SUNDAY MORNING
Noah woke to brightness slicing through floor-to-ceiling windows. He blinked against it, disoriented. White sheets tangled around his legs. Atlas's arm heavy across his waist.
Not his room. Atlas's.
Everything from last night crashed back—the weight of Atlas above him, the way his body had opened up, the sound he'd made when—
His face burned. He shifted. Pain lanced through him, deep and settling, reminding him exactly what they'd done.
"Don't move." Atlas's voice came out rough, sleep-thick.
"Thought you were asleep."
"Was." His arm tightened, pulled Noah back against his chest. "You woke me up."
"Sorry."
"Don't." Atlas's mouth pressed into his shoulder blade. "What time is it?"
Noah reached for his phone on the nightstand. "Almost nine."
"Too early."
"It's Sunday morning."
"Exactly." Atlas's hand splayed across his stomach, fingers spreading wide. "Sundays don't count before noon."
The casual touch made Noah's breath hitch. Like Atlas had mapped his body in one night and now claimed ownership of every inch.
"I need to pee."
"Mm." But Atlas didn't let go immediately. His hand dragged across Noah's ribs as he pulled back, deliberately slow.
Noah sat up. His body screamed in protest—muscles he didn't know he had making themselves known. He stood carefully, trying not to walk like he'd been split open and put back together wrong.
"Noah."
He stopped at the bathroom door. Didn't turn around.
"How bad is it?"
"It's fine."
"Bullshit. Tell me."
Noah's fingers curled around the doorframe. "Six. Maybe seven when I move wrong."
Silence. Then Atlas swore under his breath.
"If you apologize, I'm leaving." Noah finally looked back. Atlas sat up, sheet pooled at his hips, dark hair a disaster, olive skin warm in morning light. His expression wasn't pity—it was something rawer. "I wanted it. I wanted you. Stop acting like you broke me."
Atlas stared at him. His jaw shifted. "Bathroom. Now."
Not quite an order. Not quite anything Noah could define.
He went.
When he came back, Atlas was still sitting there. Watching the door like he'd been waiting for Noah to bolt.
"Come here."
Noah crossed back to the bed. Climbed in. Atlas's hand found his before he'd even settled, fingers lacing tight.
"I'm making breakfast." Atlas stood, pulled on the grey sweatpants crumpled by the bed. "Stay here."
"You don't have to—"
"Staying. Here." Atlas stopped at the door. Turned. "Scrambled or fried?"
"What?"
"Eggs. How do you want them?"
"Oh. Scrambled, I guess."
Atlas left without another word.
Noah sank into the pillows. Stared at the ceiling. That look on Atlas's face—like he was waiting for Noah to disappear. Like people left him all the time and he was just bracing for it.
Noah lasted maybe ten minutes before giving up on staying put.
He padded to the walk-in closet. The left side held his clothes—jeans, shirts, sweaters, all arranged by color. Everything in his size. Like Atlas had been preparing for him to stay before Noah even knew he wanted to.
He grabbed dark jeans and a grey henley. Got dressed slowly, his body protesting every movement.
The kitchen smelled like butter and coffee. Atlas stood at the stove, shirtless, whisking eggs with sharp, efficient movements.
Noah leaned against the doorway. Just looked.
"I can feel you staring." Atlas didn't turn around.
"How do you always know?"
"Because you breathe different when you're watching me." Atlas glanced over his shoulder. His gaze tracked down Noah's body—the dark jeans and grey henley from his side of the closet. "Those fit."
"Yeah."
"Good." He turned back to the stove. "Coffee's ready. Pour yourself some."
Noah moved into the kitchen, poured a mug, wrapped both hands around it. Focused on the ceramic warmth instead of Atlas's bare back, the way his shoulders flexed as he cooked.
"Stop spiraling."
Noah looked up. "I'm not—"
"You are. I can hear you thinking from here." Atlas plated the eggs, slid them across the counter. Leaned against the opposite side. "Talk."
"About what?"
"Whatever's making your face do that."
Noah picked up his fork. Set it down. "Just... getting used to this."
