Noah woke to his alarm at 6:30.
He hadn't slept.
Spent the whole night staring at the ceiling. Atlas's face. That moment. The way he'd looked at Noah like he could see everything.
He got up. Showered. Water so hot it burned, but it didn't help.
In the mirror, he looked like shit. Pale. Dark circles under his eyes.
He looked like someone who'd been up all night trying to forget something.
Three texts from Emma on his phone. He'd check them later.
Work email: "Wells Enterprises - Sterling Holdings Partnership Meeting. Today 2PM. Conference Room B."
Eight hours.
He had eight hours to figure out how to sit across from Atlas and pretend everything was fine.
---
The office was too bright.
Noah got there at 8:15. Floor mostly empty. He sat at his desk, turned on his computer, stared at nothing.
His phone buzzed.
Emma: Good morning babe ☀️ Feeling better today?
He typed: I'm good. Busy day. Talk later?
Emma: Of course! Love you 💕
He put the phone face-down.
The morning dragged. Sales meeting at nine. Noah took notes, answered questions. All automatic.
His father's voice cut through: "Sterling Holdings meeting is at two. Everyone ready?"
Noah's pen stopped moving.
"The partnership's important," his father said. "Old Sterling's son will be there. Atlas. You remember him from high school."
Remember him.
Yeah.
"Be professional. Sterlings are big clients."
Professional. Right.
---
1:58 PM.
Noah stood outside Conference Room B.
Through the glass he could see them—his father, the CFO, their project manager. Across the table, old Mr. Sterling and two guys in dark suits.
No Atlas.
Maybe he wouldn't show. Maybe—
Footsteps.
Noah turned.
Atlas walked down the hallway.
Charcoal suit. White shirt, no tie. Moving like he had all the time in the world.
Didn't look at Noah.
Just walked past him to the door. Hand on the handle.
Stopped.
Glanced at Noah. Quick.
"After you."
Voice flat. Polite. Nothing.
Noah's legs moved.
He stepped through. Caught Atlas's scent—cedar, something expensive.
Same as last night.
Noah's breath hitched.
Atlas followed him in. Sat directly across from him.
Old Mr. Sterling looked up, frowning. "You're late."
"Sorry." Atlas opened his folder. "Let's start."
Noah sat there.
One meter of table between them.
Atlas took out a pen. Everything measured. Controlled. Like he'd done this a thousand times.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
One second. Two.
Atlas's face showed nothing. Not recognition. Not anything.
Then he looked away.
Started reading his documents.
Like Noah wasn't even there.
---
The project manager started the presentation. Mobile payments. Demographics. Revenue.
Noah tried to focus. Took notes he wouldn't remember.
His handwriting got worse with each line.
Because he could feel it.
Atlas. Right there. Impossible to ignore.
Noah kept his eyes down. On his notepad. On the screen. On his father.
Anywhere except across the table.
But his body knew.
Knew when Atlas shifted. When he reached for his water. When he leaned forward.
Every movement registered.
Someone asked about acquisition costs.
"Noah?" His father. "You reviewed the marketing budget?"
Noah looked up. "Yeah. The projected CAC for the 18-35 demo is—"
His eyes flicked to Atlas for half a second.
Atlas was looking at him.
Not interested. Not anything.
Just—looking.
Like Noah was furniture.
Noah's mouth went dry. "—is good for first quarter."
"Good."
Atlas's gaze drifted to the window. Bored.
Noah's hands clenched under the table.
---
The meeting lasted an hour.
An hour of Noah aware of every breath, every movement, every time Atlas's pen scratched paper.
Finally, old Mr. Sterling stood. "Our teams will handle contracts. Good meeting."
Handshakes. Smiles.
Everyone started packing up.
Noah grabbed his folder. Stood. Headed for the door.
"Noah." His father caught his arm. "Make sure the projector's off?"
"Sure."
His father left with the others. Door closed.
Noah turned to the projector.
And realized.
Atlas was still there.
By the window, checking his phone.
Noah's heart jumped.
He walked to the projector. Hit power. Screen went dark.
Turned to leave.
Atlas was by the door now.
