Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Hayden Pike, Harris Drover, Rose Landry, Wyatt Hayes, Luca Haas

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Office, Slow Burn, based very loosely on the devil wears prada, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Boss/Employee Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Ilya Editor in Chief, Happy Ending, Shane is an assistant but wants to be a writer, Light Angst, Ilya says not safe for work is okay, office gossip, Jealousy, Semi-Public Sex, Pining Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-13 Completed: 2026-03-08 Words: 70,859 Chapters: 5/5

call it fate, call it karma

Summary

Shane Hollander is ready to climb the publishing ladder and land the job that could completely change his life—even if it means working for the despotic and insufferable Ilya Rozanov.

Chapter 1: The publishing world and the fashion world are two corners of the same hell

Ilya Rozanov is a son of a bitch.

There's no other way to describe him. In the three months he's been working at the Centaurs, Shane has tried to find a positive trait in the man who is unfortunately his boss, but he's been utterly unsuccessful.

Ilya Rozanov has no redeemable qualities.

“We have an important photoshoot tomorrow,” says the voice that now haunts every aspect of his life. Shane subtly quickens his pace to catch up with the man before he reaches the elevator. “And I don’t trust Nick’s ability to get good footage. Buy at least three cameras that are 16 times larger than FHD, with 33MP resolution and 8K recording. The meeting with the executive from that website I told you about has been moved to Friday at 10 a.m. Call Hayden and ask for a list with the phone number of every creative director in charge of this week’s best-selling magazines. I want everything ready this afternoon.”

Shane jots down the instruction without pausing, ignoring the stares of those around him. A quick glance at his watch confirms it's almost 1 p.m. His boss usually have lunch until 4 p.m., which means his instruction must be completed before he returns.

After a few weeks, Shane has learned that when Rozanov says he wants something that same day, it means he's running late.

Ilya Rozanov is, genuinely, a son of a bitch.

Shane stops as the elevator doors open and the man walks past him without touching him. Rozanov is wearing a tight black shirt and trousers that drape gracefully from his hips, complemented by his elitist expression and curly dark blond hair.

Without bothering to look up to check that his words have been heard, Rozanov presses the elevator button and the doors close in front of his nose with a delicate whoosh.

Fucking asshole. 

Shane doesn't consider himself a dramatic person. He's focused, professional, and efficient. He knows how to manage his time without wasting it, and in his twenty-nine years being alive, he's never complained about hard work. That's life, that's the publishing world. Shane understood this when he started studying journalism, and he understands it now that he does this job, but—

Shit.

If anyone can ruin his professional career, it's Ilya fucking Rozanov.

"Bad day?"

A voice, much more pleasant and less cutting, echoes beside him. Shane doesn't notice his closed eyes until he opens them, and Svetlana's mocking smile appears next to him.

"Can it be a bad day if every day is the same?"

The woman laughs.

"Yeah, work sucks for everyone."

Svetlana Vetrova is in charge of the Finance Department. She's a ruthless woman, indifferent to the pain of others, with an obsessive spirit that, according to Hayden, has tripled the magazine's profits in just two years. She and Shane interact due to their inevitable proximity to their boss, but Svetlana seems to handle the relationship with more willingness and much more grace than he does.

"I hope Ilya isn't giving you a hard time. I imagine you two are getting along well." Svetlana's sardonic tone doesn't hide her amusement, but her eyes seem genuine. 

Shane grips the notebook between his fingers more tightly than necessary.

"What makes you think that?"

Svetlana laughs lightly and steps into the elevator as the doors open. Behind her, a woman follows silently, a folder under her arm and a sharp gaze in her eyes, the same that seems to be shared by all the subordinates in the building. Shane has spoken to the woman—Elena, maybe?—a couple of times in the hallway and at the copy room, but Svetlana's assistant is more tactful than to make her presence known.

It's an absurd job. Shane finds it hard to believe he does it willingly, and even harder to believe he's still here.

As if Svetlana had read his thoughts, she presses the button to go down and says,

"You're still here, aren't you? That's more than his former assistants can say."

Again, the doors close before Shane can reply.

Shit.

He needs to get some fresh air, preferably on top of a fucking mountain. Shane takes a deep breath, swallows his frustration, and returns to his workstation.

The Centaurs is located in a downtown building. While it's an alternative fashion magazine, it occupies a prominent and distinctive position in the publishing industry. The space is pristine, with glass walls and a gleaming floor that reflects the spirit of the most controversial magazine in the business. It buzzes daily with dedicated and hardworking employees, and now Shane has the privilege of being one of them.

At least, that's what they constantly tell him.

Shane's desk is located on the north side of the building, directly connected to his boss's office; this, with its heavy glass doors, presents an organized, clean, and impersonal space. Nothing within it reveals a hint of personality, reinforcing the theory that his boss is a despicable automaton.

Shane vividly remembers his first day at Centaurs. He had quit a sports magazine where his colleagues were disinterested, irresponsible, and incompetent editors who didn't bother to write quality articles or produce quality entertainment. When Shane read in the newspaper that the renowned Scott Hunter, editor-in-chief of Centaurs, was looking for an assistant, Shane convinced himself it was the perfect opportunity. He would work with the man for a couple of months to learn everything he could, and then, with that experience on his résumé, he could apply to a leading and committed sports magazine.

At that moment, it didn't matter that it was a fashion magazine. How hard could it be to feign interest in a topic that didn't appeal to him?

How naive he had been.

“It’s hard work, no doubt about it,” Marlow from Human Resources had told him during the interview. “The days are long, and there won’t be any writing involved. As an assistant, you’ll be responsible for his needs and fulfilling them. Answering calls, running errands, bringing coffee. You name it. Millions would kill for this job. You’ll be working with Ilya Rozanov, who’s a total jerk, but that’s beside the point. This will open a lot of doors for you.”

Shane sighs, recalling Marlow's words. In retrospect, it's clear why the ad had used Scott Hunter's name to search for an assistant. Before Shane got the job, nine assistants had defied the universe by agreeing to work for Ilya Rozanov, and every single one of them had been defeated.

But not Shane.

He needs the job, he needs the experience, and no man with a despotic king complex is going to take that opportunity away from him.

If Ilya Rozanov is a son of a bitch, then Shane Hollander is a very stubborn guy.

“I got your message. What does Ilya want the cover editors' numbers for?” 

Shane looks up at Hayden, who's holding two coffees.

“Oh, he explained it to me while he was braiding my hair,” Shane grumbles, acknowledging the hot drinks with a slight nod. “He also wants fucking cameras that he could get from Nick, but no.”

“Do you think he's trying to replace me?”

Part of his sanity at Centaurs is thanks to Hayden, who during the first few weeks offered to give him a tour of the facilities, explained the office dynamics, and introduced him to his other colleagues with whom he shares the torture of being Rozanov's employees. He's only been here a few months longer than him, but Hayden handles himself with enviable familiarity.

Shane supposes that's a consequence of having a good boss like Rose Landry in the Graphic Editing section.

Fuck my life.

“Not his decision. If Rose wanted to fire you, she would,” Shane replies, taking a sip of coffee. “She’s a good woman. Rozanov, on the other hand…”

“Hmm. I don’t know, Shane,” Hayden says with a sigh. “You’re still here, right?”

His colleague's words echo Svetlana's. Shane doesn't think it's about kindness, but rather convenience. In any case, he's not in the mood to argue, and the clock is ticking. Shane frowns.

"Do you have the list? If I want to be on time, I need to head out for those cameras now."

"Yep, I already emailed you the creative directors' phone numbers." 

Shane likes Hayden. He's a man his own age, reliable, hardworking, and dedicated,so they have more in common than Shane would like. He's used to working alone, but everything is different in the hostile environment of the publishing world.

In the adverse environment Rozanov creates, he needs all the help he can get.

"I'll buy you a thank-you drink," Shane says, quickly putting on his jacket and heading for the exit. "Let's go out today if I make it through the day alive!"

Rozanov's tasks always seem simple, but in practice, it's never just one request. While he's getting the cameras, Shane receives separate calls from his boss requesting dresses and shirts of specific labels, two plane tickets for next week, and a reservation at the most expensive hotel possible. Between that and avoiding the dark clouds that threaten a downpour, Shane finds himself running all over town.