"This?"
"Waking up here. Not knowing if I should go home or—" He stopped.
Atlas went very still. His hands flattened on the granite. "You want to leave."
"I didn't say that."
"You just did."
"No, I'm asking if I'm supposed to." Noah met his eyes. "That's different."
"Why the fuck would you be supposed to leave?"
"Because that's what people do. After. They don't just—" He gestured vaguely at the kitchen, the apartment, everything. "They don't stay."
"Is that what you want? To not stay?"
Noah looked down at his eggs. "I don't know what I want."
"Yes, you do." Atlas came around the counter. Stood in front of Noah's stool. "You know exactly what you want. You're just scared to say it."
"Maybe I am."
"Then I'll say it." Atlas's hands landed on his knees. "I don't want you to leave. I want you here tomorrow. And the day after. And every fucking day after that if you'll give them to me." He paused. "But if you need to go, I won't stop you. I won't make you stay."
Noah stared at him. "What if I need you to?"
"What?"
"Make me stay. Tell me I can't leave." His face burned but he kept talking. "What if I need to hear you say it?"
Atlas's hands tightened on his knees. "You can't leave."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm asking you not to. Because I don't want to wake up alone tomorrow. Because—" He stopped. Started again. "Because I'm selfish and I want you here."
Noah's chest felt too full. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay, I'll stay." He covered Atlas's hands with his own. "You could've just said that first, you know."
"Would you have believed me?"
"Probably not."
Atlas's mouth curved slightly. "Eat your eggs before they get cold."
They ate in silence. Noah kept stealing glances. Atlas caught him twice, said nothing. The third time, he just looked back, steady and unblinking, until Noah looked away first.
"So." Noah set down his fork. "What do we do today?"
"Take Meridian out."
"The boat?"
"Yacht. And yes." Atlas stood, grabbed their plates. "Just us. All day."
"It's October. Won't it be freezing?"
"It's sixty degrees. Cabin's heated." Atlas loaded the dishwasher with precise movements. "You've been out in October before. You survived."
"That was different."
"How?"
Noah's face went hot. "We weren't—things are different now."
Atlas turned, leaned against the counter. "Different how? Say it."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's embarrassing. Last night, this morning, the fact that I can barely walk without—" He stopped. "Forget it. Let's just go."
Atlas crossed to him in three strides. Hands on either side of the stool, caging him in. "Last night wasn't embarrassing. This morning isn't embarrassing. And the fact that you're sore just means I did exactly what I was supposed to do."
Noah's face went nuclear. "You can't just say—"
"Go shower. I'll pack." Atlas stepped back. "Now, Noah."
Noah went.
Atlas drove one-handed down West Street. The other hand rested on Noah's thigh, warm and possessive.
Noah watched the city slide past—glass towers giving way to the financial district, then the marina. He was very aware of Atlas's hand. The pressure of it. The way his thumb occasionally stroked across denim.
"You're quiet."
"Just thinking."
Atlas's hand squeezed once. "About?"
"What if I said I wanted to go to my apartment instead? Right now."
The car swerved slightly. Atlas's jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes on the road. "Why would you say that?"
"I'm asking hypothetically."
"Don't ask me hypothetical questions about you leaving." Atlas pulled over abruptly, threw the car in park. Turned to face him. "You want to go, tell me now. But don't play games."
"I don't want to go."
"Then why bring it up?"
"Because I need to know what you'd do. If I tried to leave."
Silence stretched between them. Atlas stared at him, something dark and desperate flickering behind his eyes.
"You really want to know?"
"Yeah."
"I'd follow you." Atlas's voice dropped low. "I'd show up at your door. I'd probably camp outside your building until you talked to me." He ran a hand through his hair. "It's fucked up. I know it's fucked up."
"It's not—"
"It is. Two days ago you were a virgin and now I'm sitting here saying I'd lose my mind if you left." His hands gripped the steering wheel. "That's not normal."
Noah reached over, covered Atlas's hand with his own. "Maybe I don't want normal."
Atlas looked at him.
