Vince nods, flicking away his own cigarette. He knows all this, that Reza is smart and excessively beautiful and precise like a blade’s edge.
“I meant more, like,” he tries, “do you like having him around.” It seems important that they do. Vince suspects Reza would stop showing up if he asked, but he’s not eager to test the suspicion.
It’s Reza; he’s never entirely sure of anything.
Mason grins bigger, nudging into Vince as they walk back inside. “Want us to approve of your boy, Vincent?” he asks, Irish lilt bouncing along with the playful words.
The phrasing sends the same tremor of disquiet through Vince that it has every time it’s come up—your boy, like he has any claim, like he has any right at all to Reza’s mercurial attentions.
Not worth fighting, though, not with only the impre