Honestly, Shane doesn't know which god he's angered to end up in this position. He doesn't necessarily believe in a deity, but surely one must be messing with him by giving him this job. His dream is to work in a quiet office, write sports articles for a living, and play hockey with his dad on the weekends.

Now, Shanes finds himself sweaty, panting, and soaked from the rain, running toward Rozanov's office to avoid his disdainful expression when he realizes he's three minutes late.

Shane enters the magazine building and walks straight to his office, head held high, trying to muster what little pride he has left. He takes off his damp jacket, attempts to fix his hair, and strides purposefully toward Rozanov's office.

Of course, the man is already seated behind his desk.

Shane remembers perfectly the first time he saw Ilya Rozanov. As soon as the HR interview was over, Marlow showed him the place. Shane was so overwhelmed with getting the job that, when he arrived at his new boss's office, he didn't notice anything but the man standing before him.

Shane had never seen anyone so impressive.

Ilya Rozanov was big. The muscles in his arms, his broad shoulders, and his slim waist struck him as he stood to greet him. Shane made sure to keep his mouth tightly closed, but he knew his eyes betrayed his surprise. For such an important position, the man didn't look like the Editor-in-Chief. He wore a see-through shirt that revealed a muscular torso, tight leather pants, and his hair was slicked back. He looked like a model or an actor.

He was attractive. He radiated something magnetic, powerful, and sexual.

Shane is mature enough to admit that Rozanov is the most attractive man he's ever seen. Well, if you're into that type of man. Big, muscular, and—

"Why are you wet?" 

Rozanov's rough accent abruptly pulls Shane from his reverie. In his memory, the office was bright and new. Now, it’s darkened by the black clouds outside and reeks of his boss's nauseating cologne. 

Shane takes a deep breath and observes Rozanov. His initial impression has become increasingly nonexistent thanks to the man's personality, which is detestable, horrendous, and reprehensible. Now, Shane can't feel even a hint of attraction toward the specimen before him.

Unlike Shane, Rozanov is perfectly dry and wears an expression of indifference. His eyes, fixed on the computer screen, don't bother to linger on him.

“I apologize for the delay, sir. I had to run in the rain to get the dresses you asked for because…”

“The details of your incompetence don’t interest me,” the man interrupts. “Did you get all the dresses?”

Ilya Rozanov is many things. Insufferable is second on the list. Shane grits his teeth, suppressing a curse.

“No, because one of them was…”

“Fine, I don’t want them anymore anyway. I asked Troy to edit the last photoshoot, so gather the results and give them to Rose. I need her new cover by tonight.”

Shane counts to five before opening his mouth. He's not familiar with the bubbling in the center of his chest, but he's learned to recognize it as the searing anger that engulfs him when people are rude and don't listen to him. Shane could defuse the situation by calling him an asshole, but this is the real working world. Here, he has to put up with jerks like Ilya Rozanov who think they own all the places. Shane can't insult him even if he deserves it.

Not when his plan is to outlast any of his former assistants and eventually earn a recommendation letter that will land him a better job.

"Sir, it seems to me..."

"That's all."

As always, Rozanov's tone leaves no room for argument. He remains glued to his computer, completely still, as if Shane's presence were nothing more than an annoying breeze.

Shane bites back the torrent of insults rising in his throat and nods once. Then, he leaves the office and doesn't stop walking until he's far enough away from the man.

Ilya Rozanov is a son of a bitch.

“We could… sabotage him. He could do a bad issue and get him fired.”

Haydn's words slid lazily down his tongue, revealing his state of drunkenness. Shane isn't in any better shape, but he still has a couple of hours before he feels dizzy and wants to vomit. He can still hear his boss's voice giving him instructions, so he needs to drink more. Enough to erase Rozanov's fucking face from his memory. 

Shane doesn't usually drink, but these past few months have been rough. 

If that awful man ends up turning him into an alcoholic, Shane might be able to sue him.

"We could..." Hayden continues, but the thought drifts away and is replaced by the dreamy look Shane knows too well. "Do you think Jackie would notice me if I kicked Ilya out of the presidency?"

"I think," Shane sighs, taking a long swig of beer, "that you're a coward. Go up to her and talk to her. You work at the same place, and she smiles at you every time you see each other across the cafeteria. It's practically a marriage proposal, isn't it?"

At least someone smiles at him, Shane thinks bitterly. He imagines Rozanov's face forming something resembling a smile, but it looks more like a sneer of superiority.

Ugh.

Hayden nods as if he's just heard a universal truth.

"Fuck. I do want to marry her." His friend's voice is barely audible over the bar's music, but they're close enough to understand each other. "I deserve to be happy. We deserve to be happy."

Shane makes a vague sound of approval. Like any other Thursday, the bar is packed with young people and other adults trying to escape the torture of the working world. Among them, Shane can freely drink away his troubles as if they won't resurface as soon as the sun rises.

“I mean it, Shane,” Hayden exclaims, raising his glass in celebration. “We deserve to be happy. I’m so glad you joined the Centaurs. We all are. Even Ilya.”

At the mention of his enemy, Shane snarls. Asshole. He hates him. He hates his clothes, his voice, the way he never looks at him or lets him finish his sentences. Because Shane has learned that Rozanov doesn’t necessarily do that with the others, only with him. He’s a despicable person.

“I’m being honest!” Hayden says, patting his back awkwardly. “If you think he’s bad now, you should have met him before you arrived.”

“No, thanks.”

“He was terrifying. Well, I still think he’s terrifying. But before you showed up, after he took Scott Hunter’s place, he had a creepy look about him. Ilya would yell at his assistants, skip team meetings, and argue with Svetlana all the time. Now he seems… calm. Happy, even.”

Rozanov has never yelled at him, but Shane doubts that's a sign of being a good person. He still ignores him most of the time, doesn't look him in the face, and doesn't share space with him for more than five minutes. Does he think Shane isn't worthy of his presence? Probably.

"How lucky I am," Shane replies sarcastically. "I'm dancing in joy."

"Maybe you should be. My wedding to Jackie is coming up soon, and you need to be ready." 

Hayden raises his glass and clinks it against Shane's.

Shane is grateful for his colleague's company. Who else is he going to get drunk with on a Thursday night? Everyone else he knows has a normal life. He doesn't have any other friends, his parents are already worried about the unusual times he texts, and Jessica is tired of hearing complaints about his boss. 

Fuck everything. 

Shane quickly drinks the rest of his glass and stands up. He needs another beer and a new topic of conversation, not necessarily in that order. It's nine at night, and Hayden's eyes seem to be closing against his will, so he needs to hurry. Shane is pathetic enough to endure the humiliations of a job that will take him to the top, but not enough to get drunk alone on a Thursday night.

“I’ll go get another drink,” he tells his friend, who nods listlessly. “Don’t fall asleep.”

After the dress fiasco, Shane spent the afternoon arranging Rozanov’s schedule for the coming week. Training, meetings, fieldwork, supervising photo shoots. It’s not exactly an exciting life for someone as successful as his boss, but Shane isn’t there to judge. 

He does, though, in the privacy of his own mind. After cursing him repeatedly, of course. Shane greatly values his imagination.

When Hayden showed up at his office around seven in the evening to collect on his promise of a free drink, Shane forced himself to tear himself away from his computer and say goodbye to his heartless boss. Of course, Rozanov acknowledged his words with a grunt and without looking at him, which only fueled his desire to get drunk.

Damn the day he decided to take that lousy job.

Hayden is snoring softly across the table when Shane returns from the bar with a fresh glass of beer. He's about to wake him with a tap on the head, but his phone vibrates in his pocket, catching his attention.

Maybe it's Jessica. Yes, Shane isn't trying to pretend to be straight anymore, but he's known her for years, and he doesn't have any other friends he can get together with to rant about the miseries of his current life. Perhaps Shane needs to meet new people, but he is always running out of energy these days. Planning a script every time he goes out to socialize isn't much fun.

Without looking at the name on the screen, Shane answers the call.

"Jessica?"

"I need you to come to the office."

Ah, that voice. That despicable, domineering voice. Shane closes his eyes and counts to ten, listening to Rozanov's light breathing on the other end of the line. It's irritating that the bar's music is so loud the numbers are jumbled in his head, but his boss's voice sounds as clear as if he were right next to him.

Life is so, so unfair.

