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The Promise of Wine

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“Just try it,” Tim said, pushing the glass at Tony. “You’re being such a snob.”

“A snob?” Tony exclaimed indignantly, distracted enough by the outrageous accusation to grab the drink. “I’m not the one who’s insisting on Italian wine with dinner when there are perfectly good bottles of American beer in the fridge.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I’m cooking,” he said firmly, “so I’m deciding what we’re drinking with it.”

“Yeah well, I’m the one who… uh,” Tony wavered off for a second but then rallied, nodding to himself decisively. “I’m the one who asked you out,” he finished, managing to hold eye contact and even smile, despite the flush spreading over his face.

God help him, but Tim just found it adorable. “That you did,” he said, “and I’m very happy about it.” He clinked their glasses together. “Even if that somehow turned into us eating in instead of out, and me cooking.” He nudged Tony gently to show that he was only bitching for the sake of it and didn’t really mind one bit.

“I’ll cook next time?” Tony suggested, the uncertainty in his voice only audible to someone who knew him very well.

Like Tim. He clamped down on the urge to pull the man into a hug and instead started putting out groceries. “You bet your ass you will,” he answered, choosing not to make a big deal of it. From the corner of his eye he could see Tony grin and, finally, taste the wine.