Chapter Text
Shane wakes up abruptly, groggy and confused, with a weight on his chest and panic clawing up into his throat. He lets his eyes adjust to the near total darkness and takes quiet stock of his surroundings.
He can’t hear Hayd snoring one bed over, which means he’s not at the hotel. It’s dark in the room, so he’s been sleeping for at least five, six hours. And he’s completely pinned to the bed.
The weight turns out to be Rozanov (or… Ilya? Fuck, fuck, fuck!) sleeping soundly on his chest, a tiny bit of drool pooling where the corner of his mouth meets Shane’s skin.
Rozanov. Ilya. Fuck. Shane feels his heart rate pick up, feels the relentless pounding of it in his fucking throat. He can’t handle this right now and he can’t have a panic attack here.
He can’t even extract himself without waking his bed partner— Ilya is wrapped around him like an octopus, one leg slung between both of Shane’s, strong arm wrapped all the way around his stomach. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever been held like this in his life. It feels like being under a weighted blanket and, if it weren’t for the panic, he’d love to sink back into it and drift off again.
But, as it is….
“Rozanov,” he whispers, voice tight.
Rozanov doesn’t move.
“Rozanov,” he tries again, more urgently this time, and Rozanov just snuggles closer, buries his face in Shane’s neck.
“Ilya!” he hisses, finally shoving at him a little to wake him.
“Mm,” Rozanov replies, and presses sleepy kisses into Shane’s neck. “Is too early. Go back to sleep, Shane.”
“Fuck, I can’t, I gotta… gotta get up, gotta… find my clothes….” His breathing is noticeably erratic now, and he strains against Rozanov’s hold on him.
Rozanov immediately gets up and moves to the other side of the bed, sitting up to observe in confusion as Shane springs out of bed, gathers his clothes, and ducks into the en-suite bathroom.
He immediately sits down on the closed toilet seat and puts his head between his knees, trying desperately to breathe deeply. Trying to ignore the fact that he’s completely naked, freaking the fuck out in Ilya Rozanov’s bathroom.
“Clothes,” he mutters, and reaches for the discarded pile on the floor. Shirt. Jeans. Socks.
Fuck, he’s missing his underwear.
He gets dressed anyway, sans boxer briefs, and turns to face his reflection.
Oh, god, he looks—
He looks completely fucked out. Ruined. There are bite marks on his neck that his shirt barely hide; his lips are red and swollen; and, when he lifts up his shirt, there are red marks on both his hips in the shape of fingertips that are sure to turn purple within the next couple of days. He vividly remembers Rozanov yanking him back by his hips and holding on when he was—
Jesus.
He turns on the tap so he can splash cold water on his face. It wakes him up a bit more, but it does nothing to slow his heart rate or soothe his panic. It just makes him more alert to fully appreciate his anxiety.
He shuts off the water, dries his hands and face, and turns to look at the door. The big, intimidating door with Ilya Rozanov on the other side of it, definitely still awake, definitely waiting for him to come out of the bathroom and offer some sort of explanation. Shane can see light streaming in from under the crack in the door and he can picture Rozanov sitting there expectantly, waiting for Shane to reappear.
Shane takes a deep breath, tries and fails to steady himself, and turns the handle.
Rozanov is sitting there on the bed, waiting for him, exactly like Shane pictured him. Well, not exactly. He hadn’t been prepared for sleep-tousled curls and flushed skin. He also hadn’t been prepared for the hurt, resigned look on his face.
Shane looks away. He hears the bed springs squeak as Rozanov gets off the bed and walks towards him.
“Look, about yesterday…” Shane trails off awkwardly, not really knowing where his sentence is going to end up.
“Mm, what part?” Rozanov asks quietly, voice raspy with sleep, and takes a few steps closer, until he’s crowding Shane against the wall. “When you come on my cock, screaming my name? Or when I fuck you so good you sleep for—” he checks his watch, “—eleven hours?”
Heat flares low in Shane’s stomach at the reminders. His eyes are pulled involuntarily to Rozanov’s mouth. His pretty lips.
“Rozanov—” he begins, but Rozanov’s narrowed eyes stop him from saying anything else.
“Shane,” he replies pointedly. Shane feels his pulse skyrocket again.
“Fuck. Don’t— you shouldn’t call me that—” he splutters, looking anywhere but at Rozanov.
