Someone Who Wants to Be Remembered—A slow-burn gay romance about desire, identity, and the consequences of letting someone in.
Giovanni Rossi likes control. As a successful real estate broker in Boston, he keeps his life polished, professional, and safely guarded. Romance? It’s a thing of the past—buried beneath heartbreak, career ambition, and the belief that vulnerability is too costly.
Enter Andreas Cruz: a charming, closeted influencer looking for a million-dollar listing and maybe something more. With a lifestyle in the spotlight and a reputation built on image, Dre knows how to keep secrets—and how to get under Giovanni’s skin.
What begins as business quickly veers into something neither of them planned. As flirtation blurs with truth and personal boundaries erode, Giovanni is forced to confront feelings he thought he’d locked away for good.
But falling for someone with so much to lose comes with risks. And the closer they get, the more Giovanni wonders—what happens when a connection this real is built on everything unsaid?
Someone Who Wants to Be Remembered—A slow-burn gay romance about desire, identity, and the consequences of letting someone in.
Giovanni Rossi likes control. As a successful real estate broker in Boston, he keeps his life polished, professional, and safely guarded. Romance? It’s a thing of the past—buried beneath heartbreak, career ambition, and the belief that vulnerability is too costly.
Enter Andreas Cruz: a charming, closeted influencer looking for a million-dollar listing and maybe something more. With a lifestyle in the spotlight and a reputation built on image, Dre knows how to keep secrets—and how to get under Giovanni’s skin.
What begins as business quickly veers into something neither of them planned. As flirtation blurs with truth and personal boundaries erode, Giovanni is forced to confront feelings he thought he’d locked away for good.
But falling for someone with so much to lose comes with risks. And the closer they get, the more Giovanni wonders—what happens when a connection this real is built on everything unsaid?
The elevator chimed with a polished ding, and Giovanni instinctively checked his watch. Fifteen minutes late. Not unusual. Most high-profile clients operated on their own version of time—especially the ones who came with stylists, sponsorships, and a carefully curated social presence.
Still, Giovanni prided himself on efficiency. Punctuality. Discipline. This penthouse had been staged to perfection, every surface gleaming, every scent carefully neutralized. Sunlight spilled across the open layout like liquid gold, bouncing off the floor-to-ceiling windows and highlighting the clean lines of the marble island.
He heard footsteps.
The elevator doors slid open, and the quiet sophistication of the space was immediately disrupted by the sound of designer boots and idle chatter.
A man stepped into the room like he was walking onto a runway. Tanned skin. Tousled caramel-brown hair. Oversized sunglasses. The kind of confidence that filled the space before the words even hit the air.
“Yo,” the man said, arms spread like he was claiming the room. “This is sick. Light’s hittin’, original hardwood floors… I can work with this.”
Behind him, a woman with a gimbal and a cameraman trailed in. Social media types, obviously. Giovanni kept his expression neutral.
“You must be Mr. Cruz,” he said coolly.
The man pulled down his sunglasses and flashed a grin that could probably sell anything to anyone. “Call me Dre.”
Giovanni nodded once. “Giovanni Rossi. I’ll be handling your search.”
“Appreciate you, Giovanni. This your listing?”
“One of several. Are you looking for short-term or long-term?”
Dre shrugged, meandering through the entryway like he already owned it. “Depends. Could be a few months… could be forever. Depends on the vibe.”
Giovanni resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “This one’s a three-bed, two-and-a-half bath. Wraparound terrace, concierge, valet, and wine storage on-site.”
Dre’s head turned, interest flickering behind his hazel eyes. “Wine storage?”
“You collect?”
“Yeah. Mostly reds. I’ve got a 2010 Rioja I’m saving for something special. Couple of nice Brunellos. Some Chiantis from back home.” He said it casually, but there was pride behind it.
Giovanni allowed a small, appreciative nod. “Most guys your age are still drinking boxed cabernet and pretending it’s edgy.”
Dre laughed—an easy, rich sound. “And you’re not like most guys, huh?”
“I sell property,” Giovanni said, folding his arms. “I don’t party with TikTokers.”
“Oof,” Dre said, mockingly clutching his chest. “That was brutal. I like it.”
There was something irritatingly magnetic about him. The ego was loud, but the charm was louder.
Giovanni led him into the kitchen. “Imported marble. Heat-resistant. Lighting’s great for filming, if you’re into that.”
“Oh, I’m into that,” Dre said, hopping onto one of the stools at the island. “You always this serious?”
“Only when I’m working.”
“You don’t ever break character?” Dre leaned forward slightly. “Just a little?”
Giovanni studied him. The man looked like he lived in the sun—skin kissed with warmth, a smudge of stubble along his jaw. His smirk was practiced, but his eyes weren’t. They held something else. Curiosity. Hunger. Maybe even loneliness.
“Come on,” Giovanni said, redirecting. “The master suite has direct terrace access. I’ll show you.”
