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    Summary

    Shane shifts on their bed as he types out, You have a game on Tuesday. You need to sleep.

    Ilya: so help me

    Shane groans. He can picture Ilya’s knowing little smirk, his chiseled face awash in his phone’s glow. As far as Shane knows, the buses don’t have beds, so Ilya’s sitting in a seat. Surrounded by their teammates.

    You might get caught, Shane argues feebly.

    like i give a fuck? comes the inevitable reply. i havent kissed you in a week. i am dying hollander ok. dying. can you live with that? knowing i died because you did not want to sext your husband?

    Beside himself, Shane smiles while he types. Yes.

    Or: Shane is sick and Ilya misses him. It goes about how you'd expect.

    Language:
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