All Eli Francis can think as he shuffles into the elevator of the Vent offices is how much he hates Frappuccinos. Frappuccinos specifically . He's not a coffee snob by any means, feed him whatever flavors, brands, temperatures. Black, oat milk, no sugar, even tea!

He likes to think he's not a hard man to please.

But having spent every single Tuesday for the last five years going to the local café down the block where he orders five

different Frappuccinos—alongside the macchiatos, the matchas, and the mochas—has led to a certain level of hatred that even

he knows is inexplicable. Maybe it's the way the cups are always too full, or how the whipped cream on top of the early morning

sugar bombs is always melted by the time he makes it back to the building, leaving it to leak out under the lids and down

the cups to the sleeves of his sweater.

Or how there's this odd stickiness that seems to follow him for the rest of the day no matter how rose red he might scrub

his hands in the bathroom afterward.

He watches the numbers on the elevator screen rising floor by floor, the floor underneath him shifting as it moves as slowly

as possible.

And of course, because it's so early in the morning, there are stops at every floor, employees at the other publications and sites that share the building

with Vent joining him along his journey, making small talk, offering quiet greetings to Eli as he tries to balance the drinks and food in his arms before the elevator creaks to life again.

They crawl to the eleventh floor, the doors seeming to take as much time as they possibly can to open, not that Eli likes

who he sees.

The list of people Eli doesn't want to perceive before nine a.m. isn't a very long one. There's Gwen, head of IT, whom he

adores but who spends her mornings fielding "Can I upload a PDF to Instagram?"–type questions, so it's best not to bother

her unless it's life or death. There's the one barista who always gets at least half of Eli's orders wrong. There's Adam,

from the mailroom, who's disliked Eli ever since he accidentally tipped over an entire mail cart and was in such a rush to

deliver a last-minute contract that he hadn't been able to stay and help clean it up.

To be fair, Eli fully understands why Adam dislikes him. Not even a yearly Christmas card with an apologetic gift certificate included has repaired that relationship.

But above almost everyone else on the list sits the name Michael Clay, his boss, senior editor at Vent , head of content and whatever the vagueness of that title includes. Eli thinks his inclusion on the list is fair; after all,

who ever wants to see their boss until it's absolutely necessary?

And if that wasn't bad enough, standing right next to Michael is number one on Eli's list.

Keith Harper.

San José graduate from their journalism program, former assistant and staff writer at Vent , current editor. Hater of grilled-cheese sandwiches, enjoyer of classical music, and lover of wine with an "oaky" aftertaste.

And Eli's ex-boyfriend.

His spot on the list is probably self-explanatory.

Eli's eyes dart away, but not before Keith's meet his for the brief est of moments, and Eli wishes that he didn't feel that twinge in his stomach as he desperately hopes he hasn't caught their attention.

But he's never been all that lucky.

"Oh! Eli, great, we caught you on your way up!" Michael smiles, tucking his iPad under his arm as they try to find space in

the already cramped elevator.

Neither man makes an effort to relieve Eli of the load he carries. "Yep."

"Do you think you could make twenty copies of our pitches before the meeting? I'll email you."

"Sure thing." Eli bites back the rest of his words.

"So, anyway." Michael turns toward Keith, both of them forgetting Eli in an instant. "I was thinking that we could up the

amount of those Marvel listicles with that new movie coming out. Those always boost our numbers."

"I've got the team working on a few ideas," Keith tells Michael.

Eli has to stop himself from rolling his eyes at Keith, wondering just how many of those lists he'll have to suffer through,

double-checking the details and making sure the barrage of GIFs that serve as an excuse for actual journalism are embedded

correctly in the page before they're put in front of Michael.

"Also, I had some ideas about the Delish posts for the meeting. I was thinking uploading videos to Spotify as podcasts might bump up the views if we could include

listens. Most people just turn it on as background noise anyway."

Michael nods his head excitedly, like he's ready to agree with anything that Keith might say. "I like it. It could be a lot

of fun, plus it'll keep people in the brand."

"It's a video series, though..." Eli can't help himself.

He'd think after years of suffering through working at Vent , being parked in front of Michael's office, fielding emails and calls, reading through articles, fact-checking sources, and editing stories line by line when Michael didn't "feel like doing the work" he's paid to do—which was far more often than not—he'd have learned to keep his mouth shut.

