THURSDAY EVENING - 7:08 PM
Noah pulled into the driveway at 7:08.
Shit.
Dinner was at seven. Sharp.
His father didn't do "fashionably late." His father did "on time or don't bother."
He grabbed his phone.
Atlas: let me know when you're safe
Noah: home. dinner. text you after
Atlas: good luck
Noah: gonna need it
He put the phone away. Got out of the car.
The front door opened before he reached it.
Lydia. Eyes wide. "You're late."
"I know."
"Dad's—" She gestured behind her. "Not happy."
"Great." Noah stepped inside. "How bad?"
"Silent bad. Which is worse than yelling bad."
"Perfect."
He caught his reflection in the hallway mirror. Stopped.
His hair was messed up. His shirt wrinkled. His mouth kept trying to smile.
He looked—
Happy.
Fuck.
He ran his hand through his hair. Tried to smooth his expression.
Failed.
"Where were you?" Lydia whispered.
"Out."
"Obviously." She studied him. "You look different."
"I look the same."
"You don't." Her eyes narrowed. "You look—I don't know. Lighter?"
Noah's stomach dropped. "I'm just tired."
"That's not tired. That's—"
"Lydia." Their mother's voice. Sharp. "Is your brother here?"
"Coming!" Lydia called back. Then quieter: "Good luck. You're gonna need it."
She disappeared into the dining room.
Noah followed.
The table was set. Four places. Three occupied.
His father at the head. His mother to the right. Lydia in her usual spot.
The fourth chair—his—empty.
Until now.
All three looked up when he walked in.
"Sorry," Noah said. Slipped into his seat. "Traffic on 95."
"Dinner is at seven," his father said. Didn't look at him. Cut his steak with surgical precision.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You texted at six-thirty. Said you'd be here by six forty-five."
"I got held up."
"Where?"
Noah's mouth went dry. "What?"
"Where did you get held up?" His father's knife scraped against the plate. "What held you up for twenty-three minutes?"
Twenty-three. Not twenty. Not half an hour.
Twenty-three.
"I had to—" Noah stopped. "I had some things to handle."
"Things."
"Personal things."
His father's jaw tightened. But he didn't respond. Just kept cutting his steak into perfect squares.
His mother reached over. Touched Noah's arm. "Are you okay, sweetheart? You look flushed."
"I'm fine."
"You sure? You seem—" She tilted her head. "Different."
There was that word again.
"I'm just tired, Mom."
"Long day at work?"
"Something like that."
Lydia kicked him under the table. He kicked back.
Servers brought his plate. Steak. Roasted vegetables. Potatoes au gratin.
He picked up his fork.
"The Henderson analysis," his father said.
Noah looked up. "What?"
"Where is it?"
"I'm finishing it tonight. I'll have it to you by—"
"I asked for it Tuesday." His father set down his knife. Finally looked at him. "It's Thursday. Eight o'clock. I still haven't received it."
"I know. I'm sorry. I've been—"
"Busy?" His father's mouth curved. Not a smile. "With personal things?"
Noah's stomach twisted.
"The presentation is Monday morning," his father continued. Voice even. Controlled. "Which means I needed that analysis Wednesday. To review. To prepare. To do my job." He paused. "But I can't do my job when my associate—my son—doesn't do his."
"I'll have it to you tonight."
"You should have had it to me yesterday." His father picked up his wine. Took a sip.
Silence.
"And today," his father continued, "you were supposed to be here. Working. Spending time with your family. But instead—" He gestured vaguely. "—you were out. Handling personal things. And now you're showing up to family dinner late, looking—" His eyes traveled over Noah's face. "—distracted."
Noah's hands clenched under the table.
"Thomas," his mother said quietly. "He's here now."
"Eight minutes late, Helen."
"Eight minutes isn't—"
"Eight minutes is eight minutes." His father's gaze stayed on Noah. "In this family, we show up. On time. We honor our commitments. We don't—" He stopped. "We don't prioritize whatever—or whoever—over family."
The word dropped like a stone.
Whoever.
Noah couldn't breathe.
Did he know?
How could he know?
"I'm sorry," Noah said. Voice tight. "It won't happen again."
"No. It won't." His father stood. Dropped his napkin on his plate. "Send me that analysis by midnight. And tomorrow, you're back in the office. No more personal days. No more distractions. Understood?"
"Yes sir."
His father walked out.
The door closed behind him.
Noah stared at his plate.
"He's just stressed," his mother said. Reached over. Squeezed his hand. "The board's been difficult. It's not about you."
