The elevator climbed.
Noah watched the numbers light up. 85... 86... 87...
432 Park Avenue. Atlas Sterlins' penthouse.
Emma was talking. Something about whose party this was, who'd be there. Her voice floated past him like smoke he couldn't quite grasp.
"—and your dad said the Sterlins deal is almost done, right?"
Noah nodded. His voice came out lower than he meant. "Final contracts next week."
Emma's fingers found his cuff, straightening it. The gesture was automatic. Three years of small adjustments. Her thumb brushed the pale skin of his wrist where his pulse flickered too fast.
The elevator stopped.
Noah's hand went to his collar. The cashmere itched against his throat.
Music hit him first. Bass that crawled under his ribs and nested there. Then voices—that particular frequency of trust fund laughter he'd learned to mimic at fourteen.
The apartment stretched out like something that shouldn't exist. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around three walls. Manhattan spread below, a circuit board of light.
Noah stepped inside. The sweater Emma had chosen for him—"charcoal brings out your eyes, baby"—felt suddenly wrong. Too soft. Too careful against his fair skin that betrayed every flush of heat.
Emma's hand found his. "This is incredible."
He nodded. Couldn't form words.
Then.
Center of the room. People clustered around him like iron filings to a magnet they didn't understand.
Noah's lungs forgot their job.
Atlas had always been tall. But now he was tall in a way that rearranged the space around him. The black shirt pulled across his shoulders when he turned—athletic, broader than at Yale, like he'd spent three years reshaping himself into something more dangerous. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Forearms corded with muscle that hadn't existed before, veins surfacing when his fingers moved.
His dark hair obeyed him now. Swept back, not a strand questioning its place. Noah's own honey-colored curls were already rebelling, falling into his eyes despite Emma's gel, making him look younger than twenty-two.
A woman in red pressed against Atlas's side. Her nails—the exact shade of her dress—traced patterns on his forearm. Possessive little circles.
Atlas wasn't looking at her.
The air between them compressed. Twenty feet of marble floor suddenly felt like inches. Like nothing.
Their eyes met.
Noah's green eyes—Emma always said they were like sea glass, too pretty for a boy—went wide.
Atlas's were black. Not brown. Black. The kind of dark that swallowed light and gave nothing back.
Recognition hit Noah in the sternum. Not the simple kind—oh, there's Atlas—but the kind that rewired something fundamental. The kind that said: I know you. I've always known you. Even when I didn't want to.
Atlas didn't blink. Those black eyes stayed fixed, unreadable as deep water.
He just looked.
And in that look was every moment Noah had catalogued and buried. The time Atlas's hand had steadied him after too much whiskey at a Yale party, fingers spanning his entire waist, making Noah feel small, breakable. The morning Noah had found Atlas asleep in the library, vulnerable in a way that had made Noah want to protect him and wreck him simultaneously.
Noah's champagne glass betrayed him—liquid shivering against crystal, catching light like a confession. His long lashes fluttered, a nervous tell he'd never been able to control.
Four seconds. Five. Six.
The woman in red said something. Her lips moved against Atlas's ear.
Atlas turned to her slowly, like breaking eye contact required negotiation with gravity itself.
Then he moved toward them.
"Noah."
That voice hit him from across the room, low enough that he felt it vibrate in his chest.
"Emma."
The crowd parted. They always had for Atlas. Not because he asked. Because something in him—that athletic grace mixed with barely contained violence—made people want to clear a path, see what would happen next.
Emma's whole face transformed. "Atlas! This place is—"
"Thanks for coming."
He extended his hand to Noah.
Noah watched his own hand move forward, pale against Atlas's darker skin. His fingers looked delicate in comparison, piano player hands that had never known real work.
Atlas's palm swallowed his. Cool. Dry. Noah's hand disappeared completely—Atlas's fingers reached past his wrist bone, could probably circle it entirely if he tried.
The grip was firm. Then firmer.
Atlas's thumb found Noah's pulse point. Pressed once. Twice.
Noah looked up. Had to tilt his head back—Atlas had at least four inches on him. This close, he caught Atlas's scent. Something expensive. Dangerous. All cedar and leather and late night decisions that left bruises.
"Long time," Atlas said.
"Yeah. Three years," Noah said.
Those black eyes moved across Noah's face like they were memorizing damage. The nervous bite of his lower lip. The blush already crawling up his neck, visible against his fair skin. The way his curls fell forward when he was anxious.