"Maybe I want this," Noah continued. "Whatever this is. Even if it's intense. Even if it scares me."
"Does it scare you?"
"Yeah." Noah's thumb traced across his knuckles. "But I'm still here."
Atlas pulled him in, kissed him hard—all desperation and relief and something bigger neither of them could name yet.
When they broke apart, Atlas pressed his forehead to Noah's. "We're going sailing."
"Okay."
"And you're staying tonight."
"Okay."
"And tomorrow night. And the night after."
Noah smiled against his mouth. "You asking or telling?"
"Telling." Atlas kissed him again, softer this time. "Because I'm done pretending I can be casual about you."
He pulled back onto West Street. His hand returned to Noah's thigh. Noah covered it with his own.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, but it felt different now. Settled.
North Cove Marina smelled like salt and diesel fuel. Atlas grabbed a bag from the trunk, led Noah down the docks.
Meridian rose up before them—ninety feet of gleaming white hull and polished teak. Noah had been on her before, but it still made his stomach flip. The sheer size of it. The casual wealth it represented.
Atlas hopped aboard first, held out his hand. Noah took it, let himself be pulled up. The deck shifted under his feet.
"Steady?" Atlas's other hand found his waist.
"Yeah."
"Go below. I need to run through the checklist."
Noah climbed down into the main cabin. Settled on the leather bench seat and watched through the windows as Atlas moved around deck—checking lines, testing equipment, moving with the confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
He looked good out there. In his element. Sure of himself in a way Noah envied.
"Stop overthinking." Atlas appeared in the doorway. "I can see you doing it from up there."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He crossed to the navigation station, started flipping switches. "Come on. Help me cast off."
They worked together—Atlas calling instructions, Noah following. When the last line came free, the engines rumbled to life beneath their feet.
Manhattan receded slowly behind them. Atlas at the helm. Noah beside him. Both watching the city grow smaller.
"You want to steer?" Atlas asked.
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I like watching you do it."
Atlas glanced at him, expression unreadable. Then he reached over, grabbed Noah's hand, pulled him in front of the wheel. "Here."
"Atlas—"
"Hands here." He positioned Noah's hands on the worn wood. Then pressed against his back, arms coming around, hands settling over Noah's. "Just like last time. Feel it?"
Noah couldn't focus on anything except Atlas's chest against his back, his breath on his neck, the solid weight of him—
The boat veered left.
"Noah."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
"Can't focus when you're—"
"When I'm what?" Atlas's mouth was right by his ear now.
"You know what."
"Yeah. I do." His arms tightened. "But you're still gonna learn to steer."
They sailed like that—Atlas wrapped around him, guiding his hands, taking over when Noah got too distracted. Which was often.
Eventually Atlas pulled away to raise the sails. The engines cut. Sudden quiet except for wind and water and canvas snapping.
He came back, stood close but didn't touch. Just stood there.
"You okay?" he asked after a moment.
"Yeah. Why?"
"You seem different. Quieter."
"Just taking it in, I guess." Noah glanced at him. "Two days ago I didn't know what this felt like. Being with someone. Really being with them. And now I do and it's—" He stopped. "It's a lot."
Atlas's hand found his on the wheel. "Good lot or bad lot?"
"Good. Really good." Noah looked at him properly. "I just don't want to fuck it up."
"You won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're you." Atlas's free hand came up, cupped his face. Thumb brushing his cheekbone. "And that's all I need."
Noah's throat went tight. He nodded, not trusting his voice.
Atlas kissed him once, soft, then pulled back. "Come on. I'll show you how to trim the sails."
They ate lunch in the cabin—sandwiches and cold beer. Sitting close, thighs pressed together.
Noah kept looking at him. Atlas caught him the third time.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You keep staring."
"So?" Noah took a drink of his beer. "You stare at me all the time."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because when I do it, you get all red and look away." Atlas's mouth curved. "When you do it, you just keep looking. Like you're trying to figure something out."
Noah's face heated right on cue. "Maybe I am."
"What?"
