Two months later.
Noah woke to the sound of waves.
Not crashing. Just... lapping. Gentle against rock somewhere below. A rhythm that felt older than time.
He blinked. Didn't move yet.
White curtains shifting with the breeze. Morning light—soft gold, not harsh—filtering through. The smell of salt and something sweeter underneath. Jasmine maybe. Or the lemon groves he'd noticed on the walk up yesterday.
Atlas was still asleep.
Face slack against the pillow. Dark hair a disaster. One arm thrown over his head, the other reaching across the empty space where Noah had been. Like even in sleep he was looking for him.
We drank too much last night.
Noah smiled. Remembered Atlas trying to say something in Italian to the waiter. Butchering the pronunciation. The waiter's patient smile. Noah laughing so hard his stomach hurt.
He slipped out of bed. Careful. Atlas didn't stir.
The kitchen was small. Just a counter, a coffee maker, a mini fridge. Enough.
Noah made coffee the way Atlas liked it. Strong. Almost too strong. The smell filled the space immediately—rich, dark, mixing with the salt air drifting through the open balcony door.
He poured two cups. Carried his out to the balcony.
Bare feet on sun-warmed tile. Already hot even this early.
And then—
Positano.
Noah stopped. Coffee halfway to his mouth.
He'd seen photos. Everyone had seen photos. But this—
Pastel houses tumbling down the cliffside like they'd been poured there. Pink. Peach. Butter yellow. Terra cotta roofs. White churches with domes that caught the light. All of it stacked and cascading and impossible.
And below—
The sea.
Not blue. That word wasn't enough. Turquoise near the shore, deepening to cobalt, then something darker where it met the horizon. Glittering where the sun hit. Calm. Ancient.
Noah sat on the small chair. Let the warmth seep into his skin.
Breathed.
Salt. Heated stone. Coffee. That sweetness again—definitely lemons.
Four days here. With Atlas.
His chest did something complicated. Tight and loose at the same time.
This is happiness. This is what it feels like.
Footsteps behind him. Quiet.
Then arms wrapping around his shoulders. The smell of sleep and skin and that thing that was just Atlas.
"Good morning, Love." Voice rough. Unused.
Noah leaned back into him. "Love."
Atlas's mouth found the curve of his neck. Pressed there. Not quite a kiss. Just contact.
"You made coffee."
"It's on the counter."
"In a minute." Atlas's arms tightened. His chin settling on top of Noah's head. "Looking at this first."
They stayed like that. Watching the sea shift colors as the sun climbed.
Noah turned his head eventually. Atlas met him halfway.
The kiss was slow. Unhurried. Morning-soft. He tasted like sleep and last night's wine and something that was just them.
When they pulled apart, Atlas's thumb traced Noah's bottom lip. His dark eyes still half-lidded.
"The sea's beautiful."
"Mm." Atlas wasn't looking at the sea. "Walk first? Then breakfast?"
Noah's hand came up. Found Atlas's jaw. The rough stubble there. Drew him down for another kiss—this one deeper. His tongue tracing the seam of Atlas's lips until they parted.
Atlas made a sound. Low. Surprised.
Noah pulled back. Smiled. Let his dimples show.
"Coffee first. Then walk. Then breakfast. Then..."
"Then?"
Noah just looked at him. Let his eyes say it.
Atlas's grip on his shoulders tightened.
"Get your coffee." Noah's voice innocent. "Before it gets cold."
---
They dressed light. Linen. Cotton. Things that breathed.
The stairs down to the beach were endless. Worn stone. Uneven. Noah counted for a while, then gave up.
Atlas held his hand the whole way. Steadying. Or maybe just wanting to touch.
The sand wasn't sand.
Black pebbles. Smooth. Volcanic rock ground fine over centuries. Warm under Noah's bare feet—almost too warm.
"I read about this." He picked up a stone. Turned it over. "The beaches here are all volcanic. From Vesuvius."
"When did you read that?"
"Before we came." Noah shrugged. Put the stone in his pocket. "Wanted to know things."
Atlas was watching him. That look on his face—soft. Something almost like wonder.
