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It’s late afternoon when Ilya finally wakes.
It’s been like this for the past few days, now that they’ve had some time off.
Late nights, later mornings and lazy afternoons. It’s like they’ve been blanketed in their own tiny cocoon, wrapped safely within the walls of Shane’s cottage and under the softest sheets Ilya has ever experienced.
They sleep when they want to, eat when they want to, drink when they want to, make love when they want to. It’s perfect, this idyllic space in time they’ve carved out for themselves.
Well.
Almost perfect.
There’s one thing Ilya could absolutely do without.
He finds Shane just where he expects him to be, on the couch in front of the TV, headset on over a mess of dark hair, clearly ruined by Shane’s fingers running through it in frustration. His eyes are trained on the screen, tracking the movements of whatever character in whatever game it is he’s playing, too vigilantly focused on what’s going on there to even notice Ilya entering the living room.
Ilya had always enjoyed a good video game. He liked the competitiveness, the intensity, the joy of winning, the sting of losing. It reminded him of hockey, in a way. So yeah, Ilya had always enjoyed a good video game. But not anymore. Maybe it was stupid and juvenile and silly but the only thing Ilya had felt about games lately was animosity. Jealousy, if he was being completely honest. Sue him, he didn’t like the one thing that could take Shane’s attention away from him.
“Yeah, yeah, go left, I think I saw one of them there behind the bushes!” Shane speaks into the headphones. Ilya can hear the faint noise of what must be whoever Shane is playing with replying before Shane hums in agreement.
He’s wearing sweatpants and a loose sweater that lifts as Shane moves around, revealing his midriff in a sinful way. It’s Ilya’s sweater, the sweater that he’s wearing. Again. Ilya would say it’s on purpose, that he’s taunting him the way he has so many times before, but he knows it’s due to the fact that Shane actually dresses like this when he’s at home. When he’s happy and relaxed and away from prying eyes.
It fucks with Ilya’s heart a little bit, the way he feels comfortable enough to do it with Ilya in his home. As if he’s not a guest. As if he’s more. As if he belongs here.
He tries not to dwell on that feeling too much. It won’t lead to any good.
He’s found himself feeling pretty comfortable as well, in Shane’s presence. Which is why he’s only wearing a T-shirt that he may or may not have stolen from Shane’s closet. It’s tight across his chest and leaves his belly button showing but Ilya doesn’t really mind it in the sweltering summer heat anyway.
He never really considers their height difference much until he’s wearing Shane’s clothes and something as simple as a T-shirt is hitting him above the navel.
Sometimes, when Shane steals a sweater, he pulls the too-long sleeves over his hands, completely wrapping his palms in the soft fabric, and Ilya marvels at the difference. It doesn’t feel like they’re that different when they’re standing next to each other or bent over a puck, face to face and ready to kick the other one’s ass. They’ve always felt like equals in everything they’ve done, in everything they are, to him.
Shane still hasn’t noticed him. Still hasn’t so much as looked away from the screen as Ilya tiptoes forward until he’s standing right beside him. Only then, when he catches sight of movement almost right in front of him, does he look away.
He looks him up and down immediately, slowly, eyes catching and lingering on his legs and the place across his chest where the t-shirt clings and wraps around his pecs. Ilya resists the urge to shiver but the goosebumps on his arms are hard to hide. He refuses to look as pleased by Shane’s eyes on him as he actually is though. He doesn’t need to inflate his ego more than he’d had that morning against the kitchen counter when he’d come quicker than normal and Shane had started teasing him about finishing too fast for once.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Shane whispers, mouth turned away from where his mic is.
“It’s afternoon,” Ilya replies, eyebrow raised.
He shouldn’t have even bothered though, Shane isn’t looking at him anymore. His eyes are back to the game already.
Ilya frowns.
The man gives a half-shrug, fingers moving fast over the buttons on his controller.
“Yes, right there!” he yells to whoever is on the other side. He jumps a little, his body following the movement of the character on the screen as if he really was it. Ilya would find it endearing if he wasn’t already annoyed.
“Still,” Shane speaks again, lower this time. “You slept for quite a bit.”
Ilya folds his arms over his chest.
“Somebody tired me out last night. And then again this morning. I haven’t been getting much sleep, too busy doing all of the work.”
Shane bites his lip and rolls his eyes, clearly trying to contain a smirk.
