THE MORNING
Noah opened his eyes.
Light streamed through the windows. Too bright.
He reached across the bed. Empty. Cold sheets.
Atlas was gone.
Rowing. He'd said rowing at six.
Noah sat up. Rubbed his face.
The pillow still smelled like Atlas's cologne.
He got up, walked to the bathroom. Turned on the faucet. Watched the water run.
Last night came back in pieces. Atlas's mouth on his. The wall against his back. Hands everywhere. That first real kiss—the one that made Noah forget his own name, forget he'd spent twenty-two years pretending he wanted soft curves instead of hard muscle, strawberry lip gloss instead of the scratch of stubble. They'd fallen into bed after, just kissing until neither of them could breathe, until Noah was shaking so hard Atlas held him still and said we're not doing anything else tonight and Noah had been relieved and disappointed in equal measure.
The bathroom mirror showed him the damage. His light brown hair stuck up on one side, flat on the other. Green eyes still slightly glazed. His lips looked darker, fuller—swollen from hours of kissing another man. A mark sat low on his neck, barely visible unless you knew where to look.
Noah touched it. His reflection touched it back.
Twenty-two years of dating Emma. Of telling himself he loved her. Of trying to feel something—anything—when she kissed him.
One night with Atlas and he'd felt everything.
He stepped into the shower. Cold water first. It hit him hard—needles against skin, against thought. He let it. Let it wash over his face, his chest, his hands that still remembered the weight of another man.
He closed his eyes.
What the hell are you doing, Noah?
The question echoed. Sharp. Familiar. His father's voice. His own.
But the water kept running, and he didn't move.
His chest burned—not shame. Something else. Something that felt dangerously close to freedom.
His phone buzzed from the bedroom.
Noah turned off the water. Grabbed a towel. Didn't dry off properly—water dripped down his back, soaked into the towel wrapped around his waist. He walked back to the bedroom, left wet footprints on the hardwood.
His phone sat on the nightstand. Screen glowing.
Atlas: rowing done. dinner tonight?
Noah stared at the message.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
His mouth did something stupid. A grin he couldn't control.
Noah: yeah
Three dots appeared immediately.
Atlas: good
That was it.
Noah read it twice. Put his phone down. Picked it up again. Read it once more.
His face was still doing that thing. That stupid grin.
He grabbed his clothes from yesterday. They smelled like the bar. Like Atlas's cologne mixed with beer and wood polish. He pulled them on anyway—wrinkled shirt, jeans that sat wrong on his hips.
His phone went in his pocket. Keys. Wallet.
He looked around his apartment. Everything exactly where he'd left it yesterday morning.
Except it wasn't.
The pillow on the left side of the bed was dented. The sheets were twisted. Two coffee mugs sat in the sink instead of one.
Evidence.
Noah grabbed his jacket.
Walked out the door.
Locked it behind him.
His hand stayed on the doorknob for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Then he let go.
WELLIN OFFICE
His desk looked exactly how he'd left it Monday afternoon. Coffee mug with dried rings at the bottom. Stack of Wellin files—his father's latest acquisition deal. Post-it notes in his own handwriting that didn't make sense anymore.
Noah clicked through his email. Seventy-seven new messages since yesterday.
He opened the first one.
The words blurred together. He read the sentence three times and still couldn't tell you what it said.
His phone sat face-up next to his keyboard. Screen dark.
He picked it up. Nothing.
Put it down.
Picked it up again.
Still nothing.
Fuck.
He went back to the email. Read the first line again. His eyes slid right off it like water off glass.
His door was open. People kept walking by. Sarah from legal. David from accounts. Jennifer from marketing. Each one glanced in, and Noah felt their eyes catch on him, linger just a second too long.
Did he look different?
His hand went to his neck. Atlas's mouth had been there last night. Right there. Teeth and tongue and—
He dropped his hand fast.
Stop.
His phone buzzed.
He grabbed it so fast he nearly knocked over his coffee mug.
Marcus: drinks tonight? jared's in. 7pm garret
Not Atlas.
Noah stared at the message. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Noah: yeah
He hit send. Put his phone down face-down this time.
