He pulls back and feels undone with the way Reza looks into his eyes, nonplussed and hazy.
“Get some rest,” Vince says, and it’s soft enough he can hope the pleading note will go unnoticed by the distanced man before him. He lets his hands fall from the back of Reza’s head until they’re useless weights back at his own sides. “Text me later.”
Reza says nothing, the bastard, still inaccessible as the moon. He just flattens his mouth into something that’s neither a smirk nor a frown and floats inside, snicking the door shut behind him.
Vince’s heart is beating far too quickly for the situation to merit. He wants to hit something or scream.
He wants to ask a lot of questions, mostly.
But questions remind him of interviews which reminds him that, right, there’s a world outside of the dizzy