"Sir, my work schedule—"

"Rose's cover is ready. I need it now." Rozanov's voice sounds almost bored, indifferent. It's so easy to imagine him standing in front of him, with muscular, defined shoulders, his gaze fixed on anything but Shane. "She said you could go to the office to get it. That way, you can send it to—"

"No."

The word slips off his tongue before he can stop it. Shane feels the usual bubbling of anger in the center of his chest, which subsides slightly when the silence on the other end of the line becomes terrifying. 

Still, Shane doesn't open his mouth to contradict himself. He's drunk and tired, so why can't he just run away from his boss without being interrupted by a call? 

Shane can afford to be a son of a bitch, too. He is, after all. Well, not really, but his mother has always encouraged him to speak his mind and stand up to assholes without considering the consequences. His father is usually the counterweight to that advice, but they both support the idea that Shane should be bolder than he is.

Perhaps it's time Rozanov learns his true identity, the one Shane secretly hides beneath false words of kindness and proactivity. Shane doesn't usually put up with crap, and maybe it's time his boss found out. Perhaps then he'd at least look at him for a second.

"Hollander, are you drunk?"

It's the alcohol. There's no other explanation. Shane's going to rehab tomorrow because Rozanov's halting tone can't possibly sound worried. He suddenly realizes, horrified, that the four beers are catching up with him because he's talking to his boss, of all people.

Shit.

His boss, whom he's interrupted to deny his order.

Shit, shit, shit.

Shane hangs up before the man can speak to him again. What the hell is he thinking? He can't talk like that to the Editor-in-Chief of one of the most popular magazines in the country. He can't talk like that to the person who's supposed to write him a recommendation letter in a few months.

He's so, so screwed.

"Hayden!" Shane gasps, punching his colleague in the shoulder without thinking. The man jumps comically, something that might have been funny in another situation, probably not when his head is in a direct line of sight to being severed. "I gotta go. I think I just lost my job."

"Huh?"

Without giving him time to explain, Shane drags Hayden toward the exit, puts him in a taxi, and gives him enough money for the ride home. Then, he gets into the next vehicle and orders it to speed off to Centaurs magazine.

He's definitely lost his mind. Shane never gives in to pressure and has a high tolerance for other people's stupidity and the randomness of life. He doesn't make rash decisions; every action in his life is the result of deep and meticulous consideration.

Perhaps Rozanov has finally pushed him over the edge.

The alcohol seems to have evaporated from his blood, and his mind, once teeming with insults, is now completely silent except for the looping voice of his boss, repeating his last name over and over. 

As he rides the elevator up to Rose Landry's office, Shane thinks about how to avoid being fired. He'd get the cover and send it to Rozanov's house, pretending everything is normal. He wouldn't reveal how drunk he is, and most importantly, he wouldn't mention his subversive behavior on the phone. Shane knows the man isn't going to ask him about it because his boss's not at all interested in what comes out of his mouth. 

And it's not like Shane wants his attention, of course not. Rozanov can go to hell and never come back, but unfortunately, he's right there in front of him most days. Shane is a human being; he at least deserves to be noticed. At least once. 

Rose Landry's office is different from the others in the building. It has a long table, like the one in the boardroom, but this is covered in papers, photographs, and other items Shane doesn't recognize. Hayden explained that it's a shared office, since everyone who works in the Graphic Design Department shares the space to let 'creativity flow'.

"Oh, Shane! I'm glad you're here. I was expecting you."

Rose is leaning across the table, but as soon as Shane enters the office, she looks up to greet him with a smile.

Ah, life would be so easy if Rose were his boss.

"Good evening, I understand this is about a cover," Shane says awkwardly, entering the space when the woman invites him in.

“It’s always about a cover,” Rise laughs. “No need to be so formal. Sit down, I’ll be done in a moment. Would you like a glass of water, coffee, or tea?”

When Shane declines her offer, she smiles at him and refocuses on the image in front of her.

Rose is a good person. Nice, compassionate, and easygoing. Shane has spoken with her a few times when he has to run errands or deliver messages for his boss like a fucking carrier pigeon, but Rose has always been kind. She looks him in the eye and speaks to him familiarly, as if they were friends and not coworkers.

She’s also attractive, Shane supposes. Hayden has complimented her elegance a few times, and Svetlana has mentioned her beautiful eyes, but Shane doesn’t find it particularly remarkable. Everyone at the Centaurs follows beauty standards, especially Rozanov.

It’s the norm for being an employee of a fucking fashion magazine, apparently.

“I imagine you were at home, sorry to interrupt,” Rose says, drawing his attention. “It took me a while to edit the cover because I needed the perfect photograph, and while the model is beautiful, the typography wasn’t cooperating. What do you think?” 

Shane has no idea about the aesthetics of a magazine cover. The woman is pretty and half-naked, so that should be enough in today’s market. What he does know is that Rozanov is a damn perfectionist, so he understands the woman’s need for it to look flawless. 

Not wanting to disappoint Rose’s kind smile, Shane nods.

“It looks, um, good. And don’t worry. I wasn’t home, I was at a bar with Hayden.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Shane feels his cheeks burn. Oh, shit. Now that his nervousness has subsided, the alcohol is once again suppressing his inhibitions.

Rose doesn't seem bothered, because she's smiling broadly.

"Hayden's a great guy, isn't he? Sorry I interrupted your outing, then."

"It wasn't you, it was Rozanov."

Shit. Shane straightens up uncomfortably. He avoids mentioning his boss in conversations, first, because he seems to spit out his last name in anger. Second, because he calls him Rozanov when everyone else calls him by his first name, in a futile attempt to distance himself from him.

"Even so, I'm sorry," Rose says, still smiling. "I know Ilya can be...demanding. But I've heard you two get along well, right? You're still here."

Unable to stop himself, Shane buries his face in his hands and groans in frustration.

Why is everyone so obsessed with this? Yes, he's still Rozanov's assistant after three months, but that doesn't mean they get along. Shane hates him half the time, and the other half he wants to kick him in every soft spot. He probably doesn't have many; Rozanov has more brawn than brains.

“We don’t get along,” Shane mutters irritably. “He’s a son of a bitch.”

Again, it seems his mouth has a mind of its own. Shane’s eyes widen in embarrassment at the sound of his own voice, but Rose laughs.

“Well, he’s your boss. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Hayden probably says the same thing about me.”

“Of course not,” Shane quickly clarifies, shaking his head so violently he feels dizzy. “Hayden just talks about how amazing it is to work with you. You’re a good woman. Kind and caring. Charming.”

He’s definitely very drunk. Tomorrow, the first thing Shane is going to do when he opens his eyes is write a resignation letter. He can never show his face in the office again.

“Charming?” Rose repeats, her expression amused. Shane hasn’t noticed, but at some point, they’ve gotten close enough to breathe the same air. He can see the details of her face, the ghostly blush on her cheek, the glint of her teeth. “So, if Ilya is such a bad boss, you could transfer to another department. I’ve heard you do a good job, and I could use an efficient assistant.”

Transfer departments? Shane frowns at the thought. He’d still be working at the same prestigious magazine, but this time under a decent person. 

He imagines Rozanov, alone, running through the city looking for his own dresses. Damp from the rain, his shirt clinging to his muscles, wearing the same angry expression he always wears when he talks to Svetlana about things Shane can’t quite understand. 

It’s a pathetic vision, which gives him great satisfaction. Rozanov deserved every tragic event that befell him, but perhaps Shane wants to be around to see him get what he deserves.

“Well, I—” Shane’s words are cut off by a loud noise that makes him jump away from Rose.

When he turns his head to find the source of the sound, he finds his boss standing in the doorway, eyes wide.

No matter how many times it happens, Shane is always surprised to see Rozanov. Why on earth does he dress like a model? He wears a perfectly pressed suit, pristine under the office’s bright white lights. His blond hair falls delicately to one side of his face, and his wide, clear eyes seem surprised.

He looks so… harmless that Shane is overcome with the urge to punch him.

“Hey, Ilya,” Rose greets. “Did you decide to come in person for the cover? You could have saved Shane the trouble.”

Rose’s voice sounds amused to Shane, but it’s clear his boss disagrees. Rozanov has a dark expression and a twisted grimace, seemingly angry. His eyes are fixed on Rose, ignoring Shane, as always.