Then Atlas's gaze dropped. Deliberate. To where their hands were still joined.
His thumb moved again. A small circle against Noah's racing pulse.
"How's life in California?" Noah asked.
"I'm back now." Atlas's thumb was still pressed against Noah's knuckles.
Heat flooded Noah's face. He knew he was blushing—he always did, skin too fair to hide anything.
He tried to pull back.
Atlas held on for one more second. His black eyes said things that had no translation in any language Noah was supposed to know.
Then he let go.
Noah's hand stayed suspended in air for a moment, fingers still curved around nothing.
"You're working for your father?" Atlas asked.
"About a year." Noah's voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat.
"Good."
Atlas looked at Emma. Finally. "Still together?"
"Three years." Emma squeezed Noah's hand, beaming. "Isn't he perfect? Look at this face." Her fingers found Noah's cheek, traced the dimple there. "My golden retriever."
Something flickered behind Atlas's black eyes. Fast. Violent. Gone.
But Noah caught it. The way those eyes went darker—which shouldn't have been possible. The way Atlas's jaw tensed, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
"Congratulations," Atlas said.
Then he walked away.
The absence of him was physical. Like all the air in the room followed him.
Time became syrup.
Emma found her friends by the bar. They surrounded Noah with their Hermès bags and their stories about someone's yacht, someone's affair, someone's ski house in Gstaad.
"Oh my god, Noah, you're so quiet tonight!" Sophia touched his shoulder, fingers lingering on the soft cashmere. "Everything okay?"
"Just tired." He pulled his mouth into the shape they expected. The dimples appeared on command.
"Those dimples though!" Melissa cooed. "And those lashes! Emma, how is he even real?"
Emma's arm wrapped around his waist, claiming. "I know, right? He's all mine."
Noah kept the smile in place. His jaw ached.
But his eyes—his green eyes that showed everything, always had—had their own agenda.
Across the room. Through the bodies and clouds of Tom Ford perfume.
There.
By the windows. Whiskey in hand, amber liquid catching city light like liquid fire. Atlas stood with some executive—gray temples, Patek Philippe watch—but he wasn't looking at him.
He was looking at Noah.
At Emma's hand on Noah's face. At the smile Noah wore like armor.
Their eyes locked.
Atlas's face gave nothing. Professional. Engaged in whatever the executive was saying. But his eyes—
Those black eyes burned with something that made Noah's stomach drop.
Noah's smile cracked. Fell away entirely.
His jaw tightened—that lean, graceful jaw that Emma loved to photograph.
Atlas's gaze dropped to Emma's hand. His nostrils flared—so subtle no one else would catch it. But Noah caught everything about Atlas. Always had.
When Atlas looked back up, there was something predatory in the set of his mouth.
Noah looked away first. But not before Atlas saw the truth—the way Noah's pupils had dilated, the flush spreading down his neck, the quick dart of his tongue across his lower lip.
He could still feel Atlas watching. That gaze followed him like a brand he'd never be able to wash off.
"Should we head out?" Emma yawned around eleven. "I have that eight AM meeting."
"Yeah." Noah scanned the room, green eyes too bright under the chandelier light. "Let me find Atlas first. Thank him."
"Good idea. Corporate manners." She squeezed his hand. "Especially with the partnership."
Noah climbed the floating stairs. His legs felt disconnected from his body—that tennis player grace Emma loved turned uncertain. His heart did something complicated in his chest—half warning, half anticipation.
The hallway stretched out. Dark. Music faded to bass and suggestion.
Cedar and leather hit him first. Atlas's scent, stronger here. Concentrated.
The door was cracked. Just enough.
Soft light leaked through. Gold from the city. Silver from the moon.
He should knock.
Should call out.
Should—
Movement inside. The sound of fabric against fabric. A gasp that wasn't Atlas's.
Noah's hand froze an inch from the door. His pale fingers trembled.
Through the gap: Atlas's bedroom. City lights painting everything in gold and shadow.
Atlas pressed someone against the wall. A man. Dark hair, Noah couldn't make out features in the dim light. But he could see Atlas's hands. One fisted in the man's hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat. The other splayed across his chest, holding him in place.
Atlas's shirt was gone. His back was a study in controlled violence—muscles shifting as he worked his mouth down the man's neck. Athletic. Powerful. Nothing gentle about it.