Noah didn't respond.
She stood. Came around the table. Wrapped her arms around him from behind. Kissed his temple. "You're allowed to have a life, sweetheart. Don't let him make you feel like you're not."
She left too.
Lydia waited until the door closed. Then: "He doesn't know."
Noah looked up. "What?"
"Whatever you think he knows—he doesn't." She speared a potato. "He's just being Dad. Control freak mode."
"He said whoever."
"He says that about everyone. When Albert took that week off for his wedding, Dad said the same thing." She shrugged. "He thinks everyone's priorities are wrong except his."
Noah's throat was tight.
"You okay?" Lydia asked.
"Yeah. Fine."
"Liar." But she smiled. Small. "Want to watch something later? Take your mind off it?"
"I have to finish that report."
"Right. Midnight deadline." She rolled her eyes. "So reasonable."
Noah almost smiled.
"Hey," Lydia said. Quieter now. "Whoever makes you smile like that—" She paused. "—don't let him take that away from you."
Noah's chest squeezed. "Lyds—"
"I'm serious." She stood. Came over. Kissed the top of his head. "You deserve to be happy. Even if Dad thinks happiness is a distraction."
She left.
Noah sat there. Alone at the table.
His phone buzzed.
Atlas: you ok?
Noah picked it up.
Noah: yeah. just need to finish this report. dad's pissed
Atlas: want to talk about it?
Noah: after. need to get this done first
Atlas: ok. call me when you're finished. doesn't matter how late
Noah stared at the message.
Noah: you sure?
Atlas: positive. now stop texting me and work
Noah's mouth curved.
Noah: bossy
Atlas: you love it
Noah: maybe
Atlas: liar. now go.
Noah put the phone down.
Went upstairs.
His desk was covered. Papers everywhere. Three coffee cups. His laptop screen bright in the dark room.
The Henderson analysis was good. Really good. Charts. Projections. Risk assessments. Everything his father wanted and more.
He read through it one last time. Made two small edits. Checked the numbers again.
Perfect.
He opened his email. Attached the file. Added his father. The senior team. His own manager.
Typed: "Henderson analysis attached. Apologies for the delay."
Stopped.
Stared at the word "apologies."
Deleted it.
Typed: "Henderson analysis attached."
Hit send.
9:51 PM.
He closed his laptop. Rubbed his face.
His phone lit up.
Atlas: still working?
Noah: just finished
Atlas: good. call me
Noah: now?
Atlas: yeah. now
Noah smiled. Opened FaceTime.
Hit Atlas's name.
Atlas answered on the second ring.
He was in bed. Shirtless. Hair damp like he'd just showered. Pillows stacked behind him.
Noah's mouth went dry.
"Hey," Atlas said. Smiled. "There you are."
"Hey." Noah ran his hand through his hair. Glanced at himself in the small screen. His shirt was wrinkled. His hair a mess. "Sorry. I look—"
"Perfect." Atlas's smile widened. "You look perfect."
Noah's face went warm. "I don't."
"You do." Atlas shifted. Got comfortable. "How'd it go?"
"Fine. Report's done. Sent it twenty minutes ago."
"Good." Atlas studied him. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"You look—tense."
Noah's jaw tightened. "Just tired."
"Noah."
"I'm fine."
"Liar." But Atlas's voice was soft. "Talk to me."
Noah looked away. "It's nothing. Just—my dad. He was pissed about the report. And about me being late to dinner. And about—" He stopped. "Everything."
"What'd he say?"
"Just—stuff about priorities. And commitments. And—" Noah's hands clenched. "He said whoever."
Atlas went still. "What?"
"He said I've been prioritizing whoever over family." Noah's voice dropped. "Like he knows. Like he—"
"He doesn't know."
"You don't know that."
"I do." Atlas's gaze stayed steady. "If he knew, he'd say something. He wouldn't hint. He'd confront you directly."
Noah wanted to believe that.
"Hey," Atlas said. Softer. "Look at me."
Noah looked.
"He doesn't know," Atlas repeated. "He's suspicious maybe. But he doesn't know. Okay?"
"Okay."
"And even if he did—" Atlas paused. "—we'd figure it out."
"Would we?"
"Yeah." Atlas's mouth curved. "We would."
Noah's chest loosened. Just slightly.
"Now," Atlas said. "Show me your room."
Noah blinked. "What?"
"Your room. I want to see it."
"Why?"
"Because I've never seen your childhood bedroom. And I'm curious." Atlas's eyes gleamed. "Come on. Show me."
