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Summary
It’s that simple gesture, that offhanded comment, the implication that they will not, in fact, be meeting at Shane’s weird murder building tonight, that sends Ilya unraveling as he leaves the office. Because of course this is just sex for Shane. You do not invite your fuckbuddy over to take care of you. The privilege of sleeping next to someone, of grabbing ice for their bruises, of making food when they’re too tired to stand, that all falls into the hands of a lover. A real lover. Not the rival you fuck because who else could you trust to keep quiet.
OR: Ilya accidentally hits Shane too hard on the ice, and the following chain of events leaves him hollow and uncertain and wishing things could be different.