Damn bastard. He’s not going to sit idly by while his bosses ignore him, not when he’s still feeling a little tipsy, and certainly not when he’s already been fired. Or when he’ll quit tomorrow.

"Good night, both of you." Shane waves goodbye, trying not to get dizzy, and without looking at Rozanov, who's still standing in the doorway, leaves Rose's office and heads for the elevator. 

Shane needs to call Hayden and make sure he got home safely. Also, maybe he can call Jessica to complain one last time.

When the elevator doors open and Shane steps inside, it takes him a few seconds to realize Rozanov has followed him. He's definitely drunker than he thinks; Shane didn’t even hear his footsteps. The man stands next to him and, without a word, presses the button, and the doors close.

Oh, no.

Shane catches his breath when he notices the cramped space they share. His shoulder lightly brushes against Rozanov's, and when it does, the scent of his cologne fills the elevator. Shane has grown accustomed to the light, trailing fragrance that follows his boss everywhere. It's a blend of sandalwood and tobacco, distinct but comforting.

He's definitely going crazy.

“Sir,” Shane begins, pressured by the suffocating silence between them. His voice sounds strange in his own ears, as if he were underwater. “I came to get the cover for—”

“Are you drunk?”

As always, the bastard interrupts him. Perfect. Shane grits his teeth and turns to face him, the burning flame of frustration flooding his chest. To no one’s surprise, Rozanov’s gaze is fixed on the floor.

He’s had enough. He can’t take it anymore. This is his limit. Shane can endure many things, situations, or people, but he’s only a man. Ilya Rozanov has exhausted his patience and tolerance.

So what if Shane never becomes a famous writer? He can survive without being a sports journalist. Shane has had other frustrations in his life and survived. His parents would probably accept it, maybe criticize him for his lack of perseverance, but no more than he would criticize himself.

Anything is better than continuing to pretend to be a quiet, polite, and submissive person in front of the biggest idiot he's ever met.

"Shut up," Shane says through gritted teeth, clenching his fists. "I want you to shut up, close your mouth, and not open it again until it's your fucking turn to speak. You're unbearable. Who do you think you are to interrupt me every time I speak? The next time you don't let me finish a sentence, I'm going to shove my foot up your ass so far you'll reach fucking China."

For the first time since Shane started working at Centaurs magazine, Rozanov's eyes are fixed on him. Wide open, watching his every move. Shane notices that they aren't just clear, but tinged with a faint hazel hue. He can also see a slight reddening around his pupils, as if he's spent several sleepless nights.

Now that he's opened his mouth, Shane feels an indescribable pleasure. He's never been good at channeling his anger, so the last three months have been hell. He's eternally grateful for the alcohol in his blood and the arsenal of insults he inherited from his mother, which seem eager to be unleashed.

His drunken brain perceives Rozanov's silence as an invitation, so Shane opens his mouth again without shame. If he's going to be fired, he'll take this opportunity to get his revenge.

"You're intolerable, idiot, and ridiculous. Do you know that everyone in the office is surprised I still work for you? That's because you're a despotic, insufferable tyrant who thinks we should all kiss your ass. Well, I don't. I'm not interested in you at all. Do you think that just because you have money and are attractive you can walk all over everyone?"

At some point, Shane raises his hand and begins poking Rozanov's chest with his index finger. The fact that it's incredibly hard only increases his anger.

"I hate you. I hate your fucking hair, your stupid see-through clothes, your voice and your vain accent, and the fact that you never deign to look at me. If you think you're better than me because of your status, you asshole, you're wrong. I'm better than you because I work hard, I fulfill all your fucking requests, and I outperform everyone else. I'm an amazing writer, an excellent fucking athlete, and a better person than you'll ever be. Fuck off."

As a reward for torturing him daily, the elevator doors open the exact moment Shane finishes speaking. Without waiting for Rozanov's reaction, he leaves the building without looking back.

He feels more relaxed than he has in the last three months. Shane takes a deep breath and welcomes the cool air on his face. He's finally done it; he never thought he'd manage to confront Rozanov and live to tell the tale, but here he is. Technically, it wasn't a confrontation because the man hadn't uttered a word, but Shane doesn't care.

As he walks home, Shane smiles, thinking that tonight he'll sleep peacefully, soundly. Tomorrow he'll look for a better job. Even if that means never seeing or thinking about Rozanov again, no matter how much his drunken brain protests the idea.

Bah, screw them all.

Finally, Shane is a free and happy man.

He can't wait to call Jessica and tell her how he shut that jerk Rozanov up.

When Shane finally opens his eyes, he senses it must be around noon. The light, bright and relentless, streams through the curtains, illuminating his small room. As soon as he tries to move, the hangover hammers mercilessly in his head.

Fuck.

It's been years since he's been this drunk.

Shane can't remember how he got into bed, but he's still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. The cold, empty space beside him indicates that at least he didn't call Jessica. Good for him.

Suddenly, last night's events flood his mind. Shane groans.

He'll never drink again. He'll avoid bars, alcohol, and invitations under any circumstances. The last time he drank this much, Shane had slept with a man for the first time. Now, he's gotten himself fired from the job he worked so hard to get.

His parents are going to kill him.

Well, at least Shane left with his head held high. He told Rozanov everything he'd kept bottled up during the months he spent with him, and although he doesn't remember his exact words, Shane can still picture the man's surprised expression. He seemed stunned to hear him speak like that, as if he didn't know him at all.

Now, Shane is back where he started. Jobless and without a recommendation.

Fuck them all.

He can't wallow in self-pity forever, so with a sigh, Shane gets out of bed and grabs his phone from the nightstand to check his messages. According to his phone, it's one in the afternoon. That explains the headache and the blinding light coming through the window. 

From: Hayden (8:20)

Coffee?

Man, where the hell are you???

Shane, tell me you didn't oversleep or I'll feel guilty for the next three years.

Ilya said you took the morning off. Let me know next time, idiot, so I don't die of a heart attack.

Shane blinks. Below Hayden's messages is an unread message from his boss.

From: DO NOT REPLY (11:45)

Troy will finish planning the magazine for next week. I need you to send it to Wyatt when it's ready. I expect his reply at 6:00 p.m. at my desk.

 

He's probably still dreaming. Shane blinks a few times, pinches his arm, and paces around his room to make sure he's still alive. When everything is still normal and his heart starts pounding in his ears, he calls Hayden.

"Man, what the hell happened to you?" his colleague hisses on the other end of the line as soon as he answers. In the background, Shane can make out Rose's voice and the typical office noise. "I nearly had a heart attack when I didn't see you this morning. Did something bad happen? Why did you take the morning off?"

Shane opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. He imagines Rozanov, indifferent as always, justifying his unjustifiable absence, and his heart leaps.

"Uh, I didn't," Shane replies after a long pause. "I didn't go to work because I thought I didn't work there anymore."

"What?"

"Hayden, I did something really stupid."

Shane sits on the edge of the bed as everything starts spinning and closes his eyes. Shit, what's going on? If Shane were the boss and Rozanov his employee, the asshole would definitely be banned from the building. In jail, maybe. Why is he pretending nothing happened? How is it even possible that Shane still has a job?

Perhaps it's his way of punishing him. Maybe, if he comes back, Rozanov will humiliate him in unimaginable ways. It's a possibility, but Shane is different now. He's told him what he thinks about him and his work methods, so he won't tolerate any despotic attitude.

Not without kicking and insulting him, at least.

"I don't know what you did, but it definitely had something to do with Ilya," Hayden says, laughing. "We had a meeting this morning, and he looked like a sad puppy. Svetlana made fun of him the whole time during the presentation; it was hilarious... Oh, Rose says hi!"

This is the most confusing morning of his life. Shane must have died in his sleep, and he's woken up in the Upside Down, where Rozanov displays an emotion other than apathy, and where Shane is friends with Rose.

Oh no, Rose.

A hazy memory of Hayden's boss's face, very close to his own, floods his mind. Shit. He remembers her whispering words, telling him he can work for her, and also Rozanov's expression as he stood in the doorway, interrupting the moment.

What a disaster. Shane will never, ever drink again.

“Let me know when you get here, I can get you some coffee,” Hayden says, bringing him back to reality. “Hey, did you know there’s going to be—? Yeah, yeah, in a minute. Okay, I have to go. See you, Shane.”