"Fuck," the man breathed.
Atlas's response was to bite down where neck met shoulder. Hard enough to mark.
Noah's knees went weak. His hand gripped the doorframe, knuckles white against dark wood.
This wasn't the careful, apologetic fumbling Noah knew. This was taking. This was hunger without apology.
Then Atlas's eyes opened.
Found Noah's through the gap.
Black. Completely black. But burning.
The kiss didn't stop. If anything, it intensified. His mouth worked harder, teeth visible for a moment before they sank into skin again. But his eyes—
His eyes locked onto Noah and held him prisoner.
There was no surprise in that gaze. No shame.
He'd known Noah would come.
He'd been waiting.
Atlas's hand tightened in the man's hair. Pulled harder. The control in it—the easy dominance—made Noah's stomach drop like he'd missed a step.
His hips rolled forward. Slow. Deliberate.
A demonstration.
The man moaned. Tried to pull back for air.
Atlas didn't let him. His hand held him in place, controlled every breath, every movement. His black eyes never left Noah's face.
Those eyes tracked everything—the way Noah's chest rose and fell too fast, the blush spreading down to his collar, the way his pink tongue darted out to wet his lips.
Something shifted in those black eyes. Darker…
The corner of Atlas's mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Something crueler.
He mouthed one word. Silent. Just for Noah.
Run.
Noah stumbled backward. His shoulder cracked against the doorframe. Pain shot down to his fingertips.
But even as he fled—
Even as his legs carried him down the stairs—
Even as his breath came in sharp gasps that tasted like cedar and leather and want—
He could feel Atlas's eyes following him.
That single word chasing him.
Not a dismissal.
A promise.
Get out.
He tried to fix his face on the way down. Smooth out whatever expression was there.
But his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Emma was waiting by the valet stand, their coats folded over her arm.
Noah stopped a few feet away. Forced his breathing to slow.
"There you are!" She turned. Her smile faded. "Noah? You okay?"
"Headache. Too many people."
The valet brought the car.
Emma drove. The city blurred past in streaks of gold and red. She was talking. Something about the party, the apartment, did he see so-and-so from Princeton.
Noah pressed his forehead against the window. Cool glass against overheated skin. In the reflection, his green eyes looked wild. Frightened. Hungry.
"You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?" Her voice had gone soft. "If something was bothering you?"
"Just tired." The lie scraped his throat. "Long week."
She pulled up outside his building. The Hudson glinted beyond the glass towers, black water reflecting fractured light.
"Get some rest." She studied his face—those pretty features she loved to show off. "You look pale, baby."
"I love you," she said.
Those words used to mean something. Used to feel like safety.
"Love you too."
He kissed her. Quick. Lips barely making contact before he pulled back.
Her taillights disappeared down River Terrace.
Noah's apartment was dark. He didn't turn on the lights.
The door clicked shut behind him. He stood there, keys cutting into his palm from how hard he gripped them.
Silence pressed against his ears.
He made it three steps before his legs gave out.
Slid down the wall. The hardwood floor was cold through his trousers.
His reflection stared back from the dark windows—pale face, honey-colored curls sticking up where he'd run his hands through them. Green eyes too wide, too bright.
Atlas Sterlins—
The thought wouldn't complete. Kept stopping halfway, like hitting a wall his mind had built.
Atlas Sterlins is—
No.
He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.
But the image was burned there. Atlas's back, muscles shifting in the half-light. That mouth working against skin. Those black eyes finding his through the gap and—
Noah's stomach clenched.
He scrambled to his feet, stumbled to the bathroom. Splashed cold water on his face. Once. Twice. Three times.
The mirror showed him the truth anyway. Flushed cheeks. Pupils still dilated. Lower lip swollen from biting it.
He looked—
Wrecked.
No. He looked tired. Just tired. It had been a long night. Too many people. Too much champagne.
That's all.
His phone buzzed.
Emma: You sleeping? Love you so much 💕
The words swam on the screen.
Three years. Safe. Normal. Everything exactly as it should be.
His thumb moved without thinking: Love you too
There. See? Normal.
He went to the bedroom. Lay on top of the covers fully dressed. Stared at the ceiling.
High school memories kept surfacing, uninvited:
Atlas in the locker room. Water running down his spine. Noah's eyes tracking the droplets before he'd force himself to look away. Just admiring his form. Athletes did that. Normal.