Noah hesitated. Then flipped the camera.
Panned slowly.
Blue walls. Wooden desk covered in papers. Bookshelf packed tight. Window overlooking the backyard.
"Very you," Atlas said. "Organized. Clean. A little boring."
"It's not boring."
"It's a little boring."
Noah flipped the camera back. "You asked to see it."
"I did. And now I want to see the rest."
"That's the rest."
"No it's not." Atlas tilted his head. "You avoided the left wall. Show me."
Noah's stomach dropped. "It's just—wall."
"Noah."
"There's nothing—"
"Show me."
Noah bit his lip. Then turned the camera.
The wall exploded.
A Trinity lacrosse jersey. Number 17. Blue and white. Framed.
A Phillips Exeter tennis racket. Signed by his team.
A Yale crew jacket. Navy. His name on the chest.
Team photos. Newspaper clippings. A fencing medal. Concert programs.
His entire life. Arranged like a museum.
"Fuck," Atlas breathed.
Noah flipped the camera back. His face burned. "It's stupid. I know. My mom did most of it when I was at Yale and I just—never took it down."
"It's not stupid." Atlas was staring at him. "Trinity lacrosse. Number seventeen."
"Yeah."
"I remember those games." Atlas's expression shifted. "You were fast. Really fucking fast."
"I was okay."
"You scored four goals against Choate your senior year. That's not okay." Atlas smiled. "That's good."
Noah looked down. "You remember that?"
"I remember you." Atlas's voice went quieter. "Blue and white jersey. Always in motion. Impossible to keep up with."
Noah's throat went tight.
"And Exeter tennis," Atlas continued. "You were captain."
"Junior and senior year."
"I know." Atlas paused. "We ate in the same dining hall for two years and I never talked to you."
"You were always with the crew team. That corner table by the windows."
"You remember."
"Everyone remembers. You guys were—" Noah stopped. "Loud."
Atlas laughed. "We were obnoxious."
"A little."
"And you were what? Quiet music kid?"
Noah's face went hotter. "Sometimes."
"Piano." Atlas said it like a fact. "I heard you once. Spring of my senior year. Walking past Abbot Hall and someone was playing Chopin." He paused. "I went inside. Followed the sound."
Noah's breath caught. "You—what?"
"It was you. Second floor practice room. Door open. You were—" Atlas stopped. "You were completely absorbed. Like nothing else existed."
"I didn't see you."
"I know. That's why I stayed." Atlas's gaze held his. "I stood there for maybe ten minutes. Just—listening. You were incredible, Noah."
Noah couldn't speak.
"Why'd you quit?" Atlas asked.
"I didn't quit."
"When's the last time you played?"
Noah looked away. "I don't know. Sophomore year at Yale maybe."
"Why?"
"Because—" Noah stopped. "My dad said it wasn't practical. That I needed to focus on business. Economics. Real skills." He shrugged. "So I did."
Atlas was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "That's the saddest fucking thing I've ever heard."
"It's practical."
"It's sad." Atlas's voice went firm. "You had something you loved and you gave it up because your dad decided it wasn't useful."
"Atlas—"
"Do you miss it?"
Noah's jaw worked. "Sometimes."
"Sometimes." Atlas repeated. "Jesus, Noah."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to say you're pissed. That you resent him for it. That you wish—" Atlas stopped. Exhaled. "I just wish you hadn't had to choose."
Silence.
Then Atlas smiled. Changed the subject. "Remember the basketball tournament? Junior year?"
Noah's mouth curved despite himself. "The shirts versus skins game."
"You remember."
"Everyone remembers. You played the entire game shirtless."
"It was October. It was hot."
"It was fifty degrees."
"It was strategic." Atlas's grin widened. "Distraction technique."
"It worked."
"Yeah?" Atlas's eyes gleamed. "You distracted?"
Noah's face went nuclear. "I—no. I wasn't—"
"You were watching."
"Everyone was watching."
"But you were watching." Atlas leaned closer to the camera. "Weren't you?"
"I—" Noah stopped. "Maybe."
"Maybe." Atlas's voice dropped. Lower. Warmer. "What'd you think?"
"I thought—" Noah's mouth went dry. "I thought you were showing off."
"I was." Atlas's smile turned sharp. "Did it work?"
Noah's heart hammered. "Maybe."
"Maybe." Atlas laughed. Soft. "You're killing me."
"Good."
They fell quiet. Just—looking at each other.
Atlas in his bed. Noah at his desk. The screen the only thing between them.
"I wish you were here," Atlas said finally.