When the other line goes silent, Shane considers his options. On the one hand, he could not show up at the office and cut off all contact with Rozanov, but he would lose Hayden and the three months he has endured his boss’s presence for a recommendation letter. On the other hand, he could go to work like any other day, fulfill his obligations, and go home pretending that last night was a nightmare.

Shane isn't a coward. The option he'll choose is obvious.

He arrives at Centaurs after three in the afternoon. The office looks exactly the same as yesterday, oblivious to the apocalypse Shane has created in his little world. He briefly greets Harris, the head of the Public Relations Department, when he passes him in the elevator, goes to Troy's office to pick up the magazine's planning document, and receives Hayden's coffee when his friend demands answers about his absence that morning.

Under the false pretense of a more detailed explanation, Shane heads toward his desk. As soon as he takes off his jacket, Rozanov's office door opens and Svetlana walks out, smiling.

“Hi! Shane, we missed you at the meeting this morning. Ilya had to take his own notes. I’ve never seen one of his assistants miss a meeting and live to tell the tale,” the woman says with an unusual twinkle in her eye. “You are really special, uh?”

Shane flinches, embarrassed by his lack of professionalism, but Svetlana’s laughter indicates that she isn’t necessarily mocking him, but rather seems to be saying ‘I know something you don’t.’

“Perks of being a good employee, I guess,” the woman continues, delighted. “Let’s have lunch with Harris and Troy on Monday, okay?”

It's not that Shane doesn't appreciate his colleagues' kindness, especially since the publishing world is all about making connections, but he has no idea if he'll survive until Monday. 

Shane forces a smile and nods.

"See you then," Svetlana says contentedly, patting him on the back as she passes by. Before disappearing, she adds, "Ilya's waiting for you. Good luck."

Shit.

Taking a deep breath, Shane straightens up and forces himself to move toward his boss's office. He has nothing to lose. Rozanov probably hates him, so at least now it's mutual. They can be enemies until the end of time, duel, and fight hand-to-hand if the situation calls for it.

Shane knows Rozanov has the stamina for a fight. He organizes his schedule every week, paying close attention to the large blocks of time labeled "training" and to his ridiculous muscles, which are bigger than his brain. He's probably strong, agile. An image of Rozanov, panting and covered in sweat, floods his mind.

Uh.

"Hollander." 

His boss's voice startles him.

Rozanov sits at his desk in a familiar, menacing posture. Shane surveys the state of his office, but it appears clean and tidy despite his absence this morning. So you can manage without me. His boss is wearing a red shirt and tight black pants, as if he were about to step into a perfume commercial.

“Sir,” Shane says, taking a deep breath. Thoughts race through his mind, but something inside him compels him to keep talking. He doesn’t want to apologize, yet he feels his boss at least deserves an explanation. An image of his father and the importance of manners makes him shake his head. “Last night I wasn’t in the best state to work. I shouldn’t have come to the building to complete the assigned task, nor should I have answered the phone like that. It wasn’t right that—”

Shane stops dead in his tracks. He blinks a few times, surprised, and then blinks again when he looks at Rozanov, who is staring back at him. Attentive and focused.

His boss doesn't look any different than usual. He can't have a twin brother. Shane doubts there are two men with the same muscles, the same accent, and the same magnetic presence. Nor can he have been replaced; Shane's spent too many hours watching Rozanov to mistake him for someone else.

Shane takes a step back, bewildered, but his boss keeps staring at him. At him. Directly. In a nerve-wracking way.

When the silence between them stretches on long enough, Rozanov opens his mouth and says:

"Are you done talking?"

What the fuck.

Perhaps the one they replaced isn't his boss, but himself. Shane doesn't have the strength to reply, so he stays silent and nods awkwardly.

"This morning, Harris informed me that the annual charity gala is coming up, so this place will soon be a circus," Rozanov says. "The PR team will be handling the organization. I need you to get the guest list, review it, and..."

"Aren't you going to fire me?" Shane interrupts before he can stop himself.

It makes no sense. Shane has insulted Rozanov in a thousand different ways, but the man looks at him like it's just another day. Well, not like any other day, since it's the first time they've actually made eye contact for more than two minutes.

It's abnormal that his boss is ignoring his behavior yesterday. Either he has no pride or he doesn't care what Shane thinks of him; it's hard to say which bothers him more.

"Why should I fire you?"

Rozanov's voice sounds bored. Shane feels the uncomfortable itch of anger creeping through his hands, but he clenches his fists before doing anything stupid. He doesn't want to go to jail for punching a millionaire, at least not while he could still embarrass his parents.

"Because—about last night, sir."

"Mmh," Rozanov says, standing up. His tight pants seem to accentuate his waist even more as he walks, and who the hell works like that? His boss stops in front of him. "I suppose I should, don't I?"

Now that he's sober, Shane can observe every detail of his face. His skin is disturbingly perfect, pale and rosy in all the right places. His boss is probably one of those morons who spend hours staring at themselves in the mirror. His hair falls softly and delicately, proof that his blond shade is natural.

Ilya Rozanov is devastatingly attractive.

“But I don’t believe in ‘should,’” Rozanov exhales, and the cold breath on his chin makes Shane realize how close they are. “I’m interested in hard work and outstanding results. Fuck everything else. I don’t care if you hate me or plot my death daily, as long as you do what I tell you, you can dig my grave if you want. I’d choose someone with guts a thousand times over a brainless idiot who can’t defend himself.”

Shit. Damn. Okay. What's Shane supposed to say to that?

Shane scans Rozanov's clear eyes, searching for a trap, but finds nothing but determination. He almost wishes Rozanov had never looked at him; Shane finds the intensity of his convictions difficult to bear. His heart pounds desperately in his chest, like a little bird about to collapse.

When the seconds pass and Rozanov seems satisfied with his reaction, he withdraws from the space they share and sits back down behind the desk.

“Wyatt is waiting for you to send him the magazine plan. As for the guest list, you’ll have to ask Harris for it,” Rozanov says, finally looking away from Shane to glance at his computer screen. “That’s all.”

That’s all.

Shane takes a deep breath, nods once, and forces his trembling legs out of his boss's office. His head throbs as if his hangover has returned to mock his bravery from the night before, which now seems to have evaporated completely.

Ilya Rozanov is a son of a bitch.

There are many different parts to Shane's job. There are some he hates, like calling asshole Rozanov "sir," wearing dress pants on a random Tuesday, and managing a life that isn't his own. There are others he has to put up with and has learned to appreciate, like the social interaction with his colleagues. Shane isn't great at building connections, but he likes people and is interested in what they have to say.

Troy Barrett always has a lot to say. Shane doesn't really know what he and Svetlana have in common, but he would venture to guess Rozanov. Troy visits Rozanov's office almost every day. Shane couldn't care less, but as his assistant, he handles the man's visits and calls. Troy is the head of the Design Planning Department, and it's clear he needs to communicate with Rozanov more than the rest of the employees. That's for sure.

However, the man doesn't need to visit his boss's office to bring him coffee. That's Shane's job; Marlow made that perfectly clear when he hired him. Nor is it essential for Troy to be sitting on the couch reading while Rozanov works quietly on his computer.

He hasn't heard any rumors—he doesn't even know Rozanov is gay, actually—but Shane is certain it exists. Two powerful men, with money, and equally insufferable. It's a match made in hell.

“He can fuck off. If Matti wants to come, I hope he doesn't dare speak to Ilya or I'll kick him right in the face," Svetlana grumbles, stabbing a carrot with her fork. "I hate him."

"Ilya doesn't care," Harris laughs. "It's good publicity. The Admirals can talk about how successful the Centaurs is. We need Matti. It's that, or we invite Quinn."

"Harris, I swear to God," Svetlana threatens, "you invite that bitch, and you and I will be in trouble."

"You're not serious."

"Oh, really? Want to come with me to the copy room for a private chat?"

"Why do you want to go there, huh? It's close enough to Rose's office, or do we have to—?"

"Shut your damn mouth, Drover."

Like every Monday, the building's cafeteria is packed. Shane still has twenty minutes left before his lunch is over; the sandwich he made the night before is delicious, and the company of his colleagues is nice, but he still feels uneasy.

Shane isn't sure why. Despite his conversation with Rozanov on Friday, nothing has changed between them. Well, not quite. Now it seems that no matter where Shane is, his boss's eyes are fixed on him.

