“I’ll toss them to you. I’ve gotta shower. Can you let yourself out?”
Farzan gave a sharp nod and rolled to the other side of the bed, treating David to another great view of his back and ass. If he minded being shuffled out in a hurry, he didn’t show it.
Clearly he was on the same page as David: time to go before things got weird and messy.
“Sure. Hey. Thanks for today. The game, and this. It was great.”
“Anytime.” David offered him a cocky wink. Farzan just shook his head.
David went into the bathroom, found Farzan’s shorts and—yep—a red jockstrap. But he didn’t have time to admire them. He tossed the clothes out of the bathroom and turned on the shower, standing under the warm spray, but he only relaxed once he felt the thud of the front door closing reverberate through the floor.
He needed to get his head back in the game. Focus on his test. Not on how good Farzan had felt. Not how nice it had been, cuddling up after.
Not the sting when Farzan hadn’t batted an eye about David’s job offer.
That wasn’t the deal.
He couldn’t afford it to be.
twenty-six
Farzan
Farzan made the drive home in a daze, his skin buzzing. He still smelled like David, like sweat and vetiver and warmth. It filled the car. His ears were painfully full, as if he was on a plane, but the only pressure crushing him was the thought of David leaving.
Yeah, they’d promised to keep things casual, and Farzan had told himself he could do that. He’d done his best to keep his voice bright and even while he imagined David jetting off to the West Coast, working in some fancy restaurant on the beach, getting a lavish condo overlooking the Hollywood sign.
Or whatever. Farzan had only been to Los Angeles once, when he was a child, despite it being the heart of the Iranian diaspora in the US. Tehrangeles, his mom and dad always called it, while also never wanting to visit.
“Too much traffic,” his dad would say.
Now David would be stuck in that traffic, but he’d be living his dream, and Farzan could hardly begrudge him that. Hell, if they were really friends, then Farzan should be glad for him.
Even if he’d miss David.
Even if he’d just had the most amazing sex of his life, his core still occasionally shuddering with aftershocks.
Even if he couldn’t get the look in David’s eyes out of his head. The warmth, the gentle smile, the hunger that Farzan had only known how to give in to.
No, no, no. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t catch feelings.
And David had certainly made it clear that this had just been a fuck. Yeah, they’d cuddled as they came down from their orgasms, but then it wasI’ve gotta shower, you can let yourself out, like Farzan was just some Grindr hookup.
Granted, Farzandidneed to go home and change. He didn’t have time to hop in the shower, lather David up, knead all those strong muscles that had gotten a workout at kickball and then in bed.
But it would’ve been nice to be asked.
Whatever. David had work to do and a life to lead, even if that life was leading him west. And Farzan had work to do, too. A restaurant to run. People counting on him.
He parked his car, adjusted himself—he’d let himself think about David in the shower just a bit too long—and ran inside.
Sunday morning, Farzan headed into work early. He liked the quiet hours before anyone else showed up, when the kitchen was all his, clean and gleaming and empty, before the chaos of the day consumed it. Sometimes, he’d come in and get a head start on making kabobs or pick a stew to make as a daily special, drawing from one of his dad’s old recipes or else picking something from one of the stack of Persian cookbooks in his office.
His parents had a well-worn copy ofNew Food of Life, the dust jacket long since destroyed and the spine quite broken, that they had always referenced if they were making something outside the family’s usual wheelhouse. Farzan had added his own books to the collection:Salt Fat AcidHeat, which was by an Iranian author but had more than just Persian food, including a lot of excellent food theory;Bottom of the Pot, which was probably his favorite Persian cookbook; plus a complete collection of Alton Brown, for when he needed something science-y.
But he wasn’t here to cook today. He had a week’s worth of invoices and paperwork and little notes to deal with.
He sat at his desk with a heavy sigh, paired his phone with the little Bluetooth speaker perched atop one of the filing cabinets, and pulled up aFinal Fantasyplaylist. As “One-Winged Angel” blasted, he hummed along and did battle with his to-do list.
