rightintothatstainedglass



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    Shane doesn't know how long they sit there in silence.

    He isn't counting seconds or minutes as the time passes by, quiet and heavy in the dim light of the hotel room. Instead, he counts Ilya's breaths—the ones that tremble and shake against the skin of Shane's neck, the ones that are buried in the fabric of Shane's shirt, the ones that become steadier the longer that Shane holds him as tight as he can.

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    15 Mar 2026