Apparently, it's not enough that the echo of his voice follows him every time Shane takes a step; now he has to endure the weight of Rozanov’s gaze on the back of his neck even if they're not in the same room.

It's stupid. It's driving him crazy.

"Shut up, both of you. Ilya doesn't remember Matti or Quinn," Troy says loudly, pulling him from his thoughts. "He's more worried about Andrei."

"Shit, is Andrei planning to show up?"

"According to Ilya, it's very likely." 

Shane takes a sip of his water to avoid making a face. Of course, Troy knows what Rozanov is thinking or feeling. They're close, friends, lovers, or whatever. They probably talk for hours outside of work. Not that Shane cares or wants to be in his shoes, but it's infuriating that his asshole boss has a life when he doesn't.

“The guest list is the same every year,” Harris says dismissively, his clear green eyes settling on Shane. “This is your first gala, right? Are you excited?”

“Oh, you should be,” Svetlana smiles, resting her chin on her palm. “Lots of beautiful women and free food.”

Shane shrugs, unsure what to say. He doesn't particularly like parties, but it's not like he has a choice.

"Being an attractive man, you've probably received an invitation," Troy says after a moment. Shane can't tell if there's malice or just curiosity in his words. "It's customary to bring a date to the party."

"Um, no. My presence at the party is strictly for work, really," Shane replies.

"Nonsense," Harris says, "everyone brings a date."

"Oh?" Shane replies politely, but a slight tingle prompts him to open his mouth again. "Who are you guys going with?"

"I'll go with Rose," Harris says, winking at him.

"What?" Svetlana and Troy exclaim in unison.

Shane raises his eyebrows, surprised by their abrupt outbursts. Both Svetlana and Troy look at Harris with puzzled, and slightly annoyed expressions. Shane doesn't really know them that well to understand why that would be a problem, so he nods at Harris.

"Rose is nice."

"Why the hell are you going with her?" Svetlana snarls, then punches Troy in the arm. "This is all your fault."

"Screw this, I'm going with Ilya," Troy mutters, standing up at the same time as Svetlana. "Lunch's over."

Harris chuckles and doesn't share the reason with Shane, so he assumes everything is fine between them. He doesn't care too much; he has other problems to worry about.

The rest of the days pass without incident, as if that Thursday night had been a hallucination, a distortion of the universe that happened exclusively to Shane. Rose doesn't mention her offer again, Hayden doesn't bring it up, and Rozanov… Ilya Rozanov is the same son of a bitch he's always been. He gives him orders, is indifferent to his presence, and avoids sharing his space.

Although Shane is not known for being an observant person, he is when it comes to his boss. He hates him, after all; it's his duty to know his every move, his words between gestures, his preferences, and his attitudes when he's not the center of attention.

For that reason, even though Rozanov acts as if that night never happened, Shane can notice the differences. Now, the man looks him directly in the eye when he speaks. He hasn't interrupted him again, patiently waiting for Shane to finish. He asks him questions and addresses him. Without a legitimate need and without context. 

To Shane, of all people.

"Do you think the 23rd is a good date?"

Rozanov's voice catches his attention, making him look up. The man is standing in the doorway of his office, leaning against the threshold. His hands are in his pockets, a picture of nonchalance. One eye is covered by a soft lock of hair, the other is fixed on him.

"Huh?" Shane asks from his desk with all the eloquence he can muster.

"The 23rd. For the party. Harris wants me to decide; it can be that day or the next." 

For a moment, Shane wonders if the conversation is a cryptic message for something more. Sometimes he gets lost in those kinds of conversations. His boss's blank expression tells him he couldn't be more wrong.

“What do you think?” Rozanov presses, as if Shane’s opinion matters.

“I think it’s Friday, so it’ll probably be fun for some people.”

His boss stares at him for a few seconds. Firmly, attentively, as if Shane were the one delivering the cryptic message.

“Fine,” Rozanov finally replies, and without another word, returns to his office.

Perhaps Shane fell into an alcoholic coma that night and is living in an invented reality, because, no matter how much he tries to find logic in the situation, it is not possible for Rozanov to ask him for his opinion.

In an attempt to maintain his sanity, Shane continues with his normal life. He works diligently on his boss's assignments, meets with Hayden for coffee every morning, and occasionally has lunch with Svetlana, Troy, and Harris. The first two don't mention the gala again, but they don't seem angry either. Every second moves with relative tranquility, peace.

Of course, Shane's luck never lasts too long.

It all begins one Tuesday morning, almost a month after that drunken night. As soon as he opens his eyes, Shane feels a pain in his chest. He's been having strange dreams for the past few days, and despite his best efforts to ignore them, the quality of his sleep has declined considerably.

Then, while preparing his breakfast, Shane receives a message from his mother.

From: Mom (6:56)

I'm at the hospital. I slipped on the stairs and hit my head. Your dad brought me. Don't exaggerate or panic. I'll call you later. Everything's OK.

 

Shane knows that if his mother is telling him directly, it's to prevent him from getting upset later. Which means it's a serious accident. Very serious.

With his heart pounding, his hands sweating, and a bloody, uncontrolled imagination, Shane calls his dad. He, a calm and rational man, promises him that everything is fine and that the doctors are taking care of everything.

Shane takes a deep breath, thanks them for the information, and hangs up with his heart still on the edge of a precipice.

Now he's an adult, so Shane knows how to handle certain situations better than before. He no longer has panic attacks frequently and doesn't choose the most catastrophic option as his only choice, but existence as a human being is still difficult.

Even so, his sense of responsibility outweighs any lingering anxiety. Today he has an important meeting at the Centaurs, where the various departments will gather to receive official information about the party to be held in two months. Shane can't be absent, but perhaps he can ask Rozanov for permission to leave a little early and visit his mother in the hospital.

His boss is a jerk, but he's not heartless. If Rozanov hasn't fired him after yelling that he's a brainless asshole, he definitely has some humanity.

Either that, or Rozanov takes great satisfaction in being humiliated.

Shane prefers to refrain from finding out which option is correct.

He needs a day off. Or two. Or a thousand. That's all Shane's mind can think of while Harris, with his characteristic charisma, presents how the tables will be arranged during the party.

It's an important presentation, but he can certainly ask Troy for the details later. Troy's eyes are glued to the display, hanging on every word Harris says. Shane's supposed to be taking notes for Rozanov, like at all the other meetings, but his mind is a jumble of worry. His chest aches too much to hold a pen, and his leg bounces incessantly against the floor.

All Shane can think about is his mom. He needs to go see her, he needs to make sure she's okay, he needs…

"What the fuck does this mean?"

The familiar, hostile tone pulls Shane's mind back to the meeting room. Harris has finished speaking, and Rozanov is standing in the center of the room, staring at a piece of paper with a furious grimace. The meeting attendees are watching him anxiously, but none of them respond.

"Rose," Rozanov growls, his brow furrowing so deeply that it forms a single eyebrow, "I asked what the fuck this means."

"Actually, it was my fault."

It's Hayden, sitting next to Rose, who fills the silence. Shane blinks, trying to understand what the hell is going on to make his boss react like this, but he's been distracted for the last few minutes. He looks at Svetlana for an answer, but she's staring at Hayden with a horrified expression.

“We can’t make these kinds of mistakes now!” Rozanov shouts. “What the hell, Hayden, this is a rookie mistake. Do you know how important this edition is?”

Shane straightens abruptly in his chair at his boss’s tone. He’s never heard him yell. Yes, the last few weeks have been tough for Rozanov as the gala approaches—Shane has seen Harris in and out of his office more than anyone else  this month—but that’s no excuse for using that tone. There are still eight weeks until the event; are they supposed to put up with his shitty attitude for the rest of it?

“Hey, man, it was…” Zane Boodram, in charge of the final review, starts to say, but Rozanov’s furious glare stops him.

“Shut the fuck up. You’re ultimately responsible for this, but you,” his boss says, pointing a finger at Hayden, “how could you be so stupid?”

Shane still doesn't understand what the hell is going on, but hell will freeze over before he lets Rozanov speak to one of his employees like that. To his friend.

Especially when none of those present seem capable of standing up to him.

"I can't believe the lack of professionalism in your department, Rose," Rozanov huffs, his face flushed with anger. "I thought you were a professional, not an idiot, Hayden. You're supposed to—"

"Hey," Shane interrupts before his jerk of a boss can continue insulting his friend, "what's your fucking problem?"