Not blocking it. Just—there.
Noah stopped. "Excuse me."
Atlas looked up from his phone. "Mm?"
"I need to—" Noah gestured.
"Right." Atlas stepped aside.
But not far.
Noah had to pass close.
He kept his eyes forward. Moved toward the door.
"Noah."
He stopped. Turned.
Atlas had put his phone away. Hands in his pockets.
"You don't look well." Voice calm. "Did you sleep?"
Noah's throat closed.
Just a question. Simple.
But the way Atlas said it—flat, empty—made it feel like something else.
He knows. He knows I was there.
"I'm fine." Too fast. "Just—tired."
"Mm." Atlas tilted his head. Studied him.
The silence got heavy.
Noah's hands were shaking. He gripped the folder tighter.
"Interesting," Atlas said.
"What?"
"Nothing." No expression change. "You just seem—tense."
Noah's heart pounded. "I'm not—"
"Long week?" Still flat. Almost bored.
"Yeah. Something like that."
Pause.
Atlas pulled out his phone again. Checked something. Put it back.
Like he'd lost interest.
"Well." He walked past Noah to the table. Picked up his folder. "Hope you get some rest."
He moved toward the door.
Stopped at the threshold. Looked back.
"Oh—Noah?"
Noah couldn't speak.
"Hope you enjoyed the party." Voice completely neutral. "You left early. Everything okay?"
The question was polite. Concerned, even.
But something in Atlas's eyes—
Not a challenge. Not a threat.
Just—awareness.
Like he knew exactly what Noah had seen. And was waiting to see what Noah would do.
"We're fine." Noah forced it out. "Emma had that meeting."
"Right." Atlas nodded. "Good."
He left.
Door closed softly.
Noah stood there.
Alone.
His hands shook so hard the folder slipped. Papers scattered.
He bent down. Started picking them up.
His mind spinning.
What was that? Was he threatening me? Testing me?
Or was he just being polite?
But that look.
That awareness.
He knows I was there. And he wanted me to know that he knows.
Or—
Am I imagining it?
Noah pressed his palms to his eyes.
Stop.
He gathered the papers. Left.
---
Noah sat at his desk.
Office was empty. Nearly six.
His computer glowed in the dim light.
He hadn't done any work. Just sat there, replaying it.
"Did you sleep?"
"Interesting."
"Hope you enjoyed the party."
Every word felt loaded.
Or maybe—
Maybe he was just projecting. Seeing things that weren't there.
He's Atlas Sterling. Why would he care what I saw? Why would he—
His phone rang.
Emma.
Noah stared at her name.
Didn't answer.
Let it ring until it stopped.
Silence.
His hands found his phone again. Opened contacts.
He'd gotten Atlas's number from the company directory this morning.
His thumb hovered.
I need to know.
Need to know if that was a threat. A test. Something.
I can't just sit with this.
He opened a new message.
Typed: Can we talk?
Deleted it.
Typed: About the meeting—
Deleted it.
His fingers shook.
Finally:
Are you free tonight?
He stared at it.
Send it.
He pressed send before he could think.
Set the phone face-down.
Buried his face in his hands.
What am I doing?
One minute.
Two.
Five.
Nothing.
He's not answering.
Noah forced himself up—grabbed his bag, shut down his laptop.
Maybe silence was the answer.
Then the phone buzzed.
Once.
He froze.
Picked it up.
Atlas Sterling
Are you free now?
Noah's chest tightened.
Now?
His hands shook as he typed.
Yes.
Send.
Reply came instantly.
Come.
Then a location—Atlas's penthouse.
Noah stared at the address.
His pulse too loud.
He typed.
Okay. Twenty minutes.
Send.
He sat there. Elbows on desk, hands in hair.
What am I doing?
No answer.
But when he stood, he grabbed his jacket.
---
The elevator descended. Noah watched the numbers drop.
His car was in the corner, under a flickering light.
He got in. Sat in silence.
The engine ticked. Outside, empty concrete and shadows.
Noah turned the key.
Engine caught. Headlights cut through dark.
He pulled out.
---
The city had changed.