Rozanov reaches out and grips his jaw with one big hand, forcing Shane to look at him. “What should I call you, then?” he asks, using his thumb to trace Shane’s bottom lip. Shane’s eyes flutter closed and he resists the urge to suck Rozanov’s thumb into his mouth. “Hmm?”
“I… what?” Shane asks, dazed, blinking his eyes back open slowly.
Rozanov chuckles. “What do you want me to call you?” he repeats, leaning in closer. “Sweetheart? Baby? You seemed to like those when you were begging me to come all over your—"
“Jesus fucking christ, Rozanov,” Shane grits out, managing to push him out of the way. He stumbles over to the bed so he can sit and shove his head back between his knees.
“Shane?” Rozanov sounds worried now. Shane hears footsteps, then Rozanov crouches down next to him. He settles one warm palm on Shane’s thigh and the other on the nape of his neck. “Shane. Is okay, this is panic attack. Deep breaths, sweetheart. Do with me, да?”
Rozanov inhales slowly through his nose, stroking the clammy skin at the back of Shane’s neck with gentle fingertips. He holds the breath for a few seconds, then exhales just as slowly through his mouth. Shane closes his eyes and tries to focus on Rozanov, his breathing. The big hand on his thigh.
“Ilya,” he mumbles, and he hears his voice from far away, as if it’s not his at all. His head feels fuzzy like it always does during an attack, body numb, brain lagging. Everything feels dreamlike, unfocused and hazy.
“Shh, just breathe,” Rozanov replies, and the hand on Shane’s thigh moves to his hair, petting gently, fingers occasionally coming to scritch at his scalp. It feels so soothing, so relaxing, he slips off the edge of the bed without meaning to, onto the floor, into Rozanov’s arms.
Rozanov makes a soft sound of surprise, but gathers Shane up in his arms anyway, holds him tight around the waist, still breathing deeply in his ear.
“No, fuck, I shouldn’t,” Shane remembers suddenly, pushing weakly at Rozanov’s shoulders. “Gotta go.”
“Is almost one in the morning, sweetheart,” Rozanov reminds him gently. “You want to wake Pike? And past curfew.”
At the mention of Hayden, Shane’s panic spikes again. “Oh, fuck, Hayd is gonna have so many questions tomorrow. I’m gonna be so bruised in the locker room and everyone is gonna—”
“Bruised?” Rozanov asks sharply, pulling back to examine Shane’s face. “Bruises where?”
Shane stands up on unsteady feet and pulls up his shirt instead of answering.
Rozanov reaches out for his hips with hesitant hands, his fingertips featherlight as they move over Shane’s skin. Still, Shane’s breath hitches. His eyes close. Rozanov touching him always feels good, but this is a whole new level. It’s tender. Sweet.
Loving.
Shane whimpers quietly when he feels Rozanov’s mouth pressing apologetic little kisses into his hip, tongue darting out to soothe over each red mark.
Shane’s hand finds its way into pretty, soft curls entirely without his permission. Rozanov grabs him by the belt loops and pulls him closer, placing kisses all over Shane’s stomach now.
“Ilya.” The name just slips out, he doesn’t mean to say anything at all, but Ilya makes a soft, approving noise and nips gently at his hip.
“Shane,” he replies, like saying his name is as easy as breathing. He looks up at him. “Stay,” he insists.
Ilya Rozanov is literally on his knees, asking him to stay.
He shakes his head to clear it. He feels a headache coming on from all the rapid breathing during the height of his panic attack.
Rozanov must take the head shake as his answer, because he pulls away, lets Shane’s belt loops drop from between his fingers, and starts to stand, looking dejected.
“Wait!” Shane replies, shaking his head even more emphatically now. “I didn’t mean— I wasn’t… fuck. Yes. I’ll stay.”
“I can stay in guest room if you—”
“Ilya,” Shane interrupts gently. “It’s okay. I want you to stay. Here.”
The smile that lights up Ilya’s face feels like a fist clenched around Shane’s heart. He swallows hard.
“You are overdressed,” Ilya whispers, reaching for the button on Shane’s jeans. “Can I?”
Shane nods. Allows Rozanov to undo them and slide them down his legs. He stumbles into Rozanov as he steps out of them, but he catches him easily and helps steady him before tugging at Shane’s shirt.
Rozanov folds his clothes again. When he’s done, he turns around and just looks at Shane. Shane takes a hesitant step forward, towards Rozanov, feeling suddenly more vulnerable than he ever has before. With anyone.