Lasted maybe two minutes before picking it up again.
Nothing.
He opened his email. Refreshed it. Seventy-six messages now. He clicked on the second one without reading the first.
His knee started bouncing. Fast. Hard enough to shake his desk.
He forced it still.
It started again ten seconds later.
The cursor blinked at him from the email. Mocking.
Noah stood up. Too fast. His chair rolled back and hit the wall.
He needed coffee. Or air. Or—something that wasn't sitting here losing his fucking mind.
The break room smelled like burnt coffee and something vaguely floral—someone's perfume, probably. The coffee machine hissed and sputtered, dripping into the pot one agonizing drop at a time.
Noah counted them. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.
It gave him something to focus on that wasn't the fact that twelve hours ago he'd been kissing another man. That he'd liked it. That he couldn't stop thinking about it.
Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
"Noah."
He jumped. Turned.
Sarah from legal stood in the doorway. Arms crossed. Head tilted. Watching him like he was a puzzle she was trying to solve.
"Hey," he said. His voice came out too rough.
She walked closer. Slow. Her heels clicked against the linoleum. She stopped in front of him, and her eyes moved across his face—his hair, his mouth, his neck.
"You look different."
Noah's hand went to his collar. Tugged it. "What?"
"Can't put my finger on it." She circled him. Actually circled him like he was on display. Stopped in front of him again. Her eyes narrowed. "Did you do something to your hair?"
"No."
"New cologne?"
"Same one I always wear."
"Hmm." Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Lingered there. Then moved lower, to his neck. Back up. "There's something though. You're—" She paused, lips curving. "You're radiating something."
Noah's hand went to his neck before he could stop it. His fingers pressed against the spot where Atlas's teeth had scraped skin last night.
Sarah's eyes tracked the movement.
Her smile went sharp.
"Oh," she said. Drew the word out. "Good for you."
"I don't—what are you—"
"Nothing." She leaned in closer. Dropped her voice to barely above a whisper. "Whoever they are, they're doing something very, very right. You've got that just-got-laid glow."
Noah choked. On air. On nothing. "We didn't—I'm not—"
"Sure." She patted his arm. Her hand lingered just long enough to be deliberate. "Either way, it's nice. You look less like a robot in a suit. More like an actual human being who has blood in his veins."
She left. Her heels clicked away down the hall.
Noah stood there gripping his empty coffee mug so hard his knuckles went white. His face burned. His ears. The back of his neck.
His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to break out.
Just-got-laid glow.
But they hadn't. They'd just—
Kissed. For hours. Until Noah's lips were numb and swollen and he couldn't remember his own name. Until Atlas had to physically hold him still because Noah was shaking so hard. Until they'd fallen into bed and Noah had pressed his face against Atlas's neck and breathed him in and thought this is real, this is actually happening, I'm not broken—
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He fumbled for it. Nearly dropped it. His hands were shaking.
Atlas: sorry. meetings stacked. pick you up at 9?
Noah stared at the screen.
His thumb moved.
Noah: meeting marcus and jared at 7. the garret
He hit send. Then immediately regretted it.
Did that sound like he didn't want to see him? Like he was blowing him off? Should he have said something else? Added more? Miss you or can't wait or—
His phone buzzed.
Atlas: address?
Noah sent it. His hands were still shaking.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Atlas: see you there
That was it.
Noah smiled at his phone. Couldn't help it. Standing alone in the break room with burnt coffee smell and fluorescent lights humming overhead and probably looking like a complete idiot.
But he didn't care.
He actually didn't fucking care.
For the first time in twenty-two years, something felt right.
THE GARRET - 7:12 PM
The bar smelled like beer and old wood polish, neon Budweiser sign buzzing red-blue-red in the corner.
Marcus saw him first. Waved him over from their usual corner—the booth with the ripped leather seat and the table that wobbled if you leaned on it wrong.
"Fucking finally. Jared's been complaining for twenty minutes."
"I've been here fifteen minutes," Jared said. He slid a beer across the table. Condensation dripped down the glass, left a wet trail on the wood. "You're late."
