched him. Here. He's here.
Tried breathing deep. Couldn't.
His fingers moved across Atlas's ribs—light, like he'd break. Atlas kissed his forehead, eyes still closed. Noah kissed his sternum. Atlas's hand dragged down Noah's shoulder blade. Noah stared at him. Memorizing.
Atlas opened his eyes. "Morning, love."
"Morning." The word came out tight.
Atlas kissed him—hard, like he was trying to prove something.
They didn't talk in the shower. Just kept touching. Atlas's hand on Noah's hip while he reached past him. Noah's fingers catching Atlas's wrist under the water. Making breakfast was worse—Noah's knuckles brushing Atlas's spine. Atlas hooking two fingers in Noah's belt loop, not letting go.
"You're being weird," Atlas said.
"You are."
Atlas pulled him close, mouth against his hair. "Something's off."
Noah kissed his throat. "Yeah."
They looked at each other. Tried smiling. Couldn't make it work.
Walking to the car, Atlas squeezed his hand too hard. In the Range Rover, Atlas's palm clamped on Noah's thigh—wouldn't move.
"You tense?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Atlas glanced over. "No idea."
They didn't talk. When Atlas dropped him off, he kissed Noah like he was drowning. "Love you."
"Love you."
"Tonight."
"Yeah."
Noah got out. Turned around halfway to the doors—Atlas was still watching. Noah lifted his hand. Atlas did too.
Tonight.
---
Clara and Elias were at the coffee maker. "Hey," Noah said.
"Hey! Happy birthday!" Clara hugged him—too tight. Elias clapped his shoulder.
They worked through the morning. Around noon his father's assistant appeared in the doorway. "Your father's downstairs."
Noah grabbed his phone.
"Everything. Please."
"What?"
"You're going somewhere. You won't be back today."
Noah looked at Clara and Elias. "See you."
Elevator. He texted: Lunch with my dad. Miss you
Atlas: Why
Noah: idk
Atlas: Where
Noah: some private thing
Atlas: call if it's weird
Noah: ok
Then: love you
His father was standing by his desk. "Let's go."
Noah nodded.
In the car, his father was on his tablet. Noah's phone buzzed.
Atlas: did u find out where
Noah: no still driving
Atlas: call after
He looked up—his father was watching. Noah put his phone away.
Twenty minutes outside the city: "Where are we going?"
His father didn't look up. "You'll see when we get there."
"Is Mom—"
"This is business. Why would she be there."
Noah shut his mouth.
Two hours. A gate in a stone wall. It opened. Trees blocked the sky. This is wrong. The house was stone and glass—old bones, new skin. Security guards everywhere.
His father walked in. Noah followed.
"Study."
Thomas sat. Looked at him. Just looked. A staff member came in.
"No electronics during business conversations." Thomas's voice was pleasant. "Let's hand them over."
"Why—"
"Standard protocol for sensitive matters."
"Okay." Noah gave his phone, his bag. Thomas gave his phone and tablet. The staffer left.
Door closed.
Footsteps faded.
Nothing.
Thomas stared at him. Didn't blink.
Noah felt it—trapped.
Thomas leaned back. Pressed his fingertips together. "We needed to have this conversation."
Noah's eyebrows pulled together. "What conversation."
Thomas kept looking at him. "I've been watching you for a while now. Your behavior's changed."
Noah's face went still. "I don't—"
"Fathers notice things. Especially things that affect the family."
Noah's heart slammed. He laced his fingers together, kept his voice flat: "If my work's been—"
"Atlas."
Thomas watched Noah's face—pupils, jaw, breath.
"You've gotten close to him."
Noah tried breathing through his nose. "Close? He's—"
Thomas lifted one hand. Didn't raise his voice. Just stopped him.
"I know."
The room got smaller.
"If you think—"
"I don't think. I know."
Pause.
"This isn't about what you want, Noah. It's about what the family needs."
Noah's voice cracked. "Dad—"
"Our world has rules. You broke them."
Noah leaned forward. "I didn't break anything, I'm just—"
" You lost perspective. It happens. But it can't continue."
Noah flushed—anger, shame, both. "It's not— This isn't some decision, it's—"
Thomas's eyes changed. Still calm. Colder. "Noah. You can't continue this relationship."
He stopped breathing. "No. You can't—"
"I can. I am."
"This is my life—"
Thomas tilted his head. That aristocratic stillness. "Your life is part of this family. Everything connects—marriages, partnerships, business. You don't make choices in a vacuum."
Noah's eyes were wet. "Atlas loves me. I—"
Thomas cut in. " This isn't about love. It never was."
His jaw clenched. "Then what. Reputation?"
Thomas's voice stayed even. "Reputation is the only thing that matters."
Noah shook his head. "Dad, please, don't— He makes me happy, I—"
Thomas waited. Then: "You're twenty-three now. Time to understand— you're chasing something temporary. I'm dealing with what lasts."
He opened a drawer. Put a file on the desk.
Photos. Dates. Times. Locations.
Thomas watched him. "I've known for months. I gave you time. Hoped you'd come to your senses." He paused. "But you're getting more attached, not less."
Noah's mouth opened. "You had me followed?"