He suddenly wants to be much, much closer to him.
“Can I…” he begins, too quiet, then clears his throat. Rozanov closes the distance between them and puts a gentle hand on his hip.
“Come on,” he instructs gently, guiding Shane towards the bed. Shane gets in, then lifts the sheet up so Rozanov can get under it, too.
There’s a long, uncomfortable silence once they’re both in the bed. Shane feels his heart thudding painfully in his chest and wonders if Rozanov can hear it.
What the fuck does this mean? Sleeping, intentionally, in the same bed as Rozanov? It was one thing when he was lost in the afterglow of being fucked senseless— he’d passed out in seconds then. But now, they’re sharing a bed like—
Like a couple. Does he want to be a couple?
This, he thinks, is exactly why he should’ve gone back to the hotel. The hotel is uncomplicated and familiar, with curfew and Hayden’s snoring. This is too fucking weird, too close. He doesn’t know how to handle this shift in their routine, what his role is here. Normally he has a part he slips into. He comes over, begs for Rozanov to fuck him stupid, then picks up his clothes and what’s left of his dignity and leaves. He doesn’t stick around to cuddle.
And anyway, what did Rozanov even mean by asking him to stay? Why would he want him to? What could asking someone to stay over mean, besides ‘I like you and want to spend more time in your presence’? And, when he thinks about it, doesn’t he want the same from Rozanov?
God, does this mean he’s gay? Ilya isn’t, Shane is sure. He’s seen him with so many women. But Shane…. And fucking a man is one thing, but dating one?
It’s not just any man, though. It’s Rozanov. Ilya.
“Breathe, Hollander,” Ilya orders, reaching out and tangling their fingers together, and Shane cringes at the sudden use of his last name. Is he regretting this already? Fuck, is it over before actually even beginning?
“Shane,” Shane whispers.
“Hmm?”
“Use my first name,” Shane says quietly, and Ilya looks at him curiously for a moment. “Please.”
Ilya just stares at him for another minute, then looks away and lets go of Shane’s hand.
Shane’s heart climbs back into his throat. Fuck, he thinks. I fucked everything up. He braces for… something. Rozanov to kick him out, maybe. Or, no, Rozanov wouldn’t do that. Not at one in the morning. But maybe he’ll just politely show Shane to the guest room and—
“Come here, Shane,” Ilya whispers, holding out his arm to the side, just above Shane’s head on the pillow. Shane only hesitates a second before he scoots in closer, relief flooding him. He curls up into Ilya’s arm, lays his head down on his chest, and runs his fingers through the line of hair leading down from his navel.
“Ilya?” Shane whispers back after a moment.
“Hm?”
“Can I… I mean, will you…”
Ilya turns over on his side to stare at him. “What is it, солнышко?” He reaches out to Shane’s face, tracing a careful thumb over his freckles.
Shane’s eyes slip closed. His breathing picks up again for a different reason.
“…kiss me?” he asks quietly.
Ilya leans in immediately, gentle hand at the nape of his neck pulling him to meet him halfway. He presses a slow, sweet kiss to Shane’s forehead, then the tip of his nose, then, finally, his lips. Their breath mingles for a second— hesitant, warm, shared in the fragile space between “almost” and “fucking finally”.
The kiss begins as a whisper— just the faintest brush of lips, testing. Shane whines involuntarily and tries to lean in for more, but Ilya controls the kiss— he almost always does— and takes his time with it. He holds Shane’s face as though he’s going to disappear at any second and oh-so-slowly coaxes his mouth open with his tongue.
Shane opens for it eagerly, desperately, but Ilya goes just as slowly as ever. The kiss is unhurried, exploratory. It reminds Shane a little of their first one. He shivers, grabs onto Ilya’s shoulders to try to urge him closer and Ilya only resists for a moment before he lets Shane pull him until he's practically on top of him.
The last of Shane's panic trickles away like water down the drain when Ilya leans down on him, pressing him into the mattress, one thigh between both of his own. He feels like a hot, weighted blanket and Shane has never felt so secure and, god, taken care of.
"Fuck, Ilya," he sighs when he pulls away to breathe. He feels Ilya's cock twitch against his thigh and arches up into him without thinking, whimpering quietly.
