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Summary
“Nah, fuck Paris,” he says, nipping at the underside of Naim’s chin to make him laugh again, the kind of startled laugh that doesn’t know how to be self-conscious. Oh, Ryan thinks, he loves him.
He can’t say it out loud, not yet, notyetnotyetnotyet, so he chooses to be honest about the rest of it instead, says, “We’ll figure out Melbourne first. Yeah? Then—I dunno. We’ll go wherever you wanna go.”
“I wanna go where you wanna go,” Naim whispers, unbearably honest-sounding. Scratch that, thinks Ryan.
This is the happiest he’s ever been.