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Shane walked out of the room, heading for the front door. He needed to leave, needed to get out. What the fuck was that? Rozanov had called him Shane. And Shane had called him Ilya.
He was almost at the front door before his brain caught up to his body. He was still wearing Rozanov's sweatpants, still had his soiled shirt balled up in his fist. He needed to go and get his clothes, which were in Rozanov's bedroom at the back of the house. He'd have to walk through the living room, where Rozanov was to get them.
He stopped, in Rozanov’s spacious and bright entry hall, torn between simply leaving, or retrieving his clothes and potentially running into Rozanov. But he knew Hayden would notice if he showed up in different clothes and ask him about it. He had to go back.
He turned around, already dreading what Ilya - no, Rozanov - might say. He'd probably mock him. He knew he'd lied about the team meeting. But what if he didn’t? What if he asked him to stay again?
But what the fuck? They didn't do this. Shane remembered sitting in the back stairwell at his home in Montreal, watching Ilya pull his shoes on as they waited for his cab. He remembered Ilya’s soft smile and gentle kiss. That had felt like they had something, too. But Rozanov made it very clear they didn't. Six months of silence had made it clear that this thing was just sex.
Shane determinedly didn't look over at the couch as he walked past the living room. His shoulders were tense in anticipation of whatever barb he was sure Rozanov would throw at him.
It didn't come. Shane could feel Rozanov watching him, but he didn't turn to look at him.
In the bedroom, Shane's clothes were in a pile, and he wished he'd folded them instead of just shucking them in a rush. Now they were wrinkled. He dressed quickly, trying not to remember Rozanov's hands on him, helping him pull his clothes off.
He needed to get out of here.
Shane walked back through the living room. Rozanov was still sitting on the couch, right where Shane had left him. He was staring at the ceiling, but otherwise hadn't moved. Shane felt an overwhelming urge to go to him and hold him. Sink back into the couch and pretend none of this had happened. They could spend the evening together. Wake up together. Be together, just for a little while.
Shane's feet kept moving, and then he was at the front door. It was too late for that. Rozanov had closed that door years ago. He couldn't just change his mind now.
Shane closed the door behind himself, and it felt like the end of everything.