"Twelve minutes." Noah collapsed into the booth. The beer was cold and tasted better than it had any right to. He drank half of it in one go.
Marcus leaned back, arms spread across the top of the booth. Watching.
"What?" Noah asked.
"You look hot."
Noah choked on his beer. Coughed. Wiped his mouth. "What?"
"Not like—I mean, you always look good, but—" Marcus gestured at him, hand circling vaguely. "There's something different. You're like... I don't know. You're fucking glowing, man."
"That's what Sarah said."
"Sarah from legal?" Jared leaned in, squinting like Noah was a puzzle. "She's right. You look—there's like a sexual thing happening. I can't explain it."
Noah's ears burned. His neck. His face. "There's no sexual thing."
"There absolutely is." Marcus tilted his head. "It's like—you know when someone gets laid for the first time and they walk around all confident and loose? That's you right now."
"But he didn't—" Jared paused. Looked at Noah closer. "Wait. Did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Get laid."
"What? No. I didn't—"
"Dude." Jared pointed at him. "Your face just went red. Like, completely red."
"It's warm in here."
"It's not warm. You're deflecting." Marcus's grin spread slow. "Holy shit. You're seeing someone."
Noah took another drink. Longer this time. The beer didn't last forever though, and they were both still watching him when he put the empty glass down.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?" Jared's eyebrows shot up. "What the hell does maybe mean?"
"Means it's... I don't know. New."
"How new?" Marcus asked.
"Very new."
"Like a week?"
"Like—" Noah rubbed his face. "Like since yesterday."
Complete silence.
"Since yesterday?" Marcus repeated slowly. "And you already look like that?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Means you look like you just discovered what your dick is for," Jared said. "Or like—someone lit you up from the inside."
Noah's whole body went hot. He signaled for another beer even though the waitress was on the other side of the bar.
"So what's she like?" Marcus asked.
Noah's hands wrapped around his empty bottle. His knuckles went white against the brown glass.
"Noah?"
He couldn't look at them. Kept his eyes on the table, on the wet ring his beer had left, on the grain of the wood.
"It's not—" His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. Tried again. "Not she."
The bar noise continued around them. Glass clinking. Someone laughing. The jukebox playing something old.
"Oh," Jared said.
That was it. Just—oh.
Noah forced himself to look up.
Marcus was staring at him, mouth slightly open, eyes processing. Jared looked between them, like he was waiting for someone to say something else.
"If you're gonna be weird about it—" Noah started. His voice shook.
"Weird about what?" Marcus interrupted. "You being gay?"
The word hung there. Gay. Noah had never said it out loud. Never let anyone say it out loud. Not about him.
"I'm not—" Noah stopped. His throat closed up. "I'm not gay. I'm just—it's just him. Just this one guy, it doesn't mean—"
"Noah." Marcus's voice went soft. "Hey. Look at me."
Noah looked.
"We don't give a shit," Marcus said. "Okay? We don't care if you're gay or bi or whatever. We don't care."
"You—" Noah blinked hard. Fast. "You don't?"
"Why the fuck would we?" Jared leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You're our boy. You've been our boy since we were fourteen and you helped me cheat on that Latin exam. If some guy makes you look like that—" He gestured at Noah's face. "—then good. Fucking finally. You deserve that."
Noah looked down at his hands. They were shaking.
"How long have you known?" Marcus asked.
"I don't—" Noah's hands twisted together under the table. "I don't know. I thought—Emma was supposed to be right. She was supposed to fix it. Make me normal."
"Noah—"
"But I couldn't—" His voice cracked. "I couldn't feel it with her. Anything. And I thought maybe I was just broken, maybe there was something wrong with me, but then—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "One night with him and I felt everything."
"And now?" Marcus asked.
"Now I can't go back to pretending." Noah laughed, but it came out shaky. Wrong. "Twenty-two years I've been lying to myself. One kiss and the whole thing just—collapsed."
Jared sat back. Crossed his arms. "So who is he? Do we know him?"
"I'm not getting into this."
"Come on. We told you about our disasters."
"Yeah, and I laughed at both of you."
"Exactly. Our turn." Jared grinned. "Give us something. Where'd you meet him?"
