SATURDAY MORNING - 6:30 AM
Noah blinked awake. Atlas's arm draped over his waist, heavy and warm. His breath brushed the back of Noah's neck in slow waves.
Noah just lay there. Listening. Feeling.
A week ago, Saturday mornings meant empty beds and cold coffee.
Now—this.
He turned carefully. Atlas's face was relaxed, hair messy, lips parted.
Noah smiled. Leaned forward. Brushed a kiss against Atlas's cheek.
"Morning kiss?" Atlas murmured, eyes still closed.
Noah froze. "You were awake?"
"Trying to be." Atlas's eyes opened—slow, lazy. He tugged Noah closer. "This is the morning kiss I was waiting for."
He kissed him—unhurried, smiling through it.
Noah laughed into his mouth. "You're impossible."
"Mm. And you're warm." Atlas held him tighter for a moment, then sighed. "Come on. Long day ahead."
Shower. Clothes. Coffee. Toast.
By 8:15, they were out the door.
SATURDAY MORNING - 8:55 AM - MONTICELLO MOTOR CLUB
The paddock smelled like burning rubber and gasoline.
Noah stepped out of the car. Heat shimmered off the asphalt. Engines screamed somewhere behind the garages—high-pitched, angry. The sound vibrated in his chest.
Atlas grabbed his duffel from the trunk. "Stay close."
They walked past rows of cars. McLaren 720S in papaya orange. Porsche 911 GT3 RS with racing stripes. Audi R8 that looked like it cost more than Noah's apartment.
Bay 7.
Ferrari 296 GT3. Rosso corsa. Carbon fiber splitter, massive rear wing, racing livery down the sides. Low and wide. Predatory.
Noah stopped walking.
Atlas glanced back. His mouth curved. "Yeah?"
"That's yours?"
"For today." Atlas dropped the duffel. Ran his hand along the hood. "V6 twin-turbo. 600 horsepower. Sounds like the end of the world."
"Jesus."
"Wait till you hear it."
People moved everywhere. Mechanics in Ferrari red. Drivers in racing suits, helmets tucked under arms. Someone shouted across the paddock. Laughter carried over engine noise.
Noah shoved his hands in his pockets.
Atlas touched his back. Brief. "You good?"
"Yeah."
"Liar." But Atlas smiled. Squeezed his shoulder once. Then walked toward the crew.
A woman appeared beside Noah. Tall, dark braids pulled high, racing suit tied at her waist.
"First time?"
Noah turned. "Yeah."
"Sienna." She extended her hand. "Alice's girlfriend."
"Noah." Her grip was firm. "Nice to meet you."
"You too." She leaned against a tool cart. "The noise gets under your skin."
An engine fired up. The sound tore through the air—sharp, metallic, violent.
Noah flinched.
Sienna laughed. "Yeah. Like that."
Atlas stood twenty feet away, helmet under one arm, talking to someone in a team shirt. He gestured at the car. Pointed at something. The mechanic nodded, made notes on a tablet.
"So," Sienna said. "How much do you know about racing?"
"Nothing."
"Perfect. Then you won't be bored when they win." She grinned. "See those cars? Million dollars each. They're about to drive them at 180 miles an hour, inches apart, for twelve laps."
"That sounds insane."
"It is." She glanced at Atlas. Back to Noah. "But you're here anyway."
Noah didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
THE RACE - 10:00 AM
Noah stood at the pit wall between Sienna and Alice.
The cars lined up on the grid. Twelve of them. The Ferrari sat P2—second position. Red Porsche in P1. Another Ferrari, darker red, in P3.
Alice held a tablet. "Sophia's fast today. She qualified half a second up."
"Atlas will catch her," Sienna said.
Alice didn't respond. Just tapped something on the screen.
The starter lights appeared overhead. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.
Green.
The engines exploded.
Noah's hands gripped the railing.
Lap 1.
The pack disappeared into Turn 1. Dust rose. When they emerged, the Ferrari was still P2.
Lap 3.
"Gap to P1?" Alice asked into her headset.
Atlas's voice crackled through. "Two-point-one."
"Copy. Manage your tires. Long race."
Lap 5.
Gap: 1.4 seconds.
Noah's fingernails dug into his palms.
Lap 7.
"Atlas, oil flag Turn 14," Alice said. Sharp. "Someone dropped fluid. Careful—"
"Copy."
The Ferrari came around the bend. Fast.
Turn 14. High-speed right. The car turned in.
