“That’s what makes this worse.”
“No. That’s what makes this real.”
They sat in silence again, the air crackling around them.
“I hate sneaking around,” Dominic admitted.
“Then don’t.”
Dominic turned to look at him. “You want to tell him?”
Eli thought about it—about his father’s face, his silence, the sharp way he stared when Eli disappointed him.
“No,” Eli said. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
Dominic nodded once, slowly. “Then what do we do?”
Eli met his eyes. “We figure it out. One day at a time.”
That night, Eli didn’t go home.
He followed Dominic back to his make shift apartment—a small second-floor place above an old bookstore. The walls were lined with old photographs of celebrities he adored and some architectural wonders. On the other side of the room laid some paintings Dominic had made. The place smelled like paint thinner and aftershave. It wasn’t tidy, but it felt lived in.
They didn’t rush.
There was no tearing of clothes, no breathless urgency. Just touch. Slow. Intentional.