Rain had come and gone. Streets slick, shining. Streetlights reflected in puddles.
Noah drove on autopilot. Left. Right. Through intersections he didn't remember.
His hands gripped the wheel.
You wanted answers.
Did he?
Or did he just want—
He didn't finish the thought.
Atlas's building appeared. Tall. Glass and steel.
Noah pulled into underground parking. Found a spot. Killed the engine.
Stillness.
His reflection in the rearview. Pale. Uncertain.
He looked like someone about to fuck up.
You can still leave.
But his hand was on the door.
And when he got out—
He didn't look back.
---
Elevator rose in silence.
Noah watched the numbers. Each floor a heartbeat.
Penthouse.
Doors opened.
Atlas's door ahead. Unmarked.
Noah's hand rose. Hesitated.
Knocked.
Twice.
Echo in the empty hallway.
Footsteps inside. Soft.
Door opened.
A man stood there. Mid-thirties, clean-cut.
Not Atlas.
"Mr. Wells?"
"Yeah."
"Mr. Sterling's expecting you." He stepped aside. "Come in."
Noah hesitated. The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet.
He stepped inside.
The guy closed the door with a soft click.
"Mr. Sterling's in his study," he said, gesturing down the hall. "Last door on the right."
Noah nodded, though his throat felt tight.
His hands were damp. He wiped them on his jeans.
The guy smiled. Professional. Then disappeared toward the kitchen.
Noah stood there. Heart loud in his ears.
The air smelled like cedar and something darker.
He started walking.
Each step echoed on marble.
Hallway. One, two, three closed doors—then the last one, slightly open.
Light spilled out. Warm, golden.
Noah stopped at the threshold.
Whatever was in that room—
No going back.
Noah's hand on the doorframe.
Light from inside. Warm. Atlas.
He pushed the door open.
Stopped.
Atlas sat behind a big mahogany desk. Glass of whiskey in one hand, amber catching light. White shirt, collar open, sleeves rolled up.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
"Close the door," Atlas said.
Not asking.
Noah stepped in. Door clicked shut.
Time stopped.
Atlas took a slow sip. Set the glass down carefully. Leaned back.
"Sit."
Noah's legs carried him to the chair. He sat.
Leather cold beneath him. Desk between them—a meter that felt like too much and not enough.
Atlas watched him. Face blank.
"Drink?"
Noah shook his head. "No thanks."
"You sure?" Neutral tone. "You look like you need one."
"I'm fine."
"Are you."
Not a question.
Noah's hands gripped his knees. "Yeah."
Silence. Atlas didn't fill it.
The study was lined with books. Floor-to-ceiling. Dark wood. Soft light.
Noah's throat tight. He had to say something.
"About last night. At the party."
Atlas's face didn't change.
"I walked into the wrong room. I didn't mean to—I was looking for you. To say thanks. The door was open and I—"
"And you saw something." Flat.
Noah's breath caught. "Yeah. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."
"Didn't you?"
"No. I just—" Noah forced himself to look at him. "I wanted you to know. I won't tell anyone. What I saw—it's not my business."
"Isn't it?"
The question hung.
Noah's pulse quickened. "No. Your private life—it's yours. I just wanted to make that clear."
Atlas picked up his glass. Swirled the whiskey. Watched it move.
"And why," he said slowly, "did you feel the need to make that clear?"
"Because—" Noah stopped. Mind spinning. "Because today at the meeting, you seemed—"
"I seemed what?"
"I don't know." Too fast. "Like you were testing me. Or warning me. I couldn't tell."
"Couldn't you."
Atlas took another sip. Eyes never left Noah's face.
"I was being polite, Noah. Professional." Pause. "The way colleagues are."
"Right. Yeah. Of course."
"But you thought it was something else."
Not a question. Observation.
Noah's hands shook. He pressed them harder against his knees.
"I—no. I just wanted to make sure we understood each other."
"And what," Atlas said quietly, "do you think I need to understand?"
Noah's throat dry. "That I won't say anything. And that I want things to stay professional. Our families work together. I don't want—"
"What don't you want?"
Simple question. Heavy weight.
Noah couldn't answer.