The rear end stepped out.
Noah's breath stopped.
The Ferrari rotated. Once. Twice. Spinning backward toward the concrete barrier.
"No—"
Someone said it. Maybe him.
The car stopped.
Five feet from the wall.
Dust everywhere. Smoke from the tires.
The engine still ran.
Noah's knees buckled. He sat down hard on something. A tire. Didn't matter.
Sienna's hand found his shoulder.
"Atlas." Alice's voice cut through the radio static. "Talk to me."
Silence.
More silence.
"I'm good." Atlas sounded calm. Normal. "Flat-spotted the rears. Pitting."
The Ferrari limped toward pit lane.
Noah didn't remember standing up.
The car stopped in their bay. Atlas climbed out. Pulled off his helmet.
His hair was damp. His face flushed. He spoke with the crew chief. Gestured at the rear tires.
Like nothing happened.
Noah's stomach turned. Acid climbed his throat. He swallowed hard.
Lap 10.
Atlas was back out. P4 now.
"He's not giving up," Sienna murmured.
Gap to P1: 8.9 seconds.
Lap 11.
Gap: 5.2 seconds.
Noah's hands were shaking.
Final lap.
The Ferrari was on the Porsche. Right behind it. Turn 18—the final sequence.
He passed.
P2.
Sophia ahead in the darker Ferrari. Half a second.
The straight.
Side by side.
Noah couldn't breathe.
They crossed the line.
The timing screen updated:
P1: Sterlins - 1:47.324
The paddock exploded. Alice screamed. The crew rushed the wall.
Noah just stood there.
He won.
LOCKER ROOM - 11:30 AM
Noah pushed through the door marked DRIVERS ONLY.
The room was empty. Quiet. Lockers lined the walls. Benches. The smell of sweat and rubber.
Atlas stood in the corner. Racing suit unzipped to his waist, sleeves tied around his hips. White undershirt soaked through.
He turned. Saw Noah.
"Hey—"
Noah closed the distance. Arms around Atlas's waist. Face pressed into his shoulder.
"Whoa—" Atlas's hands came up. Steadied him. "I'm okay."
"You're not." Noah's voice cracked.
"I am." Atlas's hand slid into Noah's hair. "I'm right here."
Noah pulled back just enough to look at him. "That wall. You were five feet—"
"I know." Atlas's thumb brushed his cheek. "I'm sorry."
"Don't—don't do that again."
"I'll try."
"Not good enough."
Atlas's jaw shifted. He pulled Noah closer. Both arms around him. Tight.
They stood there. Noah shaking. Atlas holding him.
"I need to shower," Atlas said finally. Quiet. "Debrief in ten."
Noah nodded against his chest. Didn't let go.
Atlas's hand moved through his hair. Slow. Gentle. "Five minutes."
"Okay."
Atlas pulled back. Just enough. Looked at him. "Unless you want to join?"
Noah's face went hot. "Atlas—"
"Kidding." He wasn't. His eyes said he wasn't.
Noah stepped back. "I'll wait outside."
Atlas caught his wrist. Pulled him back. Kissed him. Soft. Quick.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For being here."
Noah's throat closed. He nodded.
Then he left.
THE PADDOCK - 11:45 AM
Noah found Sienna near the timing tent. Alice was scrolling through her phone.
"You okay?" Sienna asked.
"Yeah." Noah shoved his hands in his pockets. "Just needed air."
Movement across the paddock caught his eye.
Atlas walked toward them. Showered, changed. Jeans and a black t-shirt. Helmet still in hand.
Twenty feet away.
Fifteen.
A figure moved through the crowd. Intercepted him.
Tall. Dark hair slicked back with too much product. Designer sunglasses pushed up on his head. Omega Seamaster catching the sun.
Tailored pants. Gucci loafers. No socks.
He moved through the paddock like he owned it.
The man smiled—wide, familiar. Pulled Atlas into a hug.
It didn't last.
Atlas's hands came up fast—flat against the man's chest. A clean, firm shove. Not angry. Controlled.
Enough to say don't.
The man stumbled half a step back, surprise flashing—then that polished grin slid right back into place.
He smoothed his jacket, pretending nothing had happened.
"Still the same," he said softly. "Still all sharp edges."
Atlas didn't answer. He just looked at him—steady, cold. Jaw tight. Shoulders squared. The kind of stillness that meant danger, not hesitation.