"What?"
"Nothing." Atlas tugged his hand. Started walking. "Just you."
The waves were gentle here. Mediterranean-calm. They walked at the edge where water met stone, the sea cool against their ankles.
"We drank too much." Noah said it again. Still smiling about it.
"Your fault."
"I didn't pour it down your throat."
"You encouraged me."
"I said 'another round' once."
"Enabler."
Noah laughed. The sound carrying over the water. A woman on a lounge chair glanced over. Smiled at them.
Atlas's hand shifted. From holding Noah's hand to resting on his lower back. Possessive but easy. Natural.
"Let's not do that again." Atlas's voice lighter now.
"The drinking?"
"The hangover part."
"Deal."
They found a spot where the beach curved. Private-ish. Sat on a flat rock still cool from the night.
Atlas pulled Noah against his side. Arm around his waist. Lips pressing against his temple.
"I'm happy." Noah said it quiet. Almost to himself.
Atlas's arm tightened. "Yeah?"
"Being here. With you." Noah turned. Met his eyes. "I didn't know it could feel like this."
Atlas's expression shifted. Something raw flickering across his face.
"Noah—"
"I want to come back. In a few years. Ten years. Twenty." Noah's voice steady despite his racing heart. "Here. This exact spot."
Atlas stared at him. Dark eyes intense. That look that always made Noah's breath catch.
"You're serious."
"I'm serious."
Something passed between them. Unspoken. Bigger than words.
Atlas's hand went to Noah's face. Cupped his jaw. Tilted his chin up.
The kiss wasn't soft.
Desperate. Deep. His tongue pushing in immediately, claiming, saying things neither of them had words for. Noah grabbed the front of his shirt. Pulled him closer. Kissed back with everything he had.
When they broke apart—gasping, foreheads pressed together—Atlas's thumb was stroking his cheekbone. Over and over.
"Yeah." His voice wrecked. "We'll come back."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
---
The terrace overlooked everything.
White tablecloths. Fresh flowers on each table. The sea stretching infinite below.
They sat close. Knees touching under the table. It was early—most guests still sleeping off last night's wine.
Breakfast arrived in waves.
Coffee first. Dark. Perfect.
Then fruit—figs split open to show pink flesh. Peaches so ripe the juice ran down Noah's fingers. Melon. Berries.
Then pastries. Cornetti still warm. Brioche with lemon curd. Something flaky with honey that Atlas kept stealing from Noah's plate.
"Get your own."
"Yours tastes better."
"It's literally the same."
"Different when it's yours."
Noah rolled his eyes. But he pushed his plate closer anyway.
Atlas smiled. That real one. The one that crinkled the corners of his dark eyes.
They talked about the day. Ravello maybe. Or Amalfi. Or just staying here—the pool, the beach, nowhere else.
But under the table, Atlas's hand had found Noah's thigh.
Just resting there at first. Warm through the thin linen.
Then moving. Slow circles with his thumb.
Noah kept eating. Face carefully neutral.
Atlas's hand slid higher.
Noah's fork paused. Just for a second.
"Something wrong?" Atlas's voice innocent.
"Nope."
"You sure?" Higher still. Slow. Deliberate.
"Completely sure."
Atlas leaned close. His mouth near Noah's ear. "Should we go upstairs?"
Noah took a bite of fig. Chewed. Swallowed.
Turned his head slightly. Their mouths almost touching.
"Maybe we should shower first." His voice dropped. "Before we go anywhere."
Atlas's pupils dilated. Visible even in the bright morning light.
His hand squeezed. Then released.
"Check please."
---
The stairs took forever.
Or not long enough. Noah couldn't decide.
Atlas's hand on his lower back the whole way. Pressing. Guiding. Impatient.
The hallway. Their door. Atlas fumbling with the key card. Noah laughing at him.
"Shut up."
"I didn't say anything."
"You're laughing."
"You're cute when you're frustrated."
The door clicked. Opened.
Atlas pulled him inside. The door barely shut before his mouth was on Noah's.
Not gentle. Not asking.