Atlas's hand on his shoulder after Noah's father had humiliated him at dinner. The weight of it. The warmth that had lingered for hours. Just comfort. Friends did that. Normal.
The way Noah always knew where Atlas was in a room. Like his body was a compass that only pointed one direction—
Stop.
He rolled over, pressed his face into the pillow.
Tomorrow there would be a meeting. Conference Room B. Two o'clock.
Both families. All the executives. Professional. Controlled.
Atlas would be there in his perfect suit with his perfect composure and nobody would mention—
Nobody would know that Noah had—
That he'd seen—
Nothing. You saw nothing.
His hands were shaking again. He pressed them flat against the mattress.
It was just shock. That's all. Surprise at seeing Atlas with—at seeing him—
At seeing something Noah hadn't expected.
That's all this was. Shock.
Not the other thing. Not the heat that had pooled low in his stomach. Not the way his body had responded, wanted to—
No.
He sat up. Grabbed his phone.
Calendar notification: "Wellin Enterprises - Sterlins Holdings Partnership Meeting. Tomorrow 2:00 PM. Conference Room B."
He stared at it until the words lost meaning.
Tomorrow Atlas would shake his hand again. Those black eyes would be professional, distant. They'd talk about quarterly projections and market strategies.
Nobody would mention tonight.
Nobody would mention that moment when Atlas had looked at him and mouthed that word—
Run.
A shiver went through him. Not fear. Something else. Something that made his skin feel too tight, made him hyperaware of every nerve ending.
He stood. Paced to the window.
The city sprawled below, all those lights, all those lives. Everyone out there knowing exactly who they were, what they wanted.
While Noah—
Noah had Emma. Noah had his job. Noah had Sunday dinners with his parents and a future mapped out in careful, safe lines.
Noah had everything he was supposed to want.
So why did his chest feel hollow? Why did his hands keep shaking? Why could he still smell cedar and leather even though Atlas hadn't touched him?
You're tired. You're confused. You saw something unexpected and you're processing it.
That's what this was. Processing.
By tomorrow it would fade. By next week it would be forgotten.
Atlas would go back to being Atlas Sterlins, business partner, son of his father's associate. Someone from school. Someone from before.
Not the Atlas from tonight.
Not the Atlas who'd taken what he wanted without apology, without hesitation.
Not the Atlas whose black eyes had promised things Noah didn't have words for.
Didn't want words for.
His reflection in the window looked ghostlike. Translucent. Like he might disappear if he stopped trying so hard to be solid.
Maybe that's what Atlas had meant with that look. That Noah was barely there. A sketch of a person. All careful lines and no color.
While Atlas—
Atlas was real in a way that made everything else look like pretense.
Stop thinking about him.
But his mind wouldn't listen. Kept circling back to that moment. Atlas's eyes finding his. Knowing he was there. Knowing he was watching.
Choosing to let him see.
Why?
The question lodged in his throat like glass.
Why had Atlas looked at him like that? What did it mean? What did he want?
Nothing. It meant nothing. He wants nothing from you.
Noah crawled into bed, still fully dressed. Pulled the covers up to his chin like armor.
Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow he'd wake up and this strange, twisted feeling in his chest would be gone. Tomorrow he'd kiss Emma goodbye and go to work and sit across from Atlas in Conference Room B and everything would be exactly as it had always been.
Normal.
Safe.
Empty.
No. Not empty. Full. Your life is full.
But sleep wouldn't come.
Every time he closed his eyes, Atlas was there. Those black eyes burning into his. That mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile.
That word.
Run.
Like a command.
Like a promise.
Like Atlas already knew something about Noah that Noah didn't know about himself.
Couldn't know.
Wouldn't let himself know.
The clock on his nightstand glowed: 3:47 AM.
In ten hours, he'd be sitting across from Atlas in a conference room.
Professional. Composed. Normal.
Nobody would know that Noah had stood in that doorway. Nobody would know what he'd seen. What he'd felt.
What he'd wanted—
No.
He pressed his face harder into the pillow.
You didn't want anything.
You don't want anything.
You're Noah Wellin. You have Emma. You have your life exactly as it should be.
And Atlas Sterlins—
Atlas Sterlins is nobody to you.
The lie tasted like copper on his tongue.
But he swallowed it anyway.
Kept swallowing it, over and over, until the sun came up and painted his walls the color of blood and all the things he couldn't let himself name.