Ilya groans and drops his head into the crook of Shane's neck. "Those noises, baby," he mumbles, pressing kisses all over the love bites he'd left earlier. "Ты меня погубишь."
Shane shivers at the pet name and almost bites his bottom lip to keep more embarrassing noises from escaping before remembering Ilya's words last time. Those pretty noises are mine, I want to hear them. Fuck. He can feel himself getting harder against Ilya's hip. His mind is starting to float already, slipping into that familiar head-space where all that matters is Ilya’s hands on him.
"Ilya," he pants, angling his neck so Ilya can keep licking and nipping at the sensitive skin there. "Ilya, please."
"So needy again already," Ilya says quietly, but he sounds pleased. "Earlier not enough for you?"
Shane shakes his head frantically. "More. Please."
"Please what, солнышко?"
"Please fuck me again," Shane begs.
Ilya swears under his breath. Shane opens the top drawer of Ilya's nightstand and fumbles in it blindly for lube and a condom, but he hesitates before handing them over.
There's no way he should be thinking what he's thinking right now. His head is still fuzzy from his panic attack, it must be, because otherwise, there's no way he'd be considering—
He drops the condom back into the nightstand and shuts the drawer. Pointedly holds the bottle out to Ilya and hopes desperately that he won't make a big deal out of this, make him talk about it.
A stunned, disbelieving look crosses Ilya's face for just a second. Then he's taking the lube and giving Shane a small, hesitant nod.
And Shane doesn't wanna talk about it, doesn't wanna know, but he has to know—
"Have, um… have you ever…?" he asks, eyes closed, bracing for whatever the answer might be.
“No,” Ilya says quietly, and the soft, adoring look on his face when Shane opens his eyes makes his breath catch in his throat. He forces himself to make eye contact. Ilya’s eyes never leave his as he pops open the cap of the bottle in his hand. Shane rolls over onto his stomach, pushes himself up to his hands and knees.
“Ohhh, fuck,” he gasps when he feels Ilya’s breath on his skin and braces for what he knows is coming next— the electric shock that is Ilya’s tongue on him.
Ilya eats him out like he enjoys it even more than Shane does— which Shane doesn’t think is actually possible. He laps gently at his tender, abused hole, little noises muffled by Shane’s skin. Shane whines, embarrassed by the fact that his thighs are already shaking, but then Ilya presses his tongue inside of him and Shane’s vision whites out and he forgets to be embarrassed about anything. Forgets anything else exists other than Ilya and his pretty, talented mouth.
“Fuck,” Ilya growls when he pulls away. “Fucking love how you taste….” Shane cries out when he eagerly continues, dragging his tongue slowly across his hole, getting him all wet with spit.
He feels absolutely filthy. He feels like he’s being worshipped. The two ideas together make his vision blur with overwhelmed tears.
He can’t help but try to squirm away when Ilya presses a lube-slick finger into him, but he takes a deep breath and tries to stay still.
“Sore?” Ilya asks, perceptive as always to every infinitesimal detail of Shane’s behaviour.
“I’m okay,” Shane insists, pressing back against his fingers. “Just— fuck, need you in me.”
Ilya stretches him open slowly and gently, taking his time as though they have hours and hours to spend together.
Which they do, Shane supposes. It’s not like he’s going to mourn the loss of sleep if they stay up all night doing exactly this. He might be dead on his skates for the game tomorrow (later today?), but right now, he really doesn’t care.
“Fuck, more,” he demands, and Ilya huffs a little laugh before finally fucking Shane with a second finger.
“Bossy,” he teases. “So, what, you think you are in charge now?”
Shane huffs a laugh back at him. “You— fuck, that’s good— you know you’d do whatever I ask,” he jokes back breathlessly, and Ilya’s fingers still inside him. He leans in to press a gentle kiss to Shane’s lower back and Shane can feel the shift in the atmosphere like a switch has been flipped.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees finally, sounding deadly serious. “I would.”
Shane’s chest feels cracked open at the honesty, at the tenderness in his voice. He swallows hard, grabs Ilya’s hand where it’s resting on his hip, and tangles their fingers together. “I know,” he whispers back.
And he can’t say the words yet, that’s way too fucking scary and he’s only just starting to admit things to himself, but the words are still there, hovering in the air above them.
Instead he brings Ilya’s hand to his lips and brushes a kiss across his knuckles. It’s the closest he can let himself get to the truth right now without freaking the fuck out again.
