Before I can get fully hard in my boxers—Jesus, where are my pants?—I walk stiffly from his bedroom. In the hallway, where my Neanderthal brain isn’t running circles around anything to do with Tahegin, I catch a whiff of my shirt, stale with sweat from dancing and coated in the stink of the nightclub. Wrinkling my nose, I yank the shirt off and toss it over the banister as I descend the stairs. I’ll pick it up later, but no way am I wearing that nasty thing a minute longer.
So, clad in only my dark grey boxers, I invade Tahegin’s kitchen and get to work making the biggest, cheesiest omelets I can with the ingredients from his fridge. I figure if he has them, he eats them, so I toss everything from mushrooms to onions to peppers to tomatoes in his. Since I am a pickier eater than him, mine doesn’t include mushrooms or spicy peppers. The bell peppers are free game, though, and I snack on a few raw slices while the omelets cook.
After they’re done, Tahegin still isn’t downstairs, so I place the plates in the oven to keep warm, then meander around his house. Unlike his parents’ old-style home, Tahegin’s is modern and has that barely lived-in look, save for the shoes discarded by the front door. Even the Christmas tree in the living room looks as if it jumped right out of a magazine—
Oh, shit. Is it already almost Christmas? Where did the year go?
I do a quick tally, and . . . yep. Just over two weeks until Christmas.
Tahegin even has presents already wrapped under his tree, and because I’m nosy, I sneak a peek at the name tags—his parents, his sister, Aleks, a few teammates, and . . . me.
Hold on, the fuck?
I snag the small rectangular box from beneath the tree, double-checking that it’s actually my name written across the label in a perfect scrawl. It is, and I stare curiously at the small package. When I shake it, it rattles.
“Didn’t anyone teach you not to touch presents with your name on them?” Of course, Tahegin chooses now to appear at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister where my dirty shirt rests.
The question doesn’t bite the way it would if someone else had asked. I know he isn’t trying to upset me by reminding me of my past. “In the foster homes, we were lucky to get anything for Christmas, much less something individually wrapped with our name on it.” I return the present beneath the tree.
“That bad?”
I shrug, trying to play off the hurt of all those years. “Not all of them. The kids with the most likely chances of being adopted got the better ones. I wasn’t lucky enough.”
“Then that is everyone else’s loss. How dare they not see how great of a person you are.”
“Hmph.”
He walks toward me slowly as if I am an animal easily spooked. “There is one good thing about that, though.”
“About me not being adopted by a loving family?” I ask incredulously.
“Mhm,” he hums, stepping into my space until he can swipe a finger across my forehead, removing my messy hair from my eyes. God, what is wrong with me? My hair is probably sticking up all over the place. I haven’t checked my chin for drool, haven’t brushed my teeth, showered, or taken a piss since waking up. I look like a fucking mess standing next to a freshly showered Tahegin in a pair of bright white joggers—that I would totally spill something on within five minutes if I tried to wear—a black tank top, and his glasses. I blink, not used to him wearing them in the light of day but not at all upset about their presence. “It means I don’t have to share you for the holidays. Do you want to spend Christmas with my family? And me, of course.”
I’m immensely grateful to have an excuse to decline the offer. God knows I’d be searching high and low for mistletoe to drag him under. “I usually spend Christmas with Micah’s family. I appreciate the offer, though.”
Clearing his throat, he steps back, taking his sweet coconut scent with him. “Right. That’s good—that you have somewhere to go. Will you be coming to the team’s New Year’s party?”
“Yes.” I hadn’t yet decided, but seeing the look on his face, I’d say anything to get his crooked smile to return.
It does, just a tad. “Okay. I will give you your present then.”
I gaze longingly at the wrapped box under the tree. “What’s wrong with now?”
“Now, I’m hungry and require food,” he declares. “Feed me.”
Once again, my thoughts are not safe.
We take our omelets to the bar overlooking the backyard. The mornings have become too chilly to eat outside, especially when I am only in boxers. Boxers, I realize, that show every outline of my crotch, every twitch at every errant thought. And, boy, do I have plenty of those.
Tahegin in those glasses. Tahegin in those pants. Tahegin in that tank that shows his tattooed arm and shoulder, biceps flexing as he shakes hot sauce on his eggs—
Okay, maybe not the hot sauce bit.
“You should wear your glasses more,” I suggest around a mouthful of food. “They’re cute.”
His blue eyes narrow on me from behind those frames. The dark circles underneath are nearly gone now. “They aren’t cute.”
“Mhm. Like my snoring isn’t cute. Got it.”
“You dick,” he laughs, nose crinkling.
I hum playfully, as if considering his words. “Mm, no. That’s you—if the whole ‘you are what you eat’ saying is true.”
He gasps and clutches imaginary pearls. “Was that a joke, Rix? I’m so proud.”
“Shut up,” I grumble, but my mouth quirks up on one side, and a chuckle bubbles out of my chest.
✧ ✧ ✧
The only thing capable of dragging me away from Tahegin and back to my apartment is the Christmas tree in his living room lingering in the corner of my eye, a constant reminder that I haven’t gotten him a present. I didn’t know he was getting me a gift, so I haven’t planned one for him. What am I to get a man who can afford literally anything he wants?
So, not something he can buy on a shelf. Something unique. Personalized. Commissioned, maybe?
The answer is so clearly in front of me that I practically leap from my couch, not even bothering to change out of my lounge pants—aka pajama pants I am already wearing despite the sun still being an hour away from setting.
The heat in my car is one hundred times better than in my old one, which Tahegin helped me sell off to a blue-collar mechanic looking to give his daughter a car for her sweet sixteen. He said it wouldn’t take much to get the heat going again, which I’m sure his daughter appreciates as the days get colder.
Micah’s apartment complex comes into view, the exterior nearly as fancy as mine. In fact, the interior of his is just as nice, maybe even more so with the eccentric chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. I haven’t stopped to consider how exactly he’d gotten this apartment so soon after college, especially when his graphic design business has yet to seriously thrive.