Atlas set his glass down. Stood.
Noah stopped breathing.
Atlas walked around the desk. Slowly. Footsteps soft.
Stopped at the corner. Leaned against it. Arms crossed.
Closer now. Not touching. But close enough Noah could see details—the weave of his shirt, pale forearms, amber eyes in low light.
Close enough Noah had to tilt his head up.
"You seem tense," Atlas said.
"I'm not—"
"You are." Calm. Matter-of-fact. "Your hands are shaking. You're breathing shallow. You keep looking at the door."
Noah's gaze had flicked to the exit. He hadn't realized.
Forced himself to look back.
"Long day."
"Has it?" Atlas tilted his head. "Or is it something else?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?"
Quiet deepened.
Atlas studied him. Like Noah was a puzzle.
"You came here," Atlas said quietly, "because you wanted answers."
Noah's heart hammered. "I came to clarify—"
"No." Atlas's eyes narrowed slightly. "You came because you're confused. About what you saw. About what it means."
"It doesn't mean anything."
"Doesn't it?"
Noah's chest too tight. "No. I just wanted to make sure you knew I wouldn't—"
"I already know that." Soft. "You're not the type to gossip. I've known you since high school. I know exactly what type you are."
Should've been reassuring.
Wasn't.
"Then why—" Noah's voice cracked. "Why did you—today—"
"Why did I what?" Atlas leaned forward slightly. "Ask if you slept? Mention the party?"
"Yeah."
"Those are normal questions."
"But the way you said them—"
"How did I say them?"
Noah couldn't answer. Because Atlas's tone had been neutral. Professional.
But his eyes—
His eyes said something else.
"I don't know," Noah whispered.
"You don't know." Atlas pushed off the desk. Took a step closer.
Noah pressed back.
"Or," Atlas said softly, "you do know. And that's what scares you."
Noah's breath shallow. "I'm not scared."
"No?" Atlas stopped right in front of him. "Then why are you shaking?"
Noah looked down.
His hands trembling against his knees. Whole body tense.
"I'm just—"
"Tired?" Something flickered in his eyes. "You keep saying that."
Everything stilled.
Atlas reached out.
Noah froze.
But Atlas didn't touch him. His hand moved past Noah's shoulder to the bookshelf. Pulled out a book. Poetry.
Flipped through it. Found a page. Read silently.
Closed it. Set it on the desk.
"You ever feel like you're lying to yourself?" Atlas asked.
Noah stared at him. "What?"
"About who you are. What you want." Conversational. "And the lie's so old you don't even notice it anymore."
Pause.
"Until something makes you notice."
Noah couldn't speak.
Atlas walked back around the desk. Sat. Picked up his whiskey.
"It's late," he said. Tone shifted. Polite. Distant. "You should go."
Noah didn't move.
"Is that all?" Hoarse.
Atlas looked at him. Unreadable.
"Unless you have something else to say."
Noah stood. Legs unsteady.
Walked to the door. Hand on handle.
"Noah."
He stopped. Didn't turn.
"Yeah?"
Long silence.
Then Atlas's voice, quiet:
"Take care of yourself."
Same politeness as before. In the conference room.
But now—
Now it felt like a warning.
Noah pulled the door open.
Walked into the hallway.
Door closed with a soft click.
He stood there. Breathing hard.
Mind spinning.
You ever feel like you're lying to yourself?
Atlas hadn't touched him.
Hadn't threatened him.
Hadn't said anything explicit.
But Noah felt—
He felt stripped bare.
Like Atlas had seen something Noah couldn't admit.
His hand found the wall. Steadied himself.
Then walked. Fast. Down the hall. Past the silent guy in the kitchen. Out the door.
Elevator descended.
Noah watched the numbers drop.
Tried to convince himself nothing happened.
That Atlas was just talking. Asking questions. Being professional.
But his body knew better.
Still responding to the proximity. The scent. The weight of Atlas's gaze.
You know exactly what type you are.
Noah's reflection in the elevator doors.
He looked wrecked.
Doors opened. Parking garage. His car in the corner.
Got in. Started the engine.
Drove home through empty streets.