Noah kissed back immediately. Hands fisting in Atlas's shirt. Pulling him closer. Walking backward without looking.
Atlas's hands found the hem of Noah's shirt. Pulled up. Noah raised his arms. Let it go.
"Your turn." Noah's fingers already working Atlas's buttons. Clumsy. Not caring.
The shirt hit the floor. Noah's hands flat on Atlas's chest. Tan skin. The ridges of muscle. The thud of his heart under Noah's palm.
They stumbled toward the bathroom. Kissing between steps. Leaving clothes behind like breadcrumbs.
Noah's back hit the cool glass of the shower door. He gasped into Atlas's mouth.
"Cold—"
"I'll warm you up."
Atlas's mouth moved to his neck. That spot below his ear. Teeth scraping. Tongue soothing.
Noah's head fell back. His hands gripping Atlas's shoulders.
"Shower—" He could barely form words. "We should—"
Atlas reached past him. Turned the water on. Hot.
They moved inside. Steam billowing immediately.
Water ran over both of them. Plastering hair to foreheads. Skin going slick.
Atlas pressed Noah against the tile. Cool against his back, hot water hitting his chest. The contrast made him shiver.
"God—" Noah's hands in Atlas's wet hair. Pulling.
Atlas groaned. His mouth traveling down. Collarbone. Chest. Lower.
"Wait—" Noah pulled him back up. "My turn."
He reversed them. Atlas's back against the tile now. That surprised look in his dark eyes.
Noah kissed his jaw. The rough stubble catching his lips.
Down to his neck. Found his pulse point. Racing.
Good.
He bit down. Not gentle.
Atlas's whole body jerked. His hands grabbing Noah's hips hard enough to bruise.
"Noah—fuck—"
"Stay still."
Noah worked his way down. Slow. Deliberate. Mapping every inch.
The hollow of Atlas's throat. His chest—kissing, licking, biting. Each mark deliberate. The dip between his ribs where he was ticklish.
Atlas's stomach tensed under his mouth. His breathing ragged.
"Noah—please—"
"Please what?" Noah looked up at him through wet lashes. Innocent expression.
Atlas's eyes were almost black. Desperate.
"Touch me. Anything. Just—"
Noah smiled.
Then dropped to his knees.
The tile was hard. He didn't care.
Atlas above him—water streaming down his chest, his stomach, his—
"Look at me." Noah's voice rough.
Atlas looked. Met his green eyes.
Noah held the gaze. Leaned forward.
The sound Atlas made wasn't human.
His hand shot to Noah's hair. Gripping. Not pushing—just holding on.
Noah took his time. Slow. Thorough. Every slide deliberate. Every pause calculated.
Atlas was falling apart above him. Broken sounds. Trembling thighs. His head thrown back against the tile.
"Noah—I can't—I'm gonna—"
Noah pulled back. Stood.
Atlas made a sound like he'd been wounded.
"Not yet." Noah kissed him. Let Atlas taste himself. "I'm not done with you."
Atlas's hands grabbed his waist. Lifted. Noah's legs wrapped around him automatically.
"My turn now." Atlas's voice destroyed.
He pressed Noah against the tile. Held him there. Mouth finding his neck. His shoulder. Biting. Marking. Claiming.
Noah's nails raked down his back. Red lines that would last for days.
"Atlas—" His voice broke. "Please—"
Atlas's hand moved between them. Found him.
Noah's vision went white.
They moved together. Water cascading over them. Steam thick. The only sounds—skin on skin, broken gasps, each other's names.
When Noah finally came—Atlas's hand on him, Atlas's mouth on his neck, Atlas's body pressed against every inch of him—he forgot where he was. Who he was.
Just feeling. Just Atlas.
Atlas followed moments later. Shuddering against him. Face buried in Noah's neck.
They stayed like that. Water going lukewarm around them. Hearts pounding in tandem.
Eventually Noah's legs gave out. Atlas caught him. Eased them both down until they were sitting on the shower floor. Noah between his legs. Back against his chest.
"Holy shit." Noah's voice came out wrecked.
Atlas's laugh vibrated through both of them. "Yeah."
"That was..."