"Exeter."
Marcus's eyebrows went up. "Phillips Exeter Academy?"
"Yeah."
"What's he do?"
"We're on the same project—the Wellin-Sterlins deal. Top level."
"Wait." Jared sat up straighter. "Top level? That's the—"
"Yeah."
"Jesus, Noah." Marcus whistled low. "How old is he?"
"Twenty-six."
Marcus leaned forward. His voice shifted, got quieter. "And he knows? About you being—about this being your first time with a guy?"
Noah's face burned. "Yeah. Most of it."
Marcus blinked. " Most of it.?"
Noah nodded once, eyes fixed on his glass.
Jared leaned back, smirk forming. "So what—was this like your old high-school crush finally making a move?"
Noah barked a short laugh. "Fuck no."
Marcus chuckled. "Yeah, didn't think so." He tilted his head. "Then what?"
Noah exhaled slowly. "We're working together now. Same project."
For a moment, none of them spoke. Ice clicked in the glasses. Someone at the bar ordered shots.
"I mean—" Noah looked down. Picked at the label on his bottle. "I didn't tell him I've never done anything with anyone. Guy or girl. That Emma and I never—that we only—"
"Holy shit," Jared breathed. "You're a virgin?"
"Can you say that louder? I don't think the entire bar heard you."
"Sorry. Fuck. Sorry." Jared leaned in closer. Dropped his voice to a whisper. "But seriously? Emma and you never—"
"No. I couldn't—every time we tried, I just—" Noah stopped. His jaw locked. "It didn't feel right."
"And this guy?" Marcus asked. "Does it feel right with him?"
Noah was quiet for a long moment. Then, "Yeah. It does. Too much. It's fucking terrifying."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Good. That's—that's really good, Noah."
The waitress brought another beer. Noah grabbed it too fast, and it almost slipped through his fingers. Cold. Wet. Real.
They moved on—talked about Marcus's sister's wedding disaster, Jared's nightmare date last week, the new VP in operations who couldn't figure out the expense reports. Normal stuff.
But Noah couldn't focus.
He checked his watch. 8:34.
His phone. 8:35.
The door.
His beer.
The door again.
"You're vibrating," Jared said.
"What?"
"Your leg. You've been bouncing it for ten minutes. It's shaking the whole table."
Noah forced his leg still. It started up again thirty seconds later.
8:47.
8:51.
9:03.
The door opened.
Atlas walked in—all black, hair slightly messed like he'd been running his hands through it. He moved through the crowd and people turned. Women. Men. Everyone.
His eyes scanned the bar once, found Noah. The corners of his mouth lifted, just barely.
He walked over. Direct line. Didn't look at anyone else.
Noah tried to stand and forgot how legs worked. His knee hit the table. Beer sloshed.
"Hey." Atlas's hand landed on Noah's shoulder. His thumb brushed against Noah's neck—right over where the mark was hiding under his collar.
Noah's next breath stuttered out.
"Hey." His voice came out rough.
Atlas slid into the booth next to him. Close. Their thighs pressed together from hip to knee. The scent of his cologne wrapped around Noah—ambergris and smoke, darker than this morning.
Every point of contact felt like heat.
Marcus cleared his throat. "You must be Atlas."
"Marcus?" Atlas smiled. Easy. Extended his hand. "Good to meet you."
They shook. Then Jared.
Atlas's hand disappeared under the table. Found Noah's knee. Squeezed once.
Noah stopped breathing.
"Sterlins." Marcus repeated. His eyes widened slightly. "As in Sterlins Holdings?"
"Yeah."
Jared choked on his beer. "Holy shit. Your dad is Richard Sterlins?"
"Yeah."
Marcus eyed the two of them, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth. "We went to Trinity with Noah," he said, like he was throwing them a lifeline.
"Trinity." Atlas's thumb started moving. Small circles through the denim. "Good school."
"You didn't go?"
"Exeter."
"Of course you did," Jared muttered.
Atlas turned to Noah. His whole body angled in, shoulder blocking out Marcus and Jared. "How was your day?"
"Long. Henderson deal is getting messy."
"The discrepancies in their books?"
