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    Summary

    Shane gave up on the shirt, pulling it off his head and gripping it in both hands, squeezing the cotton like a stress ball. “I, I can’t,” he said, looking in Ilya’s general direction, gaze pointed at the floor where Ilya feet were. “I’m sorry,” he gasped out, choking on a breath. “I can’t—"

    “Hollander,” Ilya interrupted, calmly, disrupting Shane’s spiral. “Go in bathroom and put cold water on neck. Sit and relax. I will stay here.”

    Shane’s eyes darted up, looking momentarily at Ilya’s face, like he was deciding whether to outright flee. He backed up, turned to walk briskly down the hallway. Ilya feared briefly that this was it, that Shane was leaving and this might be the end of it all. He swallowed, a lump in his throat rising up suddenly.

    ~

    OR, A take on how the tuna melt scene could have gone if Shane worked through his panic at Ilya's instead of leaving.

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