Ilya keeps his fingers tangled with Shane’s, the fingers of his other hand still working him open.
“Ilya, fuck, please,” Shane begs, rocking back steadily now.
“Something wrong?” Ilya asks, and Shane can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You need something?” He teases at Shane’s hole with a third finger. Shane gasps. His cock pulses, precome dripping onto the sheets underneath him.
“Need you,” he complains, arching his back.
“Mm, need me to what?” Ilya replies easily, pressing a third finger into him and finding his prostate immediately. “Need me to hold you down? Pull your hair again, maybe? Fuck you so hard you cry?”
Shane nods eagerly— that’s exactly what he needs. Needs to be out of his mind with desperation again, needs Ilya to take care of him so he doesn’t have to think or panic anymore.
“No. Roll over,” Ilya orders, hand letting go of Shane’s to move to his hip and guide him onto his back, grabbing a pillow to put under him to angle his hips. “Not done looking at your pretty face,” he admits when he sees the question in Shane’s eyes. Shane gives him a shaky, shy smile, even as his face heats up at the words.
He lets Ilya press his legs up to his chest and waits while he slides in closer. A full body shudder runs through him at the knowledge that Ilya is about to be inside him with no latex barrier for the first time.
“You still want?” Ilya asks, pressing just the tip of his cock to Shane’s entrance.
“Fuck, need it,” Shane gasps, and the next second his eyes are rolling back as Ilya presses in, in, in so fucking slowly Shane is trembling by the time he bottoms out.
“Jesus fucking christ,” Ilya grits out, staying perfectly still, and Shane feels the hands at his hips shaking a little.
“Good?” Shane asks, and he knows it is, but he has to hear Ilya say it out loud, wants to hear how good he feels. How good Shane is making him feel. If it’s as earth shattering for him as it is for Shane.
“Fuck— yes— I can’t— god… Ты понятия не имеешь.….” He’s babbling, losing his English, and Shane can relate— he’s losing his entire fucking mind.
He clenches around Ilya’s cock experimentally and gasps. He feels desperate, hot all over, and his mind is just drifting in that floaty place it goes to when Ilya is involved.
The hold Ilya has on Shane’s hips becomes harsh, urgent. “Fuck, baby, have to stay still,” he breathes out, eyes shut tight. “I need— just a minute, fuck….”
Shane tries as hard as he can to stay still, to be good, but his hips keep rocking forward just a little, involuntarily. He can’t take having Ilya inside him and not moving, it’s too overwhelming.
“Holy shit,” Shane mumbles, reaching out to grip onto Ilya’s shoulders. “You feel so fucking good inside of me.”
Ilya groans at the words. He pulls back just enough to grind back in slowly and just that is enough to make Shane’s nerve endings feel like they’re being electrocuted.
“Are you— fuck, Ilya, that’s so good, oh my god— are you gonna come inside me? Please, Ilya, I need—” Ilya shoves two fingers in his mouth, presumably to get him to stop talking. Shane moans around them and starts sucking eagerly. Ilya’s cock twitches.
“мой хороший мальчик,” he mutters, petting Shane’s tongue with his fingers. “Such a slut for my cock every fucking time.”
The words hit Shane like a physical blow to the spine and he moans around Ilya’s fingers again, arching up into his slow, measured thrusts. He reaches out for him, grasping at thin air until Ilya leans close enough for Shane to hold onto his shoulders again.
“Harder,” Shane demands, word distorted around Ilya’s fingers.
“No,” Ilya says simply. “I’m going to fuck you just like this, nice and slow, and you are going to come on my cock or not at all.”
Shane whimpers, hips jerking towards Ilya’s uncontrollably. “Ilya,” he complains when Ilya presses his hip into the mattress and holds him there.
“Shh,” Ilya soothes, pulling out before grinding in deeper and making Shane choke on a sob. “Going to make you feel so fucking good….”
It’s too much and not enough all at the same time. Shane keeps whining pathetically, arching his back and trying to rock back onto Ilya, so fucking desperate he can’t think straight anymore. Ilya just feels so good inside of him, hot and big and exactly what Shane needed, he’s beyond desperate for more. He feels a hot stinging in his eyes again and clenches them shut tight to avoid letting any tears fall.
He’s never wanted to be so close to someone, never wanted to literally fuse himself to another person, but it’s all he can think about now, how badly he needs Ilya to stay buried inside him forever.