As they moved through the apartment, Dre’s camera crew trailed a few feet behind, recording b-roll. Dre barely looked at the apartment, but he watched Giovanni—closely.
Too closely.
“You live in Boston long?” Dre asked casually.
“A few years now.”
“You always been a real estate guy?”
Giovanni gave him a sidelong glance. “Sales, construction, planning and development. Real estate’s just the final layer.”
Dre tilted his head. “Hustler vibe. I respect it.”
“I don’t need your respect,” Giovanni said, a little too sharply.
But Dre just grinned wider. “Nah, but you like the attention.”
Before Giovanni could reply, the cameraman stepped too close and almost knocked into a sculpture on a side table.
Giovanni turned. “I’d appreciate it if your crew stayed clear of the staging.”
Dre held up his hands, mock-defensive. “Alright, alright. We’ll chill.”
He took a slow step toward the window, letting the city sprawl behind him, bathed in late afternoon light.
“So,” Dre said, without turning around, “what do you think? Does this place feel like me?”
Giovanni watched the back of his head. His shoulders were relaxed, his voice deliberately casual. But there was something else there—something layered beneath the image.
“I think,” Giovanni said carefully, “you haven’t decided who you are yet.”
Dre turned, surprised. And for just a second, he didn’t speak. He just looked at Giovanni—really looked at him—and something unspoken passed between them.
Then the gimbal whirred softly in the background, and the moment dissolved.
Dre shoved his hands into his pockets and smirked again.
“Well damn, Giovanni. That felt deep.”
“Occupational hazard,” Giovanni replied smoothly, starting toward the hallway. “You want to see the rest or just keep posing for your reel?”
“Oh, I can multitask,” Dre said, falling into step beside him.
“You always this intense with clients, or is it just me?”
Giovanni’s lips twitched. “Depends. Are all your questions this annoying, or is it just you?”
Dre barked a laugh. “Alright, alright. I’ll chill. Show me what you’ve got.”
They moved down the hallway, hardwood floors soft underfoot. Giovanni pointed toward the guest bedrooms, keeping his tone crisp.
“Second bedroom’s large enough for a home office or guest space. Plenty of natural light. There’s soundproofing in the walls, if privacy’s important.”
Dre leaned against the doorframe, eyes flicking around. “Privacy is always important. Especially when people like to speculate.”
Giovanni didn’t take the bait. “There’s a walk-in closet, ensuite bath, and access to the second balcony.”
Dre turned to him with a sly smile. “Tell me, Giovanni—do you talk like this on dates, too? Very bullet-point. Very sexy.”
“I don’t date clients,” Giovanni said flatly.
“Good to know,” Dre said, his voice lower now, almost teasing. “I’d hate to blur any lines.”
Giovanni met his gaze head-on. “Trust me. You couldn’t.”
That earned him a small pause. Just long enough to feel it. Then Dre laughed again, softer this time.
“You know, you’ve got this whole ‘tough guy in a tailored suit’ thing going on,” he said, as they moved into the master suite. “But I bet you weren’t always like this.”
Giovanni arched a brow. “What was I like, then?”
“I don’t know. Probably a little wild. Probably broke some hearts. Maybe had yours broken once or twice.”
The bedroom stretched wide around them, glass doors leading out to a private terrace. But for a moment, neither of them looked at the view.
Giovanni let the silence stretch before replying. “I grew up learning that comfort is earned. People who get too comfortable too soon tend to lose things.”
Dre’s eyes narrowed slightly, something calculating behind them. “Who hurt you, man?”
Giovanni smiled without humor. “Who hasn’t?”
Dre stepped out onto the terrace, hands resting on the railing. The city sprawled beneath them, alive and indifferent. “I like the view,” he said finally. “Makes everything else feel small.”
“It’s part of the appeal,” Giovanni said. He stood beside Dre, arms crossed. Close—but not too close. “Boston’s chaos. This place gives you a little distance from it.”
Dre tilted his head, eyes on the skyline. “You ever wish you could just disappear into one of those windows out there? Start over somewhere nobody knows your name?”
Giovanni glanced sideways. “Are you planning to disappear, Mr. Cruz?”
Dre smirked, but there was something wistful behind it.
“Depends on who’s asking.”
Giovanni let that hang in the air. The wind shifted, just enough to ruffle Dre’s hair, and Dre turned back toward him—closer now, posture easy, voice low.
“You know,” Dre said, “for a guy who doesn’t like me much, you sure don’t mind looking.”
Giovanni didn’t flinch. “I’m evaluating your compatibility with the property.”
“Right,” Dre said, grinning. “Strictly business.”
“Strictly,” Giovanni said. But he didn’t step away.
“Oh?” Dre asked, falling into step behind him. “Is it a secret rooftop pool? Or is that in the next unit?”
Giovanni ignored the jab, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Follow me.”
“I’ll be back.” Dre said. “Shoot some more footage of the space.” He motioned to his camera crew.
