“Where are you going?” Priya asked with a gleam in her eye.
“Cruise. Birthday gift from my grandma.”
“Nice. Taking anyone?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Take that hot roommate of yours,” Jordan said, not looking up from his monitor. “What's his name? Evan?”
“Elijah. And he's got a boyfriend,” I remined him.
“Ugh, the jealous one?” Priya wrinkled her nose. “That guy's the worst.”
At least I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
I tried focusing on my code and failed spectacularly. Every few minutes, my mind wandered back to Elijah. To movie nights on our couch, his shoulder pressed against mine. To bowling with friends, his laugh echoing through the alley when he got a strike. Coffee shop every Sunday morning. We spent more time together than most actual couples, doing absolutely nothing and somehow making it mean everything.
At least, it meant everything to me.
Except we weren’t a couple. Just friends. Best friends who happened to live together and shared meals and inside jokes and—
Yeah. Pathetic didn’t quite cover it.
I managed to get through three hours of work before giving up. Around six I headed home, traffic mercifully light for once. Our apartment was on the second floor of a converted warehouse, with amazing loft windows for lighting and Pergo flooring I loved to slide on in my socks.
Elijah was already there, sprawled on the couch with his tablet, probably working on some design project. He looked up when I walked in, his hazel eyes catching the lamplight.
“Hey. How was your day?”
“Long.” I dropped my bag by the door. “How about yours? Land that brewery account?”
“Still waiting to hear back. Should know by Friday.” Elijah stretched, his shirt riding up just enough to show a patch of stomach, happy trail included. Oh god. I quickly glanced away before he caught me drooling. “You feel like cooking, or should we order something?”
“I can cook,” Elijah replied. “How does pasta sound?”
“Like an amazing dinner.”
In the kitchen, we moved around each other with practiced ease. Five years of cohabitation meant we’d developed a rhythm. He chopped tomatoes while I got water boiling, and handed me the colander before I had to ask for it. His shoulder brushed mine as he reached for the olive oil. A brief touch that was casual and meaningless.
I wished it meant something. Wished a lot of things.
“Merenda doing okay?” he asked, scraping diced tomatoes into the pan.
“Yeah. She's good. Made me lunch, gave me grief about working too much.”
“She’s not wrong.” Elijah reached for something above the cupboard, his shirt once again riding up.
“Stop taking her side, traitor.”
His laugh was low and warm, doing things to my insides I tried to ignore. “Just saying. You've been running on fumes for weeks.”
I wanted to tell him about the cruise tickets, ask if he'd come with me. Instead, I stirred the pasta and kept my mouth shut. Bernard’s name hadn’t come up in weeks, and that felt like a small mercy. Sometimes Elijah went days without mentioning him. Other times, his phone buzzed constantly with texts that made his jaw tighten.
Tonight seemed like one of the good nights. We ate dinner trading stories about our workdays, arguing over which streaming service had the better new releases. Easy, comfortable silence. Everything I wanted and nothing I could actually have.
* * * *
Two weeks later Elijah and I met up with our friends for coffee. Snow drifted down in fat, lazy flakes as we stepped outside, the kind that stuck to your eyelashes and made the city look almost magical. Almost. Michigan winters had a way of crushing any romantic notions within about thirty seconds of exposure.
