Noah woke to his alarm at 6:30.
He hadn't slept.
Atlas's face. That room. The way he'd looked at Noah while—
Stop.
Shower. Water scalding. Didn't help.
Mirror showed dark circles. Pale lips. Someone who'd been up all night.
Three texts from Emma on his phone.
He swiped them away.
Work email glowed: "Wellin Enterprises - Sterlins Holdings Partnership Meeting. Today 2PM. Conference Room B."
Eight hours.
Office lights too bright.
Noah sat at his desk. 8:15. Floor mostly empty.
Computer on. Screen glowing.
He stared at nothing.
Morning meeting dragged. His father's voice cut through: "Sterlins Holdings at two. Everyone ready?"
Noah's pen stopped.
"Be professional. Important clients."
Professional.
1:58 PM.
Noah stood outside Conference Room B.
Through the glass—his father, the CFO. Across the table, old Mr. Sterlins and two suits.
No Atlas.
Maybe—
Footsteps.
He turned.
Atlas walked down the hallway. Charcoal suit. White shirt, no tie.
Didn't glance at Noah.
Just walked past. Hand on the door.
Stopped.
"After you."
Flat.
Noah's legs moved. Stepped through.
Cedar hit him. That cologne.
His breath caught.
Atlas followed. Pulled out the chair directly across.
Sat. Opened his folder. Each movement precise.
Looked up.
Their eyes met.
Two seconds.
Atlas's gaze moved to the window. Empty.
The project manager talked. Mobile payments. Demographics. Revenue.
Noah took notes. His handwriting slanted.
Ten minutes in, Atlas picked up his pen.
Started tapping.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Soft. Steady. Relentless.
Noah kept his eyes down.
The tapping continued.
Someone asked about costs.
"Noah?" His father. "Marketing budget?"
Noah looked up. "Projected CAC for 18-35 is—"
His eyes flicked across the table.
Atlas was watching.
The pen stopped. Balanced between two fingers. Perfectly still.
Noah's mouth dried.
"—within Q1 target."
"Good."
The pen started again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The corner of Atlas's mouth lifted. Microscopic.
Gone.
Noah looked away. Pulse loud.
An hour.
That fucking pen. Atlas shifting. The weight of him filling the room.
Finally old Mr. Sterlins stood. "Good meeting."
Handshakes. Packing up.
Noah grabbed his folder. Stood.
"Noah." His father. "Projector?"
"Yeah."
Everyone left. Door closed.
Noah walked to the projector. Hit power.
"Noah."
He turned.
Atlas stood by the window. Phone in hand.
Noah's stomach dropped.
He shut off the projector. Screen went dark.
Started for the door.
Atlas was there.
Not blocking. Just there.
Noah stopped. "Excuse me."
Atlas looked up. "Mm?"
"I need—" Gestured.
"Right." Stepped aside. Not far.
Noah passed close.
"Noah."
Stopped. Turned.
Atlas pocketed his phone.
"You look tired." Clinical. "Did you sleep?"
Noah's throat closed.
"I'm fine."
"Are you."
Silence pressed down.
Atlas tilted his head. Studied him.
"Interesting."
"What?"
"Nothing." Blank face. "You seem tense."
Noah's hands gripped the folder. White knuckles.
"I'm not—"
"Long week?"
"Yeah."
Pause.
Atlas checked his phone. Put it away.
Like he'd lost interest.
"Hope you enjoyed the party." Neutral. "You left early."
Polite.
But his eyes—
Watching for the flinch.
"Emma had a meeting."
"Right." Atlas nodded once. "Good."
He walked past Noah. Picked up his folder.
Stopped at the door.
"Get some rest. You look like you need it."
Left.
Door closed.
Noah stood there.
The folder slipped. Papers scattered.
He bent down. Hands shaking.
Fuck.
Six PM.
Office empty. Just fluorescent hum.
Noah sat at his desk.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The pen. Atlas watching. That micro-smile.
Did you sleep?
Every word a needle.
His phone buzzed.
Emma.
He let it ring.
Silence.
His thumb found Atlas's number.
Hovered.