They took the elevator down to the private amenities floor, a sleek corridor lined with dark walnut paneling and soft lighting leading them to a frosted glass door. Giovanni tapped a code into the keypad.
The door unlocked with a soft click and swung open to reveal the building’s exclusive wine cellar—cool, dim, and lined with elegant mahogany racks. Rows upon rows of vintage bottles slept in glass enclosures, backlit like museum pieces.
Dre let out a low whistle. “Okay. Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Climate-controlled,” Giovanni said, stepping in. “You can lease racks or reserve a private vault. Tasting room is by appointment only.
”Dre wandered in, fingers trailing along the edges of a wine case. “This is sexy. This whole setup feels like it belongs to someone who’s got their life together.”
“Or at least someone who wants people to think they do,” Giovanni added dryly.
Dre laughed. “Touché.”
He crouched slightly, examining a few labels. “Damn. I haven’t seen a '94 Solaia in forever. This one,” he said, pointing, “I opened with my dad once after a campaign I landed with a travel brand. Thought it was overpriced until it kicked in.”
Giovanni looked at him with mild surprise. “You know your vintages.”
“I’m not just pretty reels and passport stamps,” Dre said, standing. “My dad collects. Old-school guy. Used to teach me how to smell the oak like it was a religious experience.”
Giovanni watched him for a beat. “What’s your favorite?”
Dre didn’t hesitate. “Barolo. Full-bodied, moody, doesn’t give itself away too fast. You?”
Giovanni met his gaze, amused. “Brunello. Quiet, but hits when it matters.”
Dre smirked. “Figures.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve got Brunello energy. All stoic and layered and mysterious.”
Giovanni allowed himself a small, rare smile. “There’s a spot in the South End with a fantastic Brunello list. Tucked away. No influencers in sight. You’d hate it.”
Dre leaned in slightly, intrigued. “Bet I’d love it. You’ll have to send me the name.”
They stood in the center of the cellar, the cool air wrapping around them. Something about the quiet—away from the cameras, the light, the skyline—made the space feel too still, too close.
Then Dre tilted his head. “You know what I think?”
Giovanni arched a brow. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“I think if we’d met under different circumstances,” Dre said, slowly, “you wouldn’t be so good at pretending not to like me.”
Giovanni blinked—just once, but Dre caught it. It was the first real crack in the man’s composure, and it landed like a spark in dry grass.
Before Giovanni could reply, Dre’s phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He groaned and pulled it out, glancing at the screen.
“Sorry, it’s my manager,” he muttered, stepping toward the door. “If I ignore her again, she’ll have me replaced with a Mexican Chihuahua.”
He answered, voice shifting instantly into a performative tone.
“Hey! Yeah, no—I’m just wrapping up. I’ll be there in twenty.”
Giovanni stood by the wine racks, watching him.
Dre ended the call, pocketed his phone, and turned back with a crooked smile. “Guess I’m being summoned.”
“Of course,” Giovanni said, voice even again. “Wouldn’t want to keep the Chihuahua waiting.”
Dre grinned as he made his way out. “You gonna send me the info for that Brunello spot you mentioned?”
Giovanni nodded. “If you’re serious.”
“Oh,” Dre said, pausing in the doorway. His eyes lingered on Giovanni just a little too long. “I’m serious about a lot of things.”
And then, just like that, he was gone.
The door shut with a soft click, and Giovanni stood alone in the quiet chill of the cellar, surrounded by bottles and unfinished thoughts.
Eyes lock across the room, a connection only lasting an instant but sharing so much. It’s hard to look away from those people who make you feel fully seen and heard when so much seems surface level in the modern world. Those people can also be the scariest to engage with because you know they’ll make you feel something. Someone Who Wants To Be Remembered explores that connection and the fight to keep it once found, especially when one side has a life more plastic than flesh and bone.
The advent of the internet and social media only led to more scrutiny for our increasingly public lives. To some, it can be just making sure only the photos that show us in a positive light are the ones that get uploaded, the ones with the best angles or forgiving lighting. For those who make their money from the likes and shares, it’s their entire livelihood. They might make a fortune off of selling us a curated lifestyle, but the actual curation itself has a steep cost. I might have some bias toward such a life, but I can understand the turmoil it must cause: trying to balance the sanitized version of oneself with actually having a real one.
The central conflict heavily leans on this premise. One side of the story deciding whether new love is worth losing everything he’s gained from living inside the mold of his public image. The other side deciding whether new love is worth letting someone scale the walls protecting his emotions. Neither are used to being truly seen, even the one with millions of followers.
Balancing so much internal conflict across two characters without turning a novel into thought bubble battles can be hard. This novel does a great job with this, though. Emotions seep from both prose and dialogue, sucking the reader into rooting for these two men who just want to be seen. I highly recommend Someone Who Wants To Be Remembered to readers who enjoy realistic emotional journeys and multi-faceted characters. However, I also want to stress that this is much more a drama than a romance novel.