"Yeah. Found three more red flags this afternoon. I sent you the updated report around five."
"I saw it. Good work." Atlas's hand slid higher on Noah's thigh. Not far. Just—higher. Noah's pulse jumped. "We'll talk about it later?"
"Okay."
They were talking quiet. Just for each other.
"So," Jared said loudly. "You two work together?"
"Same project." Atlas's hand stayed where it was, burning through the denim.
"Must be interesting."
"Very." Atlas's smile went sharp at the edges. His pinky brushed against Noah's inner thigh.
Noah forgot what they were talking about.
Marcus was watching them—the way Atlas touched Noah, the way Noah leaned into it without seeming to realize, the way his breathing had changed. "You play anything?" he asked.
"Rowing, mostly."
"Like crew?"
"Yeah. Every morning. Five AM on the Hudson."
"Jesus. Why?"
"Clears my head." Atlas's thumb kept moving. Noah's leg was on fire. His whole body was on fire. "Plus it's tradition. My father's been rowing there since the eighties."
They talked—normal conversation about sports, work, Marcus's sister's disaster venue. Atlas fit right in. Charming without trying. Making jokes that landed. Asking questions that sounded genuine.
But his hand never left Noah's leg.
The circles got slower. Deliberate. His pinky kept brushing higher, and Noah's next breath came out too loud. He grabbed his beer. Drank. Put it down. His hand shook slightly.
Marcus noticed. His smile went wider.
9:43.
Atlas checked his watch. "Where'd you park?" he asked Noah.
"Company garage."
"Come home with me."
Not a question.
Noah's ears went hot. His neck. "I should probably—it's a weekday, and you have rowing in the morning, and I need to—"
Atlas turned. Looked right at him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.
"That's exactly why."
Noah forgot what he was going to say.
"Noah." Atlas's voice dropped lower. Just for him. "Come home with me."
"Okay."
Just like that.
Atlas smiled. Slow. Satisfied.
They stood. Atlas pulled out his wallet, threw down bills on the table. "For the next few rounds."
"You don't have to—" Marcus started.
"I know."
Atlas's hand found the small of Noah's back. Guided him toward the door.
Noah looked back once. Marcus gave him a thumbs up. Jared was grinning, mouthing holy shit behind Atlas's back.
The night air hit cold after the warmth of the bar. Atlas's hand stayed on Noah's back until they reached his car.
Aston Martin. Sleek. Predatory.
He opened the passenger door. Waited until Noah got in before closing it. Walked around to the driver's side with his hands in his pockets.
The interior smelled like leather and that cologne. Atlas started the engine, and it didn't purr—it growled.
"Your friends are good," he said.
"Yeah."
"Marcus clocked who I am immediately."
"He's good with names. Faces. Money."
"And Jared nearly had a heart attack when I said my last name." Atlas smiled. Pulled out of the parking spot smoothly. "Do they know about your family?"
"Yeah. They know everything."
"Everything?"
Noah looked out the window. "Not everything. Not about—" He stopped.
"Not about you," Atlas finished quietly.
"Yeah."
They drove through downtown. Traffic was light. Red lights turned green. Central Park appeared on their right, dark and sprawling. Atlas's building rose up ahead—glass and steel and money.
"You told them tonight," Atlas said. Not a question.
"Yeah."
"How'd that go?"
"Better than I thought. They didn't—" Noah's throat went tight. "They didn't care."
Atlas's hand left the gearshift, found Noah's thigh. Squeezed.
Noah covered Atlas's hand with his own. Their fingers tangled together. Atlas's hand was bigger, warmer, rougher from rowing.
"Atlas?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"This. You. Everything." Noah looked at their joined hands. "What if I'm not—what if I can't—"
"Hey." Atlas pulled up to his building. Handed his keys to the valet. Turned to face Noah, his hand coming up to cup Noah's jaw. His thumb brushed across Noah's cheekbone.
"We're not doing anything you're not ready for. Okay? I mean that."
Noah's chest ached. "You barely know me."
"So let me know you." Atlas leaned in. Kissed him soft. Quick. "Come on."
Something felt wrong.