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Summary
“Did I do something wrong?” Shane asks, his voice cracking on the last word. He detests being vulnerable and asking for reassurance, even from people he’s comfortable with. And he would probably describe this situation as literally anything but comfortable.
He bites his lip and hopes the blood he draws will distract him from the stinging in his eyes.
“No, Hollander,” Rozanov answers. “It was not you.”
“Okay, well, if it’s not me, will you at least look at me?” Shane snaps. “You don’t kiss me all night, except for that one time in that disgusting fucking bathroom, you don’t want to talk to me in bed, and now you won’t even look at me anymore. How am I supposed to think that that’s not about me? Do I really mean that fucking little to you?”
Or: What if Shane actually sends the text in Vegas?