"Yeah."
They sat there. Water falling over them. Not moving.
Noah's head dropped back against Atlas's shoulder. His eyes closed.
Atlas's arms wrapped around him. Held him tight.
"Ti amo." Quiet. Against Noah's wet hair.
Noah's eyes opened. He twisted to look at him.
"What does that mean?"
Atlas's dark eyes met his green ones. Soft. Open.
"I love you."
Noah's chest cracked open. That was the only way to describe it.
He turned fully. Straddled Atlas's lap on the shower floor. Cupped his face with both hands.
"I love you too." Kissed him soft. "So much." Another kiss. "Ti amo."
Atlas's smile was the brightest thing Noah had ever seen.
---
Noah's hair was still damp when he came out of the bathroom.
Atlas was kneeling by the suitcase. Folding the last shirt. His movements efficient—he'd always been better at packing.
"You're good at that." Noah toweled his hair one more time.
"Someone has to be."
"Rude."
Atlas looked up. Smiled. That small one—just a lift at the corner of his mouth.
The balcony door was still open. Sea sounds drifting in. Waves against rock. A boat horn somewhere distant.
Noah checked his carry-on for the third time. Charger. Headphones. Book he wouldn't read.
"Passports?"
Atlas patted his back pocket. "Got 'em."
"Both?"
"Both."
"You sure? Because last time—"
"That was one time." Atlas stood. Stretched. His shirt rode up—a sliver of tan stomach. "And we still made the flight."
"Barely."
"Made it though."
Noah rolled his eyes. But he was smiling.
God, I love him.
The thought came easy now. Natural as breathing.
Atlas crossed the room. His hand found Noah's waist—warm through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
"Relax." Low. Close to his ear. "Naples is an hour away."
"Hour and a half."
"Hour fifteen if traffic's good."
"Traffic's never good."
Atlas laughed. Kissed the spot behind Noah's ear. Quick. Casual.
"Pessimist."
"Realist."
They stood there a moment. Not moving. Just—being.
The room smelled like lemons and salt and the expensive hotel soap Noah had definitely stolen two bars of.
I don't want to leave.
But he didn't say it. Didn't need to. Atlas's arm tightened around him like he'd heard anyway.
"One last look?"
Noah nodded.
They turned together. Taking it in.
The unmade bed—sheets tangled, pillows everywhere. Evidence of last night and this morning and the afternoon they'd meant to spend at the beach but hadn't.
The balcony. Bougainvillea framing the view. The sea beyond—still that impossible blue.
We'll come back.
Atlas had promised. And Atlas didn't break promises.
"Okay." Noah took a breath. "Let's go."
---
The lobby was cool after the heat outside. Marble floors. Fresh flowers on the reception desk. That particular hush expensive hotels always had.
A bellhop materialized. Took their bags with a smile and a "Grazie, signori."
Noah wandered toward the entrance while Atlas handled checkout. The glass doors were open. Heat shimmered off the steps outside.
Tourists already streaming down from the road. Cameras out. Sunhats on. That slightly dazed look people got when confronted with too much beauty.
That was me four days ago.
Now it felt... not normal. But familiar. Like something he could get used to.
Like something he wanted to get used to.
Footsteps behind him. Atlas's hand on his lower back.
"Ready?"
"No." Honest.
Atlas's thumb traced a small circle against his spine. "Me neither."
The car pulled up. Black Mercedes. Tinted windows. Standard hotel transfer.
The driver loaded their bags. Noah reached for the door handle—
Atlas got there first. Opened it. Gestured.
"After you."
"Such a gentleman."
"I have my moments."
Noah slid in. Atlas followed. Close. Their thighs touching on the leather seat.
The driver said something in Italian. Atlas responded—stumbling over the words but trying. The driver smiled. Patient.
And then they were moving.
----
The road wound along the cliff edge. Hairpin turns. Stone walls. The sea dropping away on one side—dizzying blue.
Noah leaned against the window. Watched Positano shrink in the side mirror.
It wasn't enough. A lifetime wouldn't be enough.
"Hey."