“Hm,” he replies easily, no denial in sight. Ilya wasn’t lying after all. He’d been spoiling Shane lately. More than usual that is. Something about the cottage just made him want to give Shane everything he had and then some.
Ilya waits for more. Waits for attention. Waits for something.
When nothing comes he sighs loudly.
He knows he’s making a scene, knows he’s being dramatic and childish and all of the things Ilya Rozanov is decidedly not, but he can’t help it. He’s bored and the only thing he wants to do is… well. Shane.
“Something wrong?” Shane asks distractedly.
He has no doubt Shane knows exactly what is wrong. He just wants to hear him say it.
Ilya would not be saying it.
“When are you finished with the game?” he asks instead.
“Dunno, this is the first one. We just started. I promised the guys I’d play at least a few rounds, do a game night,” he says.
Fuck.
Ilya did not want to wait that long.
“What about me?” he pouts.
Shane raises an eyebrow.
“What about you?”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“I’m sure you can entertain yourself for a few hours, you’re a big boy. You can always come sit and watch. It’s just for a few hours and then I’ll be all yours, I promise. Come here.”
Fine.
Two can play that game.
Before Shane can react he plops himself down on top of him, legs coming to rest on either side of Shane’s as he straddles him on the couch.
He lifts his hands up and around Shane’s neck and lets his head rest right there, in the dip where his throat meets his collarbone.
He feels Shane’s surprised oof as much as he hears it.
“Ilya,” Shane says slowly, voice low despite the mic being muted. “What are you doing?”
“Entertaining myself,” he replies easily. “You play your game and I’ll play mine.”
He lets his lips drag against freckled skin as he talks, feels the saltiness of sweat against his tongue.
Shane swallows loudly.
“I can watch, can’t I, moy lyubimyy?” he asks, lashes fluttering innocently as he looks up at Shane. “You just said I could. I’m just doing what I’m told, captain.”
Shane finally turns to look at him, game completely forgotten for a moment.
Yes, Ilya thinks. I’ve got you now.
“Of course, but—“
“This isn’t distracting, is it?”
“No, of course not. It’s gonna take a lot more than this to distract me, Ilya.“
“Good. Then go back to your game. You wanted to finish it. So finish it.”
As he says this he grinds down slowly, his crotch right against Shane’s. He can feel him hardening already, breath becoming laboured as his hands flex against Ilya’s sides.
Too easy, he thinks.
He keeps looking up at Shane, wide eyed and feigning innocence, as Shane watches him carefully. He can see his gaze darkening, his pupils dilating. Before he has a chance to do anything the faint voice comes through the headphones again.
“Shit,” Shane swears, looking away as he turns the mic back on. “No, I’m still here. Sorry, just had to deal with something.”
And then he goes back to playing games.
As if Ilya isn’t there. As if Ilya isn’t roaming his hands all over his body, fingertips dipping under the loose top and circling a nipple until it pebbles and hardens against his touch. As if he doesn’t groan at that, quickly covering it up with a cough. As if Ilya can’t feel him against his ass, can’t hear his heart beat faster, can’t see the way his chest is rising rapidly, can’t taste the tension in the air.
Fine. Time to bring out the big guns.
He starts slowly, a kiss against his jawline, behind his ear. Tiny, gentle things disguised as innocent touches that eventually become bigger and hotter and wetter as he moves further down until eventually he’s biting down at his pulse point and sucking.
Shane hisses under him, hand temporarily leaving the controller to fist in his hair and pull harshly.
Ilya swallows a moan as he pulls back, taking Shane’s hand from his hair and into his and putting it back on the controller as Shane stares at him questioningly, a slightly crazed and needy look in his eyes.
Ilya loves it when Shane’s hands are in his hair. When he pulls until he feels that delicious sting against his scalp. When he winds his fingers around his curls and messes them up. But he can’t have that right now. He has a point to prove.
“Keep playing,” he whispers before he goes right back to leaving traces of himself all over the column of Shane’s throat, along the delicate contour of his collarbones, onto the very top of his chest.
Shane is squirming by now, hips absentmindedly coming up to rub against Ilya and Ilya has to hide his smirk into Shane’s shoulder when he feels him, long and hot and hard beneath him. He pulls slowly at his earlobe, teeth gently grazing at first and then harsher as he tugs.
