“Nearly there,” Ramin panted. Noah took no satisfaction that Ramin was finally out of breath, too.
The air had gotten progressively warmer as they neared the top. Blinding sunlight streamed in ahead. A breeze stirred, twisting the ends of Noah’s hair, cooling the sweat on his forehead and the back of his neck.
A few more steps, one last corner, and they stepped out onto the terrace.
“Oh,” Ramin said, so softly it was nearly lost to the wind. He was already moving to the rail, staring south across the docks and out to the endless curve of the blue, blue sea.
Noah shook his legs out before stepping up next to him. From up here they could see the city to their left, climbing up into the mountains, and to their right, the hazy horizon. The clouds had blown away, leaving the sky a brilliant azure canvas that Noah could nearly reach out and touch.
None of that compared to Ramin, though.
His face—his beautiful, awesome face—was totally open as he stared at the water. His pupils had contracted in the sunlight, revealing a broad expanse of green. His cheeks had gone slack, erasing his dimples. He was totally relaxed, lost in the view. The studs in his ears sparkled in the sunlight.
He was perfection.
He was everything Noah had ever wanted.
Noah’s heart squeezed, so suddenly he worried he’d overdone it on the stairs. Despite the climb, his limbs felt light, so light he could float away into the sky, fly like the butterflies fluttering a storm in his stomach.
He stepped behind Ramin, wrapped his arms around him from behind. Rested his chin on Ramin’s shoulder and took in the Ligurian Sea below them, because if he kept looking at Ramin, he was going to say something foolish. Embarrassing. Terrifying.
True.
“It’s perfect,” he said instead. “I love it.”
He couldn’t say the other thing growing inside him.
Ramin sighed and relaxed back against him. His voice was low, reverent, half a prayer.
“My mom grew up in the north of Iran. This city called Rasht. Which is funny, because my dad is from Yazd, and Yazdis are always making fun of Rashtis.”
Noah’s Iranian geography was terrible, but he hummed so Ramin would know he was listening. He could look at a map later.
“That doesn’t matter. Anyway. Rasht is close to the Caspian Sea. My mom grew up visiting the seaside in summers. But when she moved to the States, she ended up in Kansas City. She always said she missed the sea. And my dad always said, ‘We’ll go next year.’ But they never did. I didn’t see the ocean myself until after college.”
Noah squeezed Ramin tighter. He knew Ramin was strong, knew he didn’t need Noah’s support—but Noah wanted to give it anyway.
“It makes me think of her, you know?”
“I get it,” Noah murmured against Ramin’s neck. Life had taken so much from Ramin. But he could still look out at the sea and find beauty. Find connection. Find love.
It would’ve broken Noah’s heart if it didn’t bolster it instead.
Ramin sighed. “It’s like every time I see the ocean, a little bit of her gets to see it, too. I’m living her dreams for her.”
Who said things like that? Who thought things like that? Ramin did.
Noah kept his arms tight and swayed a little. Ramin swayed along with him.
Noah had encountered a few perfect moments in his life. Like the day he married Angela, no matter what had come after. Or the day Jake was born.
But this—holding Ramin, with the sea below, and the sun above, and the wind in their hair—this was perfect, too.
He never wanted to let go.
thirty-four
Ramin