When the man stepped in again, closing the gap like he hadn't learned a thing, Atlas didn't move away. He just shifted his weight slightly, a fraction forward—small, but enough to make dominance clear.
The man hesitated. Then tried anyway. His hand came up. Fingers grazing Atlas's arm. Thumb brushing the hollow of his collarbone.
Atlas's eyes dropped to the touch. A single blink. Slow.
Then up again—locking on the man's face. Expression unreadable. A quiet warning behind every breath he didn't take.
"Don't," Atlas said. Calm. Final.
The word wasn't loud, but it carried. People nearby turned without knowing why.
The man's smile wavered—just a fraction. Then recovered. "God, I've missed you," he said. "You looked incredible out there."
Atlas didn't blink. Didn't move. "That's over now."
His tone was flat steel.
He peeled the man's hand off his arm, one deliberate finger at a time, and let it fall.
Then he stepped past him. No hurry. No glance back.
Just done.
Alice appeared at Noah's elbow. "Ignore him."
"Who is he?"
"Damien." She said the name like it tasted bad. "Atlas's ex."
The words hit like a fist.
"They dated two years ago. Ended badly." Alice's hand found his arm. "Atlas hasn't seen him since."
But Noah couldn't look away.
Damien leaned in. Said something too quiet to hear. His hand moved from Atlas's arm to his chest. Fingers spreading.
Noah's jaw locked.
Atlas's eyes lifted. Found Noah across the paddock.
Their gazes held.
Atlas said something short. Sharp. His hand came up. Grabbed Damien's wrist. Removed it from his chest.
Then he walked away.
Damien watched him go. That smile stayed. Confident. Knowing.
Like he'd won something.
Atlas reached them. His face was carved from stone.
"Ready to go?" he asked.
"Yeah." Noah's voice came out flat.
Atlas frowned. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"Noah—"
"I'm fine." Noah looked at Sienna. "Thanks for today."
"Of course." She hugged him. Quick. "See you soon."
Alice stepped forward. Grabbed Atlas's arm. "Quick thing. Car issue. Two seconds."
She pulled him aside.
They stopped behind a transport truck.
"What the hell was that?" Alice hissed.
"What?"
"Damien. All over you like that."
Atlas's jaw worked. "I didn't—he just showed up. I haven't seen him in two years."
Atlas exhaled through his nose. Slow. The kind of breath you take when you're one second away from losing control.
"The hug. The touching. All of it."
"Fuck."
"Yeah. Fuck." She crossed her arms. "Go fix it."
THE DRIVE - 12:45 PM
The engine hummed. The highway stretched ahead.
Noah stared out the window.
Miles of silence.
Atlas's hands tightened on the wheel. "So. Crazy day."
"Yeah."
"That spin scared the shit out of me too."
"Mm."
More silence.
"Noah—"
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I am."
"You're not talking to me."
"I'm talking." Noah's voice was level. Controlled. "I'm right here."
"You know what I mean."
Noah didn't respond. His fingers tapped against his thigh. Once. Twice. Then stopped. Forced still.
Atlas exhaled slowly. "Damien. That's who that was."
"Okay."
"That's it? Just okay?"
"Yeah." Noah's gaze stayed on the window. Buildings turning to trees. Concrete to grass. "Okay."
"We dated. Two years ago. Didn't last long. Three months, maybe." Atlas's voice was tight. "It ended badly. I haven't seen him since today."
"Okay."
"Stop saying okay."
"What do you want me to say?"
The question came out sharper than Noah meant.
Atlas's knuckles went white on the wheel. "I don't know. Something. Anything."
"You don't—" Noah stopped. His hands clenched in his lap. "You don't owe me anything."
"I know. But I want—" Atlas stopped. Started again. "I need you to understand—"
"Why?" Noah's voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat. "We're not—" He gestured between them. Dropped his hand. "You can do whatever you want. Talk to whoever."
"I don't want to talk to him."
"Then don't." Noah looked back out the window. "That's your choice."
Silence stretched between them.
The city appeared ahead. Glass and steel rising into the sky.
"Are you mad at me?" Atlas asked finally.
"No."
"You seem—"
"I'm not mad. I don't—" Noah's jaw locked. "I don't have the right to be mad."
"What does that mean?"
Noah didn't answer.
Atlas pulled into the garage. Parked. They got out.
Noah kept three feet of space between them.
In the elevator, he leaned against the wall. Arms crossed. Eyes on the floor numbers.
Twenty. Forty. Sixty.