"If this is real." Noah set down his beer. "If I'll wake up tomorrow and you'll be different. Or I'll be different. Or—" He stopped.
"I won't be different."
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do." Atlas turned to face him fully. "Listen. I don't know what happens next week or next month. But right now I want you here. Tomorrow I'll probably still want you here. And the day after that." He paused. "Is that enough?"
Noah stared at him. "Yeah. That's enough."
They finished eating in comfortable silence. Went back up on deck.
The afternoon sun was warm for October. Noah stretched out on the cushioned bench. Atlas sat at his feet, one hand resting on his ankle. Just touching.
"You know what's weird?" Noah said after a while.
"What?"
"This doesn't feel weird."
Atlas looked at him. "What doesn't?"
"This. You. Me. All of it." Noah gestured vaguely. "It should feel weird, right? Moving this fast. But it doesn't."
"You want it to feel weird?"
"No. I just think it's supposed to."
"Says who?"
"Everyone?"
"Fuck everyone." Atlas's hand squeezed his ankle. "We're doing what feels right. That's all that matters."
Noah smiled. "When did you become so sure of everything?"
"I'm not sure of everything. Just this." Atlas's eyes were dark, serious. "I'm sure of you."
Noah's chest did something complicated. "I like it when you say things like that."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He paused. "Even if it scares me a little."
"What scares you?"
"How much I want this. How fast it's happening." Noah looked up at the sky—cloudless blue stretching forever. "What if I'm not ready?"
"For what?"
"For whatever this is becoming."
Atlas was quiet for a long moment. Then: "You don't have to be ready. You just have to be here."
"That simple?"
"That simple."
Noah turned his head, looked at him. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not letting me run this morning. For—" He stopped. "For making me stay."
Atlas's hand stilled on his ankle. "You would've actually left?"
"Maybe. If you'd let me." Noah's voice dropped. "I was scared you'd regret last night. That I wasn't—that I didn't—" He stopped again, frustrated.
"Come here."
Noah sat up. Atlas pulled him close, kissed him like he was trying to prove something. When they broke apart, he pressed his forehead to Noah's.
"Don't run from me," he said quietly. "I know this is fast. I know it's intense. But don't run."
"I won't." Noah's hands fisted in his shirt. "I promise."
They stayed like that—foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. The boat rocking gently beneath them. The city far away.
And for the first time since this started, Noah felt sure. About Atlas. About them. About staying.
The sun started sinking toward the horizon. Atlas showed Noah how to bring down the sails, start the engines, point them back toward Manhattan.
The city grew larger ahead of them—lights flickering on as dusk fell.
Atlas let Noah steer them in. Stood behind him, hands over his, guiding when necessary. They worked together, smooth and natural, like they'd done this a hundred times instead of twice.
When they finally tied off at the marina, Noah was grinning.
"What?" Atlas asked.
"Nothing. I just—I didn't crash."
"No. You didn't." Atlas grabbed the bag, took Noah's hand. "Come on."
They walked up the dock as night fell. The city glittering ahead.
"You know my apartment exists, right?" Noah said.
Atlas's hand tightened on his. "Yeah."
"So we could go there."
"We could."
"But we're not going to."
"No." Atlas stopped, turned to face him. "Not unless you really want to."
Noah thought about his apartment. Empty. Cold. No trace of Atlas anywhere. "What if I said yes?"
"Then we'd go." Atlas's jaw worked. "But I'd hate every second of it."
"Why?"
"Because your place doesn't have your toothbrush in my bathroom. Or your coffee mug in my cabinet. Or your clothes in my closet." He paused. "It doesn't have you living there yet. Not really."
Noah's breath caught. "And yours does?"
"Getting there." Atlas's thumb stroked across his knuckles. "Stay tonight. Tomorrow we'll figure out the rest."
Noah looked at him—at the vulnerability Atlas was trying to hide, at the want written plain across his face.
"Okay," he said. "Let's go home."
Atlas pulled him in, kissed him hard and grateful.
They walked to the car. Found each other's hands without looking. Didn't let go the whole way home.