Ilya fucks him so slowly Shane feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. Every inch of him is aching with need and despite all his talk, when he opens his eyes again, Ilya doesn’t look like he’s handling the excruciatingly slow pace any better than he is. His composure, his restraint is slipping.
Shane clenches down around his cock. He’s rewarded for his effort when Ilya’s hips stutter and he thrusts back in harder, faster than he has been. Ilya’s fingers slip out of his mouth and his hand moves to cup Shane’s jaw.
“Jesus— fuck, Shane, don’t—"
Shane looks directly into Ilya’s eyes, sees the almost pained expression of a man desperately trying to hold onto control.
He clenches again. Ilya breaks, pulling Shane’s hip to tug him down to meet his thrusts.
His hand flies to Shane’s hair to yank his head back, angle him how he wants, and the next thing Shane knows he’s being kissed and bitten all along his jaw and neck.
Marks, Shane thinks, he shouldn’t leave any—
He can’t make himself actually care right now. Not when Ilya is finally, finally fucking him like he needs, just on the verge of too much.
“Fuck, harder,” he begs, pulling Ilya in closer by the hair. “Bite me again, harder— oh my god—” He knows he’s going to look like a debauched wreck in the locker room later and there’s the tiniest part of him that’s looking forward to it, that wants people to see proof that he’s Ilya’s and Ilya’s alone.
The truth of that thought hits him like a freight train. He cries out sharply, head thrown back, and comes all over his own chest so hard he feels like he’s shattering apart. He hears Ilya saying something, but he sounds a million miles away. He tries to focus. His body has gone completely liquid and his brain is filled with static.
“—going to come, fuck Shane, so fucking tight around my cock, I can’t—”
Shane moans and claws at Ilya’s shoulders. “Please,” he slurs out finally. “Fuck— come in me, please, wanna feel you inside me, dripping out of—”
He’s cut off by Ilya’s loud groan and the hand tightening in his hair to the point of pain. Shane’s vision sparkles. He can fucking feel Ilya coming inside of him, cock twitching and pulsing and it’s slick and hot inside and he wants it to go on forever. Ilya keeps going until he can’t anymore, until they’re both oversensitive and shaking, then collapses forward, panting, and presses his face to Shane’s chest. He places gentle kisses all over, wherever he can reach, mumbling in Russian the entire time.
“Я тебя не заслуживаю,” he whispers, sucking a mark into the skin just above Shane’s left nipple. “Ты такой идеальный. Останься со мной навсегда.”
Shane holds Ilya there on top of him, running his fingers soothingly through his sweaty curls while they both come down.
“We should shower,” Ilya says finally, though his eyes are closing and he’s adjusting on the bed to hold Shane more comfortably.
“Not ready for you to pull out yet,” Shane admits quietly. “Still feels good.”
Ilya nuzzles into his neck. “Mm, we could get you a plug,” he says, nipping Shane’s jaw. “Keep my come in you for long as you want. Keep you filled up and stretched, ready to take me whenever….”
Shane gasps and clenches down around him again, involuntarily this time, and Ilya swears under his breath.
“Behave,” Shane says, reaching around to swat Ilya lightly on the ass. Before his hand can make contact, Ilya’s hands are grabbing his wrists and pinning them down to the bed.
Ilya leans down for a kiss, then hesitates. Cocks his head. “…are you going to run away from me again?” His tone is casual, but Shane can see the genuine concern on his face.
He swallows hard, then shakes his head.
“No,” he whispers. “I’m done running from… whatever this is.”
The smile that lights up Ilya’s face makes Shane feel as though he’s swallowed pure sunshine, heat flaring bright in his stomach.
“Good,” is all he says, before leaning in to finally kiss Shane— only to be interrupted by Shane’s stomach growling angrily.
“Oh, fuck,” Ilya says, and he looks like he’s remembering something important. “You need to eat!”
Shane laughs. “It’s okay, Ilya.”
“Ah, no, is not. I had whole plan to—” He shakes his head, cutting himself off. Then he sighs.
“You had a plan?” Shane asks, giddy at the idea that Ilya’s been thinking about this, that it wasn’t just another impulsive decision.
“Yes. Very serious, this plan. I had important question to ask you. So.” He looks at Shane very seriously. “Shane Hollander.”
“Yes?”
“You like tuna melts?”
Shane grins.