Shane’s face turns automatically his way, even as his eyes remain on the screen before him.
Ilya pouts, noses against the stubble on his cheek.
“Gimmie kiss?” he whispers against the tanned skin there and it’s innocent, the way he says it after all the filthy things he’s been doing. It’s quiet and soft, the purity of his demand. His plea.
Shane can’t help it. He has to kiss him.
It’s quick and lovely in its simplicity, the kiss. A bit out of place in a situation like this but Ilya finds he likes it all the more for it. They share a look for a second when they’ve pulled back and Shane gives him a small smile, something private and sweet and theirs. But before Ilya has a chance to say anything Shane’s head swivels back around, quickly turning the mic back on.
“Yeah, no sorry guys! I didn’t see them. Yeah, my bad. Okay, I’ll meet you by the old house.”
Shane’s voice is lower now, deep and raspy and it makes something warm curl in Ilya’s stomach to hear it. He’s come to relate that voice to so much good. So much pleasure. So much Shane. The fact that he’s the reason for it makes Ilya want to scream or bite or explode, maybe.
Shane coughs into the mic, clears his throat loudly.
“No, yeah. Just had something stuck in my throat. I hope I’m not coming down with anything,” he laughs awkwardly.
Whoever he’s talking to seems satisfied by this answer. Probably Hayden Pike. He’d be stupid enough to believe Shane’s terrible lie.
Eventually Ilya grows tired of what he’s doing so he creeps further down, knees hitting the floor as Shane parts his legs automatically to make space for him. This way, he can reach under the sweater that’s ridden up again, mouth replacing the fingers that had been tracing Shane’s nipples, his chest, his stomach.
If there’s one thing he loves about Shane Hollander it’s his freckles and the way they trail down his body, like a map showing Ilya where to strike for gold… Ilya loves it. Loves tracing them against the pads of his fingers, loves nosing against them, loves watching them glint, covered in his saliva. Loves letting them guide him further down, down, down until he’s reaching the hem of Shane’s sweatpants.
He looks up here, waiting to see Shane’s reaction. When his eyes trail upward Shane's eyes are already on him, hot and heavy and heady in a way only Shane can look. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, visually panting, his cheeks flushed a healthy red as he watches Ilya under hooded eyes.
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“I thought you were busy having a game night?” he says.
Shane doesn’t deign this with a response.
Instead he says:
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Ilya stares back, trying to swallow the smirk threatening to overtake his face.
“Oh?” he says.
His fingers trace along the hem of the sweatpants, dipping under the soft material from time to time. He’s being slow with his touches. Intentional.
Shane Hollander is not a very patient man when it comes to sex.
He wants to break him.
Shane swallows loudly.
“I’m just entertaining myself. Isn’t that what you wanted, moy lyubimyy?” he asks innocently, lips meeting in a fake pout.
Shane opens his mouth to say something but before he can Ilya pulls his pants down. He’s both surprised and incredibly turned on by what he finds; Shane isn’t wearing any underwear under his sweatpants.
Fuck.
“Keep playing, Hollander.” he says as Shane’s cock springs out from its confines, pretty and glistening and only a breath away from Ilya’s face.
Shane watches him.
He watches him back.
He won’t do anything unless Shane gives in or goes back to playing.
Shane goes back to playing.
Stubborn, competitive bastard.
Ilya would never admit it but he loved that about Shane. It was that thing inside them that only the other one understood. The thing that bonded them together. The thing that said alikealikealike.
It reminded Ilya of that one night, forever ago.
“Are you ever satisfied?”
“No. Are you?”
“No.”
The stubbornness, like the ambition, was so deeply ingrained in them. A nucleus part of them. Something so many people saw as an ugly trait but that they could appreciate in the other.
Shane hisses at the first touch of Ilya’s tongue against the part of him that’s most sensitive, biting his lower lip in an attempt to keep from moaning. He seems to have muted the mic again so Ilya keeps going.
He gives little kitten licks, teasing his head and circling his slit slowly over and over again. Beads of precome drip down his shaft as Ilya’s hand comes up to spread it further in an up-and-down motion, a practiced twist of his hand. He keeps teasing him, his tongue following his hand and tracing the vein on the underside of Shane’s cock until he’s right back where he started.