The pen tapping. That look. The way Atlas had played him in front of everyone.
He knows what he's doing.
And he wanted me to know he knows.
Noah's jaw clenched.
I can't just sit with this.
Opened a message.
Can we talk?
Deleted.
About the meeting—
Deleted.
Finally: Are you free tonight?
Pressed send.
One minute.
Two.
Five.
Nothing.
He grabbed his bag—
The phone buzzed.
Atlas Sterlins:Are you free now?
Noah's chest tightened.
Yes.
Atlas Sterlins:Come.
An address.
Noah typed: Twenty minutes.
Send.
Underground parking. His car under flickering light.
He turned the key. Headlights cut darkness.
Pulled out.
Rain-slicked streets. Lights reflecting in puddles.
Noah's hands gripped the wheel.
What the fuck am I doing?
Atlas's building rose ahead. Glass and steel.
He pulled in. Parked. Killed the engine.
His reflection stared back. Pale. Lost.
You can leave.
But he opened the door.
Elevator climbing. Numbers rising.
Penthouse.
Doors opened.
Atlas's door. Unmarked.
Noah knocked twice.
Footsteps.
A man opened it. Mid-thirties. Black shirt. Staff.
"Mr. Wellin?"
"Yeah."
"He's expecting you. Study. Last door on the right."
Noah stepped in. Door closed.
Cedar and leather. Smoke underneath.
His steps echoed on marble.
Down the hall.
Last door. Slightly open. Light spilling out.
No going back.
He pushed it open.
Atlas sat behind a mahogany desk. Whiskey in hand. Amber catching light.
White shirt. Collar undone. Sleeves rolled.
Looked up.
"Close the door."
Not asking.
Noah stepped in. Door clicked shut.
Atlas took a sip. Set the glass down. Careful. Deliberate.
Leaned back.
"Sit."
Noah sat. Leather cold. The desk between them.
Atlas watched.
"Drink?"
Noah shook his head.
"You sure?" Neutral. "You look like you need one."
"I'm fine."
"Do you."
Noah's hands gripped his knees.
Silence. Atlas didn't fill it.
Books lined the walls. Dark wood. One lamp.
"About last night." Noah's throat tight. "The party. I walked into the wrong room. I didn't mean to—"
"You saw something."
Flat.
"Yeah. I'm sorry. I won't tell anyone."
"Won't you."
"No. Your private life—I just wanted you to know."
Atlas picked up his glass. Swirled it. Watched the liquid move.
"Why."
"What?"
"Why did you need to tell me that."
"Because at the meeting, you seemed—"
"I seemed what."
"Like you were testing me."
"Was I."
Sip. Eyes never leaving Noah's face.
"I was being professional."
"Right."
"But you thought it was something else."
Noah's hands pressed against his knees.
"I wanted to make sure we understood each other."
"And what do you think I need to understand?"
"That I won't say anything. That things stay professional."
"Professional."
Atlas set his glass down.
Stood.
Noah stopped breathing.
Atlas walked around the desk. Slow. Deliberate.
Stopped at the corner. Leaned against it. Arms crossed.
Closer.
Not touching. But close enough Noah could see threads in his shirt. Pale forearms. Eyes—amber in the light.
Close enough Noah had to look up.
"You seem tense."
"I'm not—"
"Your hands are shaking."
They were.
"Long day."
"Is it." Tilted his head. "Or something else."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you."
Quiet deepened.
Atlas pushed off. Another step.
Noah pressed back.
"You came here because you wanted answers."
"I came to clarify—"
"No." Eyes narrowed slightly. "You came because you're confused."
"I'm not—"
"I've known you since high school, Noah." Pause. "I know exactly what type you are."
Should've been reassuring.
Wasn't.
"Then why—"
"Why did I ask if you slept?"
"Yeah."
"Normal question."
"But the way—"
"How did I say it."
Noah couldn't answer.
"You don't know." Atlas took another step. "Or you do. And that scares you."
"I'm not scared."
"Then why are you shaking?"
Noah stared at his hands. Trembling.
Atlas reached out.
Noah froze.