But Atlas's question followed:
You ever feel like you're lying to yourself?
Noah gripped the wheel.
Tried not to think about what that meant.
Tried not to think that Atlas—
Atlas hadn't denied anything.
Hadn't explained.
Hadn't apologized.
He'd just—
Watched.
Waited.
Let Noah draw his own conclusions.
Somehow worse.
Because it meant Atlas knew.
Knew what Noah was feeling before Noah did.
And was waiting—
Patiently.
For Noah to realize it too.
---
Parking garage was cold. Empty.
Noah sat in his car, hand on the wheel.
His reflection stared back. Pale. Wrecked.
Atlas hadn't touched him. Hadn't said anything explicit.
Just talked.
So why did it feel like something broke open?
You ever feel like you're lying to yourself?
Wouldn't leave.
About who you are. What you want.
Noah's jaw clenched.
No.
No dissonance.
No confusion.
He had Emma. A job. A life.
This was just stress. Exhaustion.
That's all.
He started the engine.
---
City streets were quiet. Past ten.
Traffic lights blinked yellow at empty intersections.
Noah drove on autopilot. Left. Right. Straight.
Mind replaying the study.
Atlas leaning against the desk. Voice quiet.
You know exactly what type you are.
What type was Noah?
Red light.
He stopped. Reflection in the rearview looked haunted.
Why am I like this?
Atlas just talked.
So why does it feel like something changed?
Green light.
He drove.
This is wrong.
Something heavy in his chest.
Because he was feeling something.
Since the party. Since the conference room.
Since Atlas looked at him and said nothing at all.
Noah's hand tightened on the wheel.
I have to stop this.
Ends now.
He pulled onto his street. Found his building. Parked.
Engine ticked.
Noah sat in silence.
Made a decision.
Starting tomorrow, everything changes.
No more thinking about Atlas. No more analyzing every word.
I'll stay away. Completely.
Professional in meetings. But nothing else. No texts. No contact.
He's just a business contact. Someone I knew in high school.
That's all.
Noah got out. Legs unsteady.
Walked to his building. Fumbled with keys.
Took three tries to unlock the door.
Inside, silence was absolute.
He closed the door. Leaned back against it.
The apartment felt different. Like it belonged to someone else.
Or maybe—
Maybe Noah was different.
No.
I'm the same. Nothing's changed.
He pushed off. Went to the bedroom. Didn't turn on lights.
Just lay down on the bed, fully clothed. Stared at the dark ceiling.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll text Emma. We'll have dinner. Talk about normal stuff.
Work. Her job. That vacation we've been planning.
Everything will go back to normal.
His phone on the nightstand. Screen dark.
Part of him expected it to light up. Message from Atlas.
But it stayed dark.
Because Atlas didn't need to text.
He'd already said everything.
Or—
He'd said nothing.
And that was worse.
Noah closed his eyes.
Tried to slow his breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
But his mind wouldn't quiet.
Kept circling back.
To the study.
To Atlas's question: You ever feel like you're lying to yourself?
To the way he'd stood so close Noah could smell cedar, smoke, something darker.
To the book. Poetry. The casual way Atlas reached past him.
Like it meant nothing.
Or everything.
Noah opened his eyes.
Stared at the ceiling.
You ever feel like you're lying to yourself?
Something ached in his chest.
Because what if—
What if Atlas was right?
What if Noah had been lying to himself for years?
Not just about Atlas.
About—
Everything.
No.
Noah turned on his side. Pulled the pillow over his head.
I'm not—I'm with Emma. I love Emma.
This is just confusion. Stress. A reaction to something shocking.
It doesn't mean anything.
But even as he thought it—
He knew.
The lie wasn't working anymore.
Because his body remembered.
Remembered the way Atlas leaned close.
The heat when their eyes met.
How he'd wanted—
Stop.
Noah buried his face in the pillow.
Forget it. Just forget all of it.
Tomorrow everything will be normal.
Atlas Sterling is not in my life.
He can't be.
But when sleep finally came—
Hours later, when exhaustion won—
Atlas was there.
In the dark.
Waiting.
Shit—no.
Not waiting.
Watching.