Chapter 4: The Terms of Our Agreement

They met in Gabe’s apartment the next day.

It was small. Clean. Warm in a way Elijah’s hotel suite would never be. The walls were soft gray, with touches of green from the plants by the windows. There were books. Framed sketches. A photo of a dog, now gone.

Nothing screamed wealth. It was the kind of place that felt lived in.

Elijah stood by the door, coat still on.

Gabe was in the kitchen, pouring coffee.

“Sit down,” Gabe said, not looking at him.

Elijah took off his coat and sat on the edge of the couch. The fabric smelled like cedar and something else faint and familiar.

Gabe handed him a mug, then sat across from him at the small table.

“Alright,” Gabe said. “Let’s get this straight.”

Elijah nodded once. “Okay.”

“We pretend to be together,” Gabe said. “In public. For the family. For the board. For the press. Two years, four months. No more.”

“Fine.”

“We live together. Not in your hotel. Somewhere real. People will be watching.”

“Okay.”

“But we’re not real,” Gabe said. “Not to each other.”

Elijah tilted his head slightly. “What does that mean?”

Gabe’s eyes were flat. “No touching. No kissing. No sleeping in the same bed. We’re not trying to fall in love again.”

Elijah looked at his hands. “Was it that bad? Before?”

Gabe’s jaw clenched. “It was good. That’s why it hurts now.”

A silence passed between them.

“Fine,” Elijah said again. “No touching. No lies.”

Gabe gave a dry laugh. “You’re already lying.”

“I’m not trying to,” Elijah said softly. “I don’t remember anything. I’m not hiding it.”

Gabe shook his head. “You want to know what I remember?”

Elijah looked at him. Quiet. Still.

“I remember you waking up at 3 a.m. to draw in the kitchen,” Gabe said. “I remember how you hated cold coffee but always made mine. I remember dancing in the living room, barefoot, to old music. I remember your hand in mine.”

Elijah’s throat tightened. He didn’t know why. “That’s a lot to carry.”

Gabe stood. His voice cracked slightly. “Yeah. It is.”

Elijah stood too.

“I can’t change what I don’t remember,” he said.

“I know,” Gabe said. “And that’s the worst part.”

They stood in the space between the table and the window. Close, but not touching.

Finally, Gabe spoke again. “You’ll move in by Friday. We’ll do an interview next week. Smile, nod, wear a ring.”

Elijah looked down at his left hand. “I don’t have it anymore.”

“I kept it,” Gabe said. “I couldn’t throw it away.”

A pause.

Then Elijah said, “Can I ask one thing?”

“What?”

“If we’re pretending… can I read something you wrote? From back then. Something I gave you. A letter maybe. A message.”

Gabe’s eyes darkened. “Why?”

“I want to know how it felt,” Elijah said. “To love you.”

Gabe stared at him for a long time.

Then turned away. “I burned them.”

Elijah’s breath caught.

“All of them?”

Gabe nodded. “Every word you ever wrote me. The night I found out you were dead.”

They didn’t speak after that.

But when Elijah left, he touched the door frame gently with his fingers. Like he’d done that before. Long ago.

And when Gabe sat down on the couch after he left, he stared at the empty spot across from him for a long time.

He hated him.

He missed him.

He wasn’t sure if those were different things anymore.