But Atlas's hand moved past. To the bookshelf.
Pulled out a book. Leather-bound.
Opened it. Flipped pages. Read.
Face unreadable.
Closed it. Set it beside Noah.
"Poetry. Ever read it?"
"What?"
"Simple question."
"No."
"There's a line about masks." Atlas walked back. Sat. "Wearing them so long you forget what's underneath." Pause. "Ever feel like that?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Interesting."
Sip. Eyes on Noah.
"You know what I think?"
Silence.
"You saw something that challenged what you thought you knew." Pause. "About me. About yourself."
"That's not—"
"And now you're trying to make sense of it."
Noah's hands clenched.
"But it won't fit." Atlas tilted his head. "Because some things—once you see them—you can't unsee."
Heavy silence.
Atlas picked up his pen. Started turning it. Slow. Controlled.
Hypnotic.
"You walked into that room. Saw something. And it made you feel something you didn't expect."
The pen kept spinning.
"And now you're sitting here, trying to convince yourself it didn't happen."
Noah's breath stopped.
"But your body knows." Atlas leaned forward. Elbows on desk. Pen stilled. "Your hands shake. Your pupils dilate. You can't hold eye contact."
Noah looked away.
"That's what I thought."
Silence.
Noah forced himself to look back.
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" Mouth curved. Microscopic. "Then leave."
Noah stared.
"If I'm wrong—" Gestured to the door. "—you're done. Leave."
Noah's legs wouldn't move.
"But if I'm right—" Leaned back. Arms crossed. "—if you came here because you wanted something else—"
Didn't finish.
The question hung.
Noah's heart hammered.
Leave.
But he sat there.
Frozen.
Atlas watched. Patient.
Like he knew.
"I should go." Hoarse.
"Should you."
"Yeah."
Didn't move.
"Then go."
Noah stood. Unsteady.
Walked to the door. Hand on handle.
"Noah."
Stopped. Didn't turn.
Long silence.
Then:
"Be professional"
Two words. Quiet. Final.
Noah's hand tightened on the handle.
He pulled the door open. Stepped out.
Door closed.
He stood in the hallway. Breathing hard.
Be professional.
Not a request.
A line drawn.
His hand found the wall. Steadied himself.
Then walked. Fast.
Elevator descending. Numbers dropping.
Nothing happened.
But his body knew.
Doors opened. His car.
Got in. Started the engine.
Sat there.
Be professional.
What did that mean?
A boundary.
Or a dare.
Forehead against the wheel.
Put the car in drive.
Empty streets. Yellow lights.
I know exactly what type you are.
What type?
Red light. His reflection. Haunted.
Green light.
Home. Parking. Engine off.
Silence.
This ends now.
Tomorrow. Normal.
Got out. Fumbled with keys.
Three tries.
Inside. Silence absolute.
Leaned against the door.
Wrong.
Everything felt wrong.
Bedroom. Lights off. Lay down clothed.
Stared at ceiling.
Phone on nightstand. Dark.
Part of him expected it to light up.
It stayed dark.
Because Atlas didn't need to text.
He'd said everything.
Closed his eyes.
But his mind circled.
The study. Atlas leaning close. Cedar and smoke.
The pen turning. That controlled precision.
Be professional.
What if he went back?
No.
Pillow over head.
Just confusion.
Doesn't mean anything.
But the lie wasn't working.
His body remembered.
The way Atlas stood over him. Heat. Pulse jumping.
Stop.
Face in pillow.
When sleep came—
Hours later—
He dreamed.
Not of Emma.
Of amber eyes.
A voice: Did you sleep?
Hands turning a pen.
What type are you?
Woke at 3 AM. Heart pounding. Sheets tangled.
Phone glowing.
No messages.
Noah stared at the dark screen.
Part of him had expected—
What?
A text?
Atlas didn't need to.
He'd already won.
Set the phone face-down.
Lay there.
Listening to breathing.
Tomorrow. Normal.
But deep down—
He knew.
Atlas had opened something.
And now Atlas was waiting.
Patient.
For Noah to come back.
Because they both knew—
Noah would.