The silence is deafening. Later, when Shane is hugging his mother and making sure she's alright, he'll probably regret confronting his boss like that. Maybe not. Either way, he's already opened his mouth, and Rozanov's furious eyes find his face.

"Hollander," his boss says, in a warning tone.

Fuck him. Shane takes a deep breath, gives Hayden one last look—who looks like he's about to faint—and stands up.

"I said: what's your fucking problem?"

Shane might develop authority issues after this. He's already clashed with Rozanov twice in his short time at the Centaurs, but in Shane's defense, his boss is an asshole who doesn't deserve respect.

Not when he's being a jerk, at least.

“My fucking problem,” Rozanov grumbles, approaching Shane. He smells clean and sandalwood, a soft blend of his cologne. Today he’s wearing a black shirt that clings ridiculously to his muscular arms, which, with his jerky movements, look like they’re about to rip the fabric. “These idiots misspelled one of the guests’ names on the damn cover. They ruined a whole week of production.”

When his boss stops waving the paper around like a madman, Shane can see Andrei Rozanov's face on the cover. It's next week's issue, the title "Anal" emblazoned in huge white letters.

Fucking shit.

Shane vaguely remembers Troy mentioning that Rozanov doesn't care about the party guests, except for Andrei. Shane knows him because he's a big name in the publishing industry, hailed as one of the best political journalists of this century, and, not coincidentally, Rozanov's brother.

Frowning, Shane glares at Hayden. His friend wouldn't be capable of such a mistake. Not when, just a week ago, he'd come to his office to complain about a new intern who'd made such a disastrous error that, if they couldn't fix it, firing him was the best thing that could happen to the man.

Hayden is taking the blame to protect someone else.

Oh, Shane wishes he were eighty years old and retired outside the city. He doesn't want to deal with this mess now, not when his mother is in the hospital and Hayden's pleading eyes are begging him not to reveal his lie.

The silence in the conference room is absolute. No one present utters a word, not even Svetlana, whom Shane has seen stand up to Rozanov countless times without consequence. Not even Ryan, a guy ridiculously big enough to take down Superman.

Why are they so afraid of Rozanov? Shane stares at his stupid face and feels like laughing. Ever since he yelled at the man in the elevator, it seems the world has started spinning in the opposite direction: Shane can no longer see any difference between himself and Rozanov. Everything that once made his boss untouchable is now insignificant.

There are bigger problems in the world than Rozanov. In Shane's world, to be exact. His mother is in the hospital, probably terminally ill or any of the other terrible possibilities his mind can conjure up; his lower chest still hurts like hell; and he's exhausted from the strange dreams that have been haunting him for days.

If he's looking for a way to get back at his bad karma, teaching Rozanov how to be a decent person is certainly a positive way to do it.

"Hayden made a mistake," Shane says, "but that's no reason to scream like a maniac."

“I have a right to be angry,” Rozanov spits out, clenching his fists. “It’s my damn magazine, I pay them to do a good job. There shouldn’t be any mistakes.”

There’s another vestige that proves Shane’s drunken night isn’t a figment of his imagination. Occasionally, his boss offers explanations. It’s a tiny change, almost imperceptible, but Shane recognizes the effort the man makes to reason about his actions. Especially when before he wouldn’t even look at him.

Why he does it, Shane has no idea, but he's not going to complain.

"Mistakes happen because we're human, asshole," Shane replies. "Hayden's a good worker, so is Rose, and her whole damn department. If they mess up, you give them a warning and deal with it. You don't yell at him in front of his colleagues."

"Who do you think you're calling an asshole, moron?"

When Rozanov seems quite pleased with his insult, Shane feels an overwhelming urge to kick him. To touch him somehow. Ideally violently. At least the man no longer has that turbulent expression directed at his friend, but Shane doubts he'll let the cover mistake slide.

“I don’t give a shit about any of this,” Rozanov says after a moment, as if the weight of the world has suddenly fallen on his shoulders. Then he points at Hayden. “You, to my office, now.” 

And without another word, he leaves the conference room. 

Shane looks at Hayden, who is still pale and sweaty. He’s not going to let the first person who was kind to him in this hellhole of a job get fired for a mistake he didn’t even make. 

Svetlana, still looking horrified and sitting next to Rose, nods toward the door, as if trying to tell him, “do something.” 

Shane is good at following instructions and likes putting idiots in their place. He’s not going to turn his back on his strengths now.

With a determined stride, Shane catches up to his boss in the hallway and stops him, patting his shoulder firmly enough to get his attention. Surprised, Rozanov turns around, but his expression darkens when he sees him.

"What do you want? I was talking to Hayden, not you."

In recent months, Shane has grown accustomed to the raw, scorching heat that courses through his body whenever he looks at Rozanov. It's a simmering, bubbling, and commanding anger that threatens to erupt whenever his boss's voice is directed at him.

Shane is a productive member of society, controlled, and well-mannered. He's no longer the teenager who easily loses his marbles, who flinches at the unexpected, who fears having his flaws exposed. He has found healthy, necessary, and subtle ways to process difficult situations.

However, Ilya Rozanov is everything Shane avoids. He's rude, despotic, and unbearable. A son of a bitch. It seems like every step he takes is a direct challenge to Shane. In recent weeks, after the elevator incident, they've reached an impasse where Shane focuses strictly on his work, ignoring Rozanov's presence in favor of a quiet life detached from work.

But damn it, the man makes it impossible.

He can't take it anymore. For the first time in a long time, Shane feels the control he wields slipping through his fingers like water, and that threatening, consuming heat devouring the last drop of his self-control.

"You're the most frustrating person I know," Shane says through gritted teeth, and unable to control himself, he shoves Rozanov. "I've never met anyone so damn stubborn! Forget about Hayden, he's not responsible."

His boss takes several steps back at his touch. Immediately, Rozanov's eyes widen and glow brightly.

"The mistake was my fault, asshole. I distracted Hayden when—hey, let go of me! What's wrong with you?!"

Shane's improvised lie is interrupted by a tug on his forearm. Rozanov's large, warm hand grips him tightly and drags him down the hallway, away from public view. Shane tries to pull his arm away, but the man's grip is immovable.

In a rapid succession of movements, Shane is forced into a small room. Rozanov follows with equal speed, shoving him against the door as it closes behind them. The space is cramped, forcing his boss to breathe heavily against his cheek.

With a blink, Shane identifies the tiny room as the cleaning closet next to Troy's office.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Rozanov's voice is barely a whisper. Shane notices his lips, thin and outlined by a subtle cupid's bow. They look moist, and as soon as Rozanov finishes speaking, his pink tongue fleetingly licks them.

"Huh?" Shane whispers back, not understanding the question. He hasn't gone anywhere. Maybe his boss has a split personality or some illness that distorts reality. "Sir, I—"

Rozanov grunts with apparent frustration. Grabbing his shirt collar, his boss shoves him back against the door. Shane does his best to ignore the burning, hot sensation rising deep inside him.

“You are the most frustrating person I know,” his boss says. His cold breath brushes against his lips, and for an insane second, Shane wishes Rozanov would kiss him. “I don’t understand what your problem is. You complain that I don’t look at you and that I interrupt you all the time, but then you spend days slinking away like a rat.”

Shane makes a strangled sound at the insult, but Rozanov pushes him back against the door again as if trying to shake him.

"You tell me you hate me and that you won't kiss my ass, but you never complain when I give you orders and you call me 'sir' as if you think I'm important. My name is Ilya, damn it, just say it already."

His boss's tone is almost desperate, as if he's been thinking about it constantly. Weeks have passed since that night—how could he possibly remember his words? Shane's head spins, and if it weren't for the man's steady hands, he probably would have fallen to his knees.

“I know you’re not responsible for the mistake on the cover, but I also know Hayden isn’t to blame,” Rozanov says. “I can’t have an incompetent person on my team who won’t take responsibility for their mistakes. Not when Andrei is breathing down my neck, waiting for us to fail so he can kick me out of the guild. I have to get this right. I owe it to myself, Shane.”

Oh, shit. Shane. Shane. Shane.

He knows he's screwed when Rozanov lowers his eyes in defeat, and instead of the urge for violence, Shane feels an overwhelming desire to comfort him.

This can't be happening.