"I kept this contained before you made it public."
Noah stood. Chair scraped. "That's not protecting me, that's—you're controlling me—"
Thomas looked up. Met his eyes.
"Yes."
No apology. Just fact.
Noah's voice broke. "You can't—"
"I already did." Thomas's voice was soft. Almost kind. "Noah, sit down."
"No—"
"Sit. Down."
His legs wouldn't hold him. He sat.
Thomas leaned forward. "This ends today. Here. You'll stay in this house while we resolve this."
"I'm not giving him up—"
"You already have. Your phone's gone. There's no way to contact him. A therapist will be here tomorrow to help you process this. This isn't punishment." His voice dropped, gentle, paternal. "I'm doing this because I love you. You'll understand that later."
Noah went white. "You're keeping me here?"
" You're not thinking clearly. You will."
"I'm not—there's nothing wrong with me—"
"You've lost perspective. That's normal. We'll help you get it back." Thomas's face was soft. Concerned. "You'll thank me for this."
Noah gripped the chair arms. "I'll tell Mom."
"Your mother would agree with me. But there's no reason to upset her with this."
Noah's voice shattered. "Atlas is going to look for me, he's going to—"
Thomas's voice stayed calm. Soothing. "Atlas won't be able to reach you. It's more efficient this way. No drawn-out complications."
He couldn't breathe. "You can't—"
"I'm your father. I'm protecting you from yourself. That's what fathers do." Thomas stood. Buttoned his jacket. "Someone will take you to your room. Dinner's at seven."
He walked to the door. Opened it. A staff member was already there.
Thomas looked back at Noah. "I know this feels impossible right now. But you'll see. In a few months, you'll realize I saved you from a mistake."
He left.
---
The door closed.
The lock turned.
Noah sat frozen. His body felt separate from him.
He swallowed, tried breathing once, couldn't do it again.
The silence got heavier.
The walls were silk wallpaper. The desk was mahogany. The rug was Persian.
He couldn't get air.
Noah tried standing. His legs shook. He stayed sitting. Not choosing to. Just unable.
Palms on his thighs. Wet.
No air.
His lips moved: "Atlas..."
No sound. Just his mouth opening.
His eyes stung but nothing came out.
He knows everything. And Atlas doesn't know anything. Can't call. Can't text. I'm just going to disappear. He's gonna think I left— fuck— he's gonna think I just disappeared— I didn't— I didn't leave—
His throat closed. He covered his face, breath stuttering. A sob tried coming but got stuck somewhere in his chest.
Sharp pain under his ribs. His breathing went faster—still not enough air. His vision grayed at the edges.
He stood. One step. His knees gave out.
Hit the floor. The rug didn't help. His palms slapped down. He grabbed at the fibers, held on. Looked up. The file was still on the desk.
Photos of him and Atlas. Kissing. Holding hands. Getting into Atlas's car.
His eyes blurred. "How do I—I can't—" It came out broken. Barely words.
His stomach twisted. He gagged. Nothing came up but his throat burned. He gagged again. Spit on the rug. Shaking—hands, shoulders, jaw.
Can't breathe can't breathe can't—
His chest locked. He clawed at his collar. Gasped. No air. His vision tunneled. He could see himself from above—some kid on an expensive rug, choking.
He's texting me. Right now. Calling. Getting nothing. He'll call again. Tomorrow. Nothing. Next week. Silence. He'll never know what happened.
Another heave. This time bile came. He coughed, spat. His whole body shook.
The door opened.
Footsteps.
"Mr. Wellin." A man. Staff. Flat voice. "You need to come to your room."
Noah looked up. His face was wet, red. His mouth tasted like acid.
"My phone." Whisper. "Just—just let me—"
"That's not possible."
"One text, I just—" His voice cracked. Rose. "He doesn't know, he's going to—I need to tell him, I need—"
"Sir, I have instructions. This way."
Noah's face crumpled. "Please. Please I'm not—I just need one minute, one text, please—"
"This way, Mr. Wellin."
The man touched his elbow. Gentle. Guiding.
He closed his eyes.
He'll think I'm done with him. He'll think it was all fake. He'll think I used him. He won't know I tried. He won't know I didn't walk away.
He stood. Legs shaking. Followed.
The hallways were wide. Windows clean. Everything expensive.
The man opened a door. "Your room."
Noah walked in. Big bed. Skylight showing winter branches. Modern furniture. Bathroom through another door.
No handle on the inside of the main door.
It closed. Locked.
Noah stood in the center of the room. Stared at the skylight.
Then his knees went.
He dropped. Curled on the floor. A sound came out—raw, caught in his throat.
His body shook. He couldn't stop it.
"Atlas," he whispered. "Atlas, I'm sorry, I'm so—"
His breath came wrong. Short, shallow, too fast.
You're waiting. You don't know. You'll never know.
The shaking got worse. His teeth chattered. He pulled his knees to his chest. Pressed his forehead to the floor.
The room was silent except for his breathing.
He lay there as the light through the skylight changed. Gray to darker gray.
His phone was gone. He had nothing.
"I didn't leave you," he said to the floor. "I didn't."
But Atlas would never hear it.