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    Summary

    Shane grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer next to him and dipped it into the sauce, turning to face Ilya with his hand cupped underneath it to catch the drips. As he moved around the island, Ilya’s pulse picked up again and his brain smashed together a montage of nights like this from some imagined future. Shane cooking for him in their kitchen, offering his creation up for Ilya’s judgement. Maybe there would be a nice playlist on. Maybe the pasta would be actual pasta, not chickpea. Maybe they’d be cooking for more than just the two of them. Christ.

    Balancing on the cusp of a something new, Ilya boards a flight to Shane's cottage for two weeks.

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