Shane keeps playing. He’s doing his best to keep his hands steady but Ilya can tell it isn’t working well, can see the way the controller vibrates. Can see the white Shane’s knuckles pale to from how hard he’s gripping it.
“Did you guys grab everything you need here?” he says into the mic and his voice comes out surprisingly steady. “Yeah, okay, great, let’s move to the next one.”
Ilya’s eyes narrow. If Shane’s voice can sound that steady he isn’t doing a good enough job.
Finally, he takes Shane into his mouth, sucking slowly as his cheeks hollow around Shane. He takes him as far down as he can go, breathing through his nose when Shane hits the back of his throat. He hums around him, the familiar weight comfortable against his tongue. Ilya is good at this, had never had any complaints (in fact, he’d had quite the opposite) but Shane still feels different. Better. Like magic, maybe. He didn’t know how else to describe it except that it made him weak at the knees in a way nobody has before.
“Fuck,” Shane whispers, eyes flying down to Ilya again. Ilya keeps bobbing even as a few tears start forming in his eyes because he knows Shane likes it like this. Knows Shane likes to see him on his knees, messy and ruined for Shane only in the same way he enjoys watching him lose all control when his dick is down Shane’s throat. Shane’s eyes are pits of darkness, the pupils completely swallowing up the rest and he can’t seem to look away from Ilya. He hadn’t been expecting it, Ilya can tell. Had maybe really thought Ilya wouldn’t dare to do much more than kitten licks and a handjob.
Well.
He should know better by now than to underestimate Ilya Rozanov.
He’s finally getting what he wants, he thinks. Shane’s eyes aren’t leaving him, his mouth keeps opening and closing as if he’s not sure what he wants to say. If he’s capable of saying anything at all. Ilya loveslovesloves it. Perfect, charming Shane Hollander. Beautiful, smart Shane Hollander. Shane Hollander, who has a way with words, in two different languages. Who can enchant you with just a look, just a smile. He had rendered him speechless. Ilya. It was one of the best feelings in the world. The best powertrip he’d ever had. He could get off from this alone, he thinks.
He pulls away for a second, Shane leaving his mouth with an audible pop as saliva drips down his chin and onto the floor.
“Shane,” he says.
Shane blinks, as if in a daze.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Shane,” he repeats, this time paired with another twist of his wrist. This seems to do the trick as Shane shakes the trance he was under off.
“Huh?” he says and Ilya can’t help the smirk that breaks out on his face.
“Your game night,” Ilya reminds him.
Shane blinks again and seems to finally come awake. He shakes his head once, bites his lips. He looks between Ilya at his knees and the screen in front of him, eyes darting back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match. He swallows loudly. He looks like he’s about to cry.
“Right,” he says eventually and turns towards the screen.
Ugh. Why. Would. He. Not. Give. In?!
Ilya purses his lips.
Guess he’d have to try harder.
He goes back to doing what he’d been doing before, sucking and kissing and licking his way up and down Shane’s cock. He pays special attention to the veins and his balls, places he knows are sensitive to Shane. He kneads one thigh, leaves bite marks all over the other. Watches as little moon shaped marks take shape on them. Listens carefully to Shane’s breathing getting heavier as the taptaptap on his controller gets weaker and further apart by the minute.
He’s certain Shane is barely even playing by now. He’s just too stubborn to give in.
Ilya would make him give in.
“Yeah, I got everything. I’ll follow. I’m flanking,” he says into the mic but his voice is weak. High-pitched. Ilya knows that if he just—
“Yeah, I see them. Closing in. Yeah, I’m aaah—”
If Ilya hadn’t currently had his nose buried against Shane’s skin, his cock so far down his throat he couldn't focus on anything else, he would’ve been smiling in triumph.
He had him now, he knew it.
Shane had broken off in the middle of the sentence, his already high-pitched voice breaking off into a moan so beautiful Ilya wanted to bottle it and keep it forever.
“Fuck. Yeah, no. Sorry guys, they got me. I really thought I had them, sorry. Oh, you got them? Nice. Thank you, good job, guys!”
Finally, Ilya thinks as Shane mutes his mic again.
He turns back to Ilya slowly, eyes dark with something other than just desire. Danger, Ilya thinks. Dark with danger.