"What was that, Eli?" Keith asks, his eyes focusing on Eli as he struggles to balance everything. There's annoyance in his

tone, which Eli finds so funny since Keith used to love listening to Eli. Especially when he could take the ideas that Eli gave him and pass them off as his own, or when Eli corrected

his grammar.

" Delish is a video series," Eli repeats. And one of their more popular ones at that. Sped-up videos that showed homemade recipes

that were way more complicated than they had any right to be. "It's kind of key that they stay videos, or at the very least

GIFs. A podcast doesn't make any sense."

Michael looks at Keith, not saying anything.

Keith pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, staring at Eli. An expression Eli is familiar with. One he used to find

cute.

"Our podcast numbers are strong," Keith insists. "Our audience is always looking for new content from us. If we can get some

of the staff to just sit and talk about the recipes for fifteen minutes or something quick, it'll work."

"Well, we've got to give the people what they want!" Michael says, beaming, looking to Eli as if he's searching for permission.

"That's why Keith's leading this meeting."

The elevator door dings and the rush of people eager to escape the tension inside is nearly enough to knock Eli over. It's certainly enough to spill

Gwen from IT's chai latte all over the front of his sweater.

"Motherfucker..." Eli stares down at the mess. He sets the drinks down and fishes the handful of napkins he grabbed from

the café out of his shoulder bag, soaking up as much as he can, trying not to feel guilty at the way the leftover stickiness

of the floor rips into the soles of his shoes when he balances his feet.

"I need to pay rent," he mutters to himself, hoping that the janitorial crew of the building won't be angry with him. "I need to pay rent, I need to pay rent, I need to pay rent."

"Eli?"

Eli dares to look up, the elevator door moving to close before Keith reaches out with a strong arm and holds it back.

It's hard enough for him to believe that this is the man he gave seven years of his life to. Seven years of going to the movies,

laughing over dinner, taking the bus to Ocean Beach where they spent the day reading or watching one of the local volleyball

leagues practice while they sat on the sea wall, eating too-greasy breakfast sandwiches and enjoying the breeze.

This is the man that Eli practiced saying "I love you" to for six months before he finally said the words out loud, and Keith

smiled at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered. This is the man whom Eli pictured spending the rest of

his life with, no matter how cheesy that might sound, maybe getting married even though neither of them was the marriage type,

adopting a cat because they both disliked dogs, moving into a new apartment, one they'd pick out together; they'd never leave

the city, but Eli thought maybe they'd settle down in the Inner Sunset, or the Richmond. One of the quieter neighborhoods.

This is the man Eli thinks he still might be in love with, despite how Keith looked him in the eye, his lips forming carefully

around the words "I think it's time we ended things."

He'd planned an entire life with Keith Harper. Even through Keith's promotions, when Eli transformed from a peer to a subordinate

who had to take Keith's lunch orders every morning at 11:30a.m. He'd never considered any part of his life "traditional,"

but he felt lucky to have Keith, someone who clearly loved Eli for himself.

And then Keith broke up with him on a Saturday morning. It was 8:30, foggy outside. Eli was making French toast that burnt to a crisp in the ten minutes it took for the relationship to end.

Seven years, gone in ten minutes.

Six hundred seconds.

The worst part is that he knows part of himself is still there, in that apartment. Sometimes he was still there in bed with

Keith, tracing the Sylvia Plath quote tattoo in typewriter font on his bicep that Keith had gotten just to feel that rush

of college rebellion he was so desperate for; sometimes he still smelled the burning egg and bread, the salt of a piece of

bacon he'd snuck for himself still fresh on his tongue.

Keith walks forward, hitting the button to hold the door open before squatting down next to Eli to take a bundle of napkins,

their fingers touching for the briefest of moments before Keith goes to clean up the spilled drink.

"You okay?" he asks, and Eli hates how he can tell that Keith means it. That he genuinely cares.

There's still a piece of Eli that misses that.

A piece that's larger than Eli would ever care to admit.

Keith's green eyes meet his, that perpetual five-o'clock shadow ghosting Keith's jawline, the slight chap of his lips.