I've been to Elijah's apartment before—but never like this. Not like someone who’s staying. Not like someone who belongs.
While he carries my suitcases inside, I wander past the kitchen and into parts of his home I’ve never really seen. The living room opens into a wide hallway, everything clean and deliberate, but not cold. His style is simple—masculine, understated—but with a depth that surprises me. Dark woods, soft lighting, hints of deep navy and charcoal in the walls and furnishings. A quiet kind of strength.
His bathroom makes me pause. It’s the kind of space you see in design magazines. The shower alone could comfortably fit six people, and the tub—deep, sleek, indulgent—is calling my name. A mental note: Iwillbe in that tub before the week is over.
I move into his bedroom slowly, not sure if I should. But something about being here now—reallyhere—makes me feel like I’m allowed to know this part of him.
It’s cleaner than I expected. Not sterile, just... intentional. And his closet? A walk-in masterpiece of organization. Suits. Tees. Hoodies. Everything folded or hung with military precision. I half expect little labels under his shoes.
Anyone who didn’t know him would never guess Elijah—the man who makes my knees weak with a single look—is the same one who folds his socks.
Then I see it.
Hanging on the far wall, framed in black wood, is a photograph.The photograph.
I smile, a little dazed, a little overwhelmed. It’s my shop, from the outside, bathed in the early morning light. The store hadn’t even opened yet in the picture. And there I am, standing in the window, caught in a quiet moment—a little trip back in time.
I’d wanted to buy it the day Nicoletta exhibited her pieces in my store. Something about that photo felt like hope, like possibility—the kind of hope I needed then. But before I could, an anonymous buyer swooped in and took it.
I never imagined it was Elijah.
My breath hitches as I step closer, tracing the edges of that frozen moment.
He bought it at a time when he didn’t think there was any hope for us—when we were just friends, and I was still so tangled in my past.
“Elijah...” I murmur, not even realizing I’d spoken.
He’s behind me in the doorway. Watching.
“I wanted you to have it,” he says quietly. “Even if you didn’t know it was yours yet.”
“You bought it before we were even... us.”
He nods, his gaze soft. “You loved that moment. I saw the way you looked at it every time you passed by. I just didn’t want someone else to take it from you.”
I turn toward him, heart stuttering. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it wasn’t about me. It was about you. And what made you feel something. And you weren't ready yet.”
I blink fast, fighting the pressure in my chest. My fingers brush the edge of the frame, but it’s not the photo that undoes me—it’s the thought behind it. The care. The way he saw me even before I was ready to be seen.
I step into him without a word, and he catches me like he always does—steady, strong, warm.
This isn’t just a home. This is safety. This is Elijah. This is love.
I continue my tour to his dresser. I brush my fingers over the edge of a photo of Elijah and two men—Sebastian and Gabriel. I’ve met them. A few times now. At Sunday dinners Elijah insists “aren’t a thing” even though they very much are.
I like them. A lot. Which is probably why, when the door opens and they walk in, I almost start crying.
“Ava,” Gabriel says first, sweeping me into a warm, familiar hug that smells like cinnamon and expensive moisturizer. “Oh sweetheart. When Elijah told us what happened…” His arms tighten around me. “I was two seconds from marching over there with a taser and a bottle of rosé.”
Sebastian steps in, less physical but no less present. His dark eyes scan me, then the room, then back to me. “You okay, cara mia?”
I nod, trying not to cry. “You didn’t have to come.”
“Are you kidding?” Gabriel scoffs, already unboxing pastries. “You’re basically our favorite. Sebastian actually smiled once after you made him those espresso cupcakes.”
Sebastian shrugs. “They were decent.”