“Ilya,” Shane says through a shuddering breath. Ilya stays right where he is, nosing at the smooth skin of his abdomen. He can feel the saliva dripping straight from his mouth and onto his bare feet, onto the carpet. He can feel Shane in his mouth, down his throat — warm and heavy and salty as he rests on his tongue. Ilya loves the familiarity of it. The way his body could recognise Shane, as if it were instinct. As if this was what he was made for and his body knew it. As if the two of them had been molded by a sculpture, especially made to fit together. To fit only with each other.
Compatible.
“You made me lose the game.”
Ilya watches him for another second before he slowly eases off. He would’ve stayed where he was if he could’ve but it was kind of hard to talk with a cock in his mouth.
“Do not blame me for losing. It is not my fault if you are bad at the game.”
If possible, Shane’s eyes darken even more at this. He tosses the controller somewhere to the side and presses the button for the mic again.
“Sorry guys,” he says into it, eyes trained on Ilya. Ilya resists the urge to shiver. There’s something in the way Shane is looking at him now that makes him feel exposed. Makes him feel like he is prey. He’s not used to this feeling. With the two of them it’s usually the other way around. Surprisingly, Ilya kinda likes it. A dangerous Shane Hollander is a hot Shane Hollander. Although, he’s starting to suspect there’s no version of Shane Hollander at all that Ilya wouldn’t find hot. “I’m gonna have to go, something’s come up. I’ll be back later.”
And then he’s taking off the headset too, tossing it into the pile with the controller, still looking straight at Ilya.
“You,” he says, voice low as heat blooms across Ilya's chest, slowly wandering south. “Have not been very nice today, have you?”
Ilya shrugs casually even as heat pools low in his stomach at Shane’s tone. It's hot, he thinks. Shane's assertiveness.
“I only did what you told me to. I entertained myself.”
Shane gives a chuckle, low and quiet and saturnine.
“Baby. Come on, you’re not fooling anyone. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
Ilya smirks. Shrugs again. Says nothing.
“No? Nothing to say? You almost got me in trouble, almost got both of us in trouble, and now nothing? What if they’d heard us? You’re playing a dangerous game, Ilya.”
When Ilya still says nothing Shane nods slowly. He's upset with him now, Ilya can tell.
“Did you want to get noticed? Did you want to fuck this up?”
Ilya shakes his head. He didn’t, obviously. Shane was the most important thing in his life. He’d never want to fuck that up. But there is a miniscule part of him that wants people to know, too. It's a ridiculous part, one that he squashes down whenever it makes itself known. He knows better than that. Plus, he'd never risk losing Shane like this. Putting himself in danger was one thing but not Shane. Never Shane.
“Well, then why? C’mon Ilya, you’ve got to give me something to work with here. I don’t know what’s going on but something feels off, I guess? This was too dangerous. Hot, obviously. But too much. It isn’t like you to– to risk us, like this.”
Ilya bites his lips. Looks away.
He doesn’t want to say it. Saying it aloud would make it real and making it real meant exposing parts of himself he wasn’t sure he wanted to expose. Ugly parts. Parts that might scare Shane away.
Shane sighs, a hand coming up to cup Ilya’s jaw. He turns Ilya’s head back until they’re face to face again. Motions with his head for Ilya to sit back up on the couch. Helps him stand and settle on his lap. Wipes the drool off of Ilya’s chin with the sleeve of his stolen sweater. Wipes the excess, drying tears, too.
“C’mon. Whatever it is it can’t be that bad,” he says. Ilya still refuses to meet his eyes. He’s afraid Shane might see straight through him if he does.
“Ilya?” Shane whispers and the quiet solemnity of his voice finally makes Ilya face him. He looks so soft now. The darkness in his eyes is gone, replaced by a quiet worry. Ilya hates it. Wants to clear it away. Wants to smooth out the wrinkle between his eyebrows where his frown is the most prominent.
“Sorry,” he says and he’s not sure why but suddenly he’s overcome with emotion. So overwhelmed his eyes fill with tears again. He’s not sure why. He doesn’t think he’s sad, not really. Just kind of… exposed. Which is stupid, considering the position he is currently in. Quite literally.
Shane shakes his head.
“No, no sorry. You’ve got nothing to apologise for. But I need you to talk to me.”
Ilya shakes his head, looking somewhere over Shane’s shoulder. If he’s going to do this he can’t face him, he thinks. It would be too hard that way. He’s not sure if he’d get the words out.