"Me too."
"Tomorrow. My place. Seven."
"I'll be there."
"Good." Atlas's hand came up. Touched the screen. "Miss you."
"Miss you too."
"Get some sleep."
"You too."
Neither of them moved.
Then—
Noah's door opened.
No knock. Just—opened.
"Noah, do you have a phone char—oh my god."
Noah spun around.
Lydia stood in the doorway. Eyes wide. Staring at his phone.
At Atlas.
Shirtless Atlas.
"Uh," she said. "Hi?"
"Hi," Atlas said. Perfectly calm.
Noah's brain short-circuited.
"I'm Lydia." She stepped into the room. Leaned over Noah's shoulder. Waved at the screen.
He smiled. "Of course I remember you."
Lydia's eyes went from Atlas to Noah. Back to Atlas. Her mouth curved. "Wait. Didn't you guys hate each other? When did—" She paused. Grin widening. "—is this a FaceTime romance situation?"
Noah's soul left his body. "What? No. We were just—we were talking about work."
"Work." Lydia's eyebrows rose. She looked pointedly at the screen. At shirtless Atlas. "Shirtless work meeting?"
"Lydia."
"What? I'm just asking." She was trying not to laugh.
"I should—" Noah looked at the phone. At Atlas. Who looked entirely too amused. "I'll call you—I have to—"
"Go," Atlas said. Still smiling. "Good night, Noah."
Noah hung up.
Stared at the blank screen.
His face was on fire. His hands shook.
"So," Lydia said. Sat on his bed. Still grinning. "Atlas Sterlins."
"We're just friends."
"Friends." She repeated. "Friends who FaceTime at eleven at night. While one of them is shirtless."
"He was in bed. People don't wear shirts to bed."
"Some people do."
"Lydia—"
"I'm not judging." She held up her hands. "I think it's great. You look happy."
"We're not—it's not—"
"Okay." She didn't sound convinced. "But if it was—" She leaned forward. "—I wouldn't care. You know that, right?"
Noah's throat closed.
"I mean it," she said softer. "I don't care who you're with. Or what it looks like. I just care that you're happy." She paused. "And tonight—when you came home late—you looked really happy. First time in months."
Noah looked away.
"Is it him?" she asked quietly.
"Lyds—"
"You don't have to tell me." She stood. Walked to the door. Stopped. Turned back. "But whoever it is—don't let Dad make you feel guilty for being happy. Okay?"
She left.
The door closed.
Silence settled.
Noah sat there. Alone.
His phone stayed dark on the bed.
Atlas's face was stuck in his mind—smiling, relaxed, comfortable.
Noah's wasn't.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He picked up the phone.
Atlas: you ok?
Noah stared at the message.
Noah: i don't know. she saw you. she knows something's different
Atlas: even if she does it's okay
Noah: is it?
Atlas: yeah. she loves you. i could see that.
Noah: she said whoever
Atlas: she said she doesn't care who. that's not the same as knowing.
Noah put the phone down. Picked it up.
Noah: what if she tells someone
Atlas: she won't
Noah: you don't know that
Atlas: i know she looked at you like you're the most important person in her world. that's not someone who's going to hurt you.
Noah's eyes burned.
Noah: i'm scared
Atlas: i know. but we're okay. i promise.
Noah: how do you know?
Atlas: because we are. now sleep. tomorrow you come home. to me.
Noah stared at the message.
Noah: yeah. to you.
Atlas: good night noah
Noah: night
He put the phone face down.
Lay back on the bed.
Stared at the ceiling.
The conversation played on repeat.
"Shirtless work meeting?"
"Is it him?"
"Whoever it is."
She knew. She had to know.
Or she suspected. Which was almost worse.
His father's voice echoed: "Whoever you've been prioritizing."
Now Lydia: "Whoever it is."
Everyone was circling. Getting closer.
And Noah was running out of places to hide.
He rolled onto his side.
Looked at his wall. All those jerseys. All those flags. All those photos.
His whole life. Carefully arranged. Perfectly displayed.
A museum of who he was supposed to be.
But Atlas had looked at that wall and seen something else.
Had remembered Noah playing piano. Had stood outside that practice room and listened.
Had watched him play lacrosse. Had remembered the jersey number.
Had seen him.
Really seen him.
Noah closed his eyes.
One more night.
Then he could go home.
Back to his apartment. His life.
His life with Atlas in it.
Sleep came eventually.
But his dreams were restless.
Full of closed doors and watching eyes and questions he didn't know how to answer.