He turned. Atlas was watching him. That soft expression—the one Noah still wasn't used to. The one that made his chest do complicated things.
"What are you thinking?"
Noah considered lying. Saying something light. Easy.
"That I'm happy." The truth instead. "That I don't remember the last time I was this... settled. In myself. With someone."
Atlas's hand found his. Laced their fingers together.
The radio played something Italian. Upbeat. Incongruous with the ache in Noah's chest.
The good kind of ache.
He leaned over. Rested his head on Atlas's shoulder. Let his eyes close.
Atlas's other hand came up. Played with his hair. Automatic. Absent.
"Sleep if you want." Atlas's voice low. "I'll wake you when we get there."
Noah didn't answer. Just pressed closer.
He didn't sleep. But he pretended to. Just to feel Atlas keep touching him. Keep holding on.
---
The terminal was chaos contained.
Families with too many bags. Business travelers speed-walking. A group of teenagers in matching t-shirts—some kind of school trip.
Noah blinked in the fluorescent light. After four days of Mediterranean sun, it felt aggressive. Wrong.
"This way." Atlas's hand on his elbow. Guiding.
They joined the check-in line. Not long—midday on a Wednesday. Most tourists leaving on weekends.
"Passports." Noah held out his hand.
Atlas raised an eyebrow.
"I want to hold mine."
"I've got it."
"Atlas."
"Noah."
They stared at each other. A silent standoff.
Noah cracked first. Laughed.
"Fine. Control freak."
"Organization isn't control."
"Keep telling yourself that."
Atlas bumped his shoulder. Noah bumped back.
The couple behind them smiled. The universal recognition of young love or idiots or both.
Check-in was fast. Bags dropped. Security cleared.
"Gate 23." Noah checked his phone. "We have an hour."
"Food?"
"God yes."
They found a café. Nothing special—airport paninis, mediocre coffee. But Atlas bought Noah an overpriced croissant and stole half of it, and Noah pretended to be mad, and it was perfect.
---
The plane was small. Two seats on each side. No business class. No frills.
Noah took the window. Pressed his forehead against the plastic.
The runway stretched out. Heat waves rising from the tarmac.
Atlas settled beside him. Their arms touching on the shared armrest.
"You okay?"
Noah nodded. Not convincing.
"Still hate flying."
"Hate is a strong word."
"Fine. Strongly dislike. With passion."
Atlas's hand found his knee. Squeezed.
"I'm here."
I know.
That's the only reason I can do this.
The engines spun up. That whine that always made Noah's stomach drop.
He gripped the armrest. White-knuckled.
Atlas didn't say anything. Just covered Noah's hand with his own. Held on.
Takeoff was smooth. The plane tilting up, up, up—Naples falling away, becoming miniature, becoming nothing.
Noah breathed. In. Out. Focused on Atlas's thumb moving across his knuckles.
You're fine.
You're with him.
You're fine.
Ten minutes. Twenty.
The seatbelt sign clicked off.
Noah's shoulders dropped. He hadn't realized how tense they'd been.
"Better?" Atlas asked.
"Getting there."
Atlas lifted the armrest between them. Pulled Noah closer. Let him settle against his side.
"Sleep."
"I'm not tired."
"Liar."
Noah smiled against Atlas's shoulder. "Maybe a little."
"Hour and a half. I'll wake you."
Noah's eyes closed. Atlas's heartbeat under his ear—steady, slow, sure.
Safe.
He was asleep in minutes.
---
"Noah."
Soft. Close.
"Babe. Wake up."
Noah blinked. Groggy. Atlas's face swimming into focus.
"We're landing."
Noah sat up. Wiped his mouth. Hoped he hadn't drooled.
Probably had.
Atlas wouldn't say.
He turned to the window—
And stopped breathing.
Below them: white. Everywhere, white. Buildings carved into cliffs. Blue domes catching the sun. The sea—darker here than Positano, deeper somehow.
"Holy shit." It came out reverent.
Atlas leaned across him. Looking too.
"Yeah." His voice quiet. Awed.
The plane banked. The island tilting in the window like a postcard come to life.
This is real.
This is my life.
With him.