“I just…” he starts but he doesn’t get any farther. Shane sits there, arms around him holding him tight against his chest. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t hurry. Just sits there patiently and waits for Ilya to feel ready.
Ilya tries again.
“I don’t like being ignored,” he finally gets out. It comes out in a rush, a whisper, as if if he says it fast enough, low enough, Shane might not hear it.
Shane hears it anyway.
“Ignored?” he repeats, frown still present on his face. Ilya blinks a couple of times, feels a tear or two fall. He wishes the shirt he was wearing had long sleeves so that he could wipe them away before Shane notices but sadly, it doesn’t. And so Shane notices, makes a sound akin to a wounded animal at the back of his throat — small and hurt and tortured — and uses his own sleeves to wipe them away.
Ilya sighs.
This is not how he thought this afternoon was going to go.
“I—”
He takes a deep breath, tries again.
“The way I grew up,” he says eventually. “Being ignored was default. The people who were supposed to love me. Care for me. They only ever seemed to see me when they needed something from me. I was ignored a lot, growing up. Especially after my mother died.”
Shane opens his mouth to protest but Ilya stops him before he can.
“No, I know. I know that is not what you are doing. But sometimes… sometimes logic doesn’t matter. Sometimes that feeling will still pop up and I— I cannot do anything to stop it. So I make sure I can’t be ignored.”
He shrugs his shoulders, eyes still glued to a spot on the wall behind Shane.
Shane is quiet for a moment. For a long moment. Long enough that Ilya starts fearing he’s fucked it up. That his worst fears are coming true. He’s just about to untangle his arms from around Shane’s neck and stand up to— to do what he’s not sure. Pack up and leave, maybe? Get out of Shane’s life? That’s probably what’s for the best. That’s probably what he should’ve done, if he wasn’t so selfish. Their entire existence puts Shane in danger. He shouldn’t be here to begin with.
Before he can though, Shane’s hands on his hips tighten. He brings them up slowly, big and warm against his back, until he’s cupping the nape of Ilya’s neck, a single finger coming to rub against the high points of his cheek as he turns him until Ilya is forced to face Shane again.
“Baby,” he says, voice sombre. “Ilya. I am so sorry that I ever made you feel that way. That was not nor has it ever been my intention. Honestly, Ilya. I couldn’t ignore you if I tried — and believe me, I’ve tried — you shine too bright for that. Too prettily. You are everything, everywhere, always. Most of the time you’re on my mind even when you're in my arms and even when you’re in front of me, when you’re silently watching me, it takes everything in me not to constantly give you all of my attention. Do you know how hard I have to try, just so that I don’t scare you away?”
Ilya is speechless. Nobody’s ever talked to him like this before. Nobody’s ever been so open, so candid. Nobody’s ever told him he was everything.
He’s not sure what to do here. What to say. He just keeps staring at Shane, mouth twitching but unable to decide on if it’s going for a smile or something else.
“Ilya?” Shane says after a moment of silence, worry clear in his voice.
Ilya still says nothing.
“Fuck. That was too much, wasn’t it? I’ve scared you away, haven't I? It’s okay. Um, if you want some space I—”
“No,” he says emphatically.
Shane blinks up at him, a hesitant smile blooming on his face.
“No?” he asks.
“No,” Ilya repeats, shaking his head. “You didn’t. Scare me away, I mean. I just. I don’t—”
He sighs in frustration, fed up with his own lack of ability to articulate his thoughts. Shane Hollander has rendered him speechless.
“Fuck. Just. Um. Can we have sex now? I really want to have sex now.”
Shane gives an incredulous laugh, the breath punching out of him as he looks at Ilya, wonder clear in his eyes.
“Yes, baby. We can have sex now,” he says.
Shane’s mouth finally decides to stretch upward into a smile. He gives a little sniffle as he laughs, wiping the remnants of tears from his face.
“And you won’t go back to playing afterwards?” he checks.
Shane shakes his head.
“I’ll tell them something came up. Honestly, I was just doing these game nights to give you a bit of a break. We’ve been cooped up here, alone, for days. I didn’t want you to get sick of me.”
Ilya shakes his head, leaning forward until his lips are but a breath away from Shane’s.
“Impossible,” he murmurs against them.
Shane doesn’t reply. Just kisses him back.
Short and sweet and lovely.
Until it isn’t.
He doesn’t break his promise.