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    Summary

    For a moment, Shane feels as if he is wrapped in warmth, soft and silken. It muffles his thoughts, blurs his vision, heavies his limbs. The only points of his body he feels a sort of dim awareness of are those where he can feel Rozanov’s touch against him: All of those small points of contact – a hand cradling his cheek, the other pressed against his waist, his chest against Rozanov’s, the tips of their shoes nudging and their breath mingling. With every inhale, there’s a brush of sea salt and pine against his nose, and Shane feels himself sinking further and further down into it.
    Rozanov’s voice is still muddled when he registers it again.
    “Hollander?” he asks, sounding so genuinely concerned that Shane leans further into him, a puffed exhale from between his lips brushing over Rozanov’s shoulder.
    “We didn’t even kiss,” he says then, out loud, finally, because the proximity and dizzying cotton have cloyed his brain.

    OR: Shane sends that text after leaving Rozanov’s hotel room in Vegas.

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