one
Ramin
Ramin was sweating.
He’d picked the Brazilian steakhouse for their two-year anniversary dinner because it was Todd’s favorite place on the Plaza. Todd had been trying to increase his protein intake the last few months. And hitting the gym harder. It showed in the way Todd’s dress shirt hugged his shoulders.
Granted, Ramin loved Todd’s shoulders—since Todd had moved in eight months ago, Ramin drifted off to sleep with his head against their solid warmth every night (not to mention he enjoyed holding on to them as Todd fucked him)—but he’d loved them before, too, back when Todd wasn’t so worried about their definition or the occasional stretch mark. Honestly, Ramin had enough body dysmorphia for the both of them.
That was for Ramin to work out with his therapist, though.
Tonight had to be special. So he’d picked Todd’s favorite place for dinner. Even though every time he came here, he got the meat sweats. The sticky feeling on his forehead made him feel like a teenager again, fighting off acne; the dampness under his armpits was worse. Was it showing through his shirt?
Bad enough he was sweating with anxiety about asking Todd such a life-changing question, but meat sweats, too? He really should’ve planned this better.
“What’re you thinking?” Todd asked, a smile lighting his features.
Ramin must’ve been staring. But he couldn’t help it!
Todd was handsome, his well-kept beard sharpening his jawline, his brown eyes perpetually cheery. He’d gotten golden highlights in his coiffed brown hair about a month ago, which gave Ramin flashbacks to high school, but like Ramin, Todd hadn’t been out as a teenager, and everyone deserved a second adolescence. The highlights made Todd happy, so they made Ramin happy.
Todd even had the kind of cute button nose that only white guys ever seemed to get. Ramin’s own nose was large, like most Iranians. He had horrid visions of a bead of sweat dripping down the length of it but stuffed them down as he gave Todd a smile of his own.
“Just thinking about how handsome you are.”
“Aw, babe.” Todd’s smile deepened, but then he shifted in his seat. “Sorry. I’ll be right back.”
He set his napkin next to his plate and stood. Todd’s wineglass was mostly untouched—he’d cut back as part of his diet, so much that he rarely even had a glass with dinner anymore—but he’d downed four glasses of ice water and put away a lot of steak.
“I’ll be here,” Ramin said, reaching for his own wine, a nice if uninspired Malbec. He assumed. His taste buds weren’t working tonight because of the nerves. He wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between a bottle of Screaming Eagle—a California cab that went for $2,500 a bottle—and some Boone’s Farm at this point.
(Not that he’d ever had Boone’s Farm. He had been solidly Team Franzia in college, a secret shame even his best friends didn’t know about.)
Nevertheless, Ramin finished his glass. They called it liquid courage for a reason, right?
He flagged down their server.
“Could I get the champagne now, please?”
Their server—a young, russet-skinned woman with her hair tied back in a ponytail—nodded and disappeared toward the bar.
Ramin checked his pocket for the eight hundredth time. When he’d started planning this night months ago, he’d envisioned sticking the ring in the top of Todd’s favorite dessert, a crème brûlée, but Todd wasn’t eating dessert these days. And the thought of dropping the ring into the bottom of a champagne glass alarmed him, because what if Todd didn’t notice and choked on it?
So he’d just have to hold the ring out and ask.
He could do this. He wasn’t really worried that Todd would say no, after all. They were in love. They’d been together for two years. They’d moved in together and everything was going well.
They were happy and perfect.
So why did his heart keep fluttering?
(Well, he did know—those same old insecurities, creeping up again. But also: therapy.)
Todd returned, scooting in so their knees brushed. Ramin grazed his foot along Todd’s ankles and smiled, and he tried not to be annoyed when Todd shifted in his seat and moved his foot away.
Todd could be weird about PDA sometimes, but what gay man didn’t have the occasional worry on that front?
“Hey,” he said softly.