In an attempt to maintain control, Shane takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He needs to put some distance between them because Rozanov is still his boss and a fucking bastard, but he also has a million questions buzzing in his mind.

Does he call him ‘Shane’ in his head? The man always refers to him by his last name, or doesn't bother to mention him at all. What's wrong with Andrei? How the hell did Rozanov figure out Hayden's lie? His friend is a decent liar, an excellent one even, committed to the realities he invents.

Shane opens his mouth to voice some of his questions, but instead says,

"My mom's in the hospital." 

Instantly, two warm hands rest on his shoulders. Rozanov's cologne must be triggering an allergic reaction, because suddenly, he's overcome with an uncontrollable urge to cry. Shane blinks back tears, and his boss's expressive eyes meet his with concern.

"What are you doing here, then?"

“The meeting was important,” Shane begins, and although he knows how stupid it sounds, anything is better than sobbing in front of the man he hates most. “Harris spent all week preparing to deliver the information to the departments, and then you ruined everything by being an uncivilized jerk who…”

“I think there were two uncivilized jerks at the meeting, Hollander,” Rozanov interrupts with a half-smile. Woah. “We’ll discuss this later. Come on, I’ll take you to the hospital.”

Without giving him time to protest, the man wraps his fingers around Shane's arm—this time gently and with an impossible warmth—and pulls him out of the cleaning closet toward the elevator.

Perhaps Shane is still asleep. It's another nightmare, or fantasy, or some kind of torture device meant to ruin his life. Rozanov doesn't let go of his arm until they reach the parking lot, then he helps him into a black car, fastens his seatbelt, and they drive off toward the hospital, which Shane can barely stammer out.

Ilya Rozanov is a son of a bitch.

It's a universal truth, accepted by his acquaintances, his colleagues, even Jessica. So why does the man take him to the hospital without a word? Why does his boss tell him not to come back for the rest of the week to take care of his mother? Why does Rozanov wish him good luck, as if they've known each other for years, and not as if they were adversaries just a few hours ago?

Shane decides all those questions are pointless. His boss doesn't explain his actions, and although the last few days have been different, Shane isn't sure he wants to hear the answer.

When he gets out of the car and sees his boss leaving through the mass of vehicles, Shane makes a decision.

If Ilya Rozanov isn't a fucking asshole to him, then neither will Shane Hollander be.

Yuna Hollander is a woman with bright eyes, a stubborn personality, and boundless ambition. She's also one of Shane's favorite people.

"Stop worrying," his mother sighs from her bed. "I'm fine. The living room floor tiles were more damaged than my head. I'm fully recovered."

Shane isn't necessarily worried; his father is a good caregiver. Shane knows he's there to make sure everything is in place, but the doctor was specific about the medication his mother has to take, and even though this is her last day of rest, Shane is anything but disciplined.

"If it were up to you, mom, you would have gone back to work the same day as the accident."

"I wish you had the same policy," she grumbles. "I'm fine. You and your father take great care of me. I'm practically recovered! Besides, I doubt your boss is understanding enough to let you keep missing work, honey."

At the mention of Rozanov, Shane awkwardly places the pill bottle on the nightstand and approaches his mother to give her the prescribed dose. 

He has avoided thinking about Rozanov for several reasons. First, because Shane falls silent and hears the echo of his voice saying his name. Second, because if he tries hard enough, he can still feel the warmth of his fingers decisively wrapping around his arm. Third, and most terrifying of all, Shane is beginning to think that perhaps his boss isn't the most terrible person in the universe. 

Which is terrible news. What is he supposed to do now that Rozanov seems to be a decent person?

Ever since the day he took him to the hospital, his boss has been sending messages reminding him that he can take a few days off to care for his mother if needed. Rozanov doesn't ask for proof that it's a legitimate event; Shane could have tricked him into getting time off since the man hasn't even bothered to verify his story.

Besides, there's the matter that, according to Rozanov, they need to "discuss."

Where the hell have you been?

Shane swallows hard, remembering his boss's ghostly breath on his chin.

“Are you getting enough sleep, honey?” His mother’s voice pulls him back to the present. She sounds tired, and suddenly Shane can see that the woman he loves most in the world isn’t as young as he always remembers. His mother is usually perky, always playfully bickering with his father and full of energy. Now, she looks so weak that Shane’s chest tightens painfully.

“Yeah. I’ve had a rough couple of weeks at work, but I’m fine,” Shane says, “everything’s okay.”

“Don’t let your boss get to you, love, it’s not worth it.” 

Shane shakes his head, but he’s not sure he can confirm or deny anything.

In the afternoon, Shane and his father tidy the house side by side. Shane washes the dirty dishes and leaves the medication his mother will take the next morning on the table, while his father sweeps and puts away the dry dishes. Their house in Ottawa is a small but familiar space, nourished by the memories of a past life. Shane can remember every corner he and his parents have shared since they accompanied him to that city to study a career he always wanted to pursue.

Now he really feels like crying.

Before leaving for his own place, Shane hugs his mother with all the strength he can muster. He doesn't want to leave her, but tomorrow is Friday, and Shane needs to go to the office to organize the next week. She will be in his father's good hands.

Also, Shane feels he has taken enough advantage of Rozanov's kindness; he needs to thank him in person for his flexibility. Or at least send him the message telepathically and beg him to receive it.

“Don’t let work consume you,” his mother advises, breaking the hug. “I haven’t received any more messages at four in the morning, I guess that’s progress.”

“Sure, because you’re the queen of rest and leisure,” Shane laughs, standing up. “I’m fine, mom, stop worrying. Work is work, you know. It’s the same everywhere.”

My name is Ilya, damn it, just say it already.

“He’s an adult now, Yuna, leave him alone,” his father says, patting him on the back as he walks past. “As long as he’s happy, he can sell his soul to the devil if he needs to.”

Shane snorts with amusement. At his best, Rozanov is far from being the devil, but he wouldn’t vouch for that either. He says goodbye to his parents again and heads home, feeling a little lighter.

He needs to thank Rozanov somehow. Shane knows his strength isn't in words, in vulnerability, because they stumble over each other and always make him look foolish. However, he has to do something because Rozanov helped him more than he probably can even begin to grasp. The doctor said that without proper care, his mother's injury could have developed into a stroke. The thought of Shane being chained to his desk while his mother is ill is a torturous one, one he didn't have to endure thanks to his boss's flexibility.

Ugh, Shane really hates it when his enemies act like human beings.

The next day, Shane arrives at the magazine earlier than usual, a bento box in hand. True to his form, he organizes Rozanov's office, checks his emails, and drinks coffee with Hayden.

“Shane!” his friend exclaims as soon as he sees him. “I’m going to name my firstborn after you. I’m sure Jackie won’t object. I owe you my life.” 

Hayden quickly explains that, after the meeting, Rozanov apologized to everyone for his abruptness and informed them that Shane would be out of the office for a couple of days.

“Of course, Svetlana was furious,” Hayden laughs happily now that he’s out of danger. “She thought it was a euphemism for saying he fired you. Even Troy seemed upset. I’m glad your mom’s doing better, man.”

Shane smiles, feeling a warm wave of affection from his coworkers.

“I appreciate your words, but I hope that next time you decide to lie, you’ll let me know beforehand, you jerk.”

“Oh, you know I’m spontaneous,” Hayden shrugs. “You can’t stop talent when it’s out there.” 

His friend yelps when Shane punches him in the shoulder, but he maintains a calm smile for the rest of their conversation. If Hayden is still standing in front of him, the solution to his problem with Rozanov has probably been constructive and swift.

Around nine in the morning, while Shane is organizing his boss's schedule for the coming week, the man arrives at the office.

"Hollander," Rozanov greets him with a nod, "welcome back." 

His familiar voice makes Shane suppress a shiver. He used his last name, not his first. Rozanov is wearing a blue shirt and white dress pants that give him a relaxed, elegant, and alluring look. He's dressed formally, more so than usual. The treacherous thought that he might have a date invades Shane's mind. 

Shane clears his throat.

"Thank you, sir," he says, but the last word feels rough on his tongue. My name is Ilya, damn it, just say it. "I hope my absence wasn't an inconvenience."

Rozanov stays silent. His clear eyes hold his gaze firmly, and his expression, distant and serious, is similar to what it is every morning. He hasn't changed at all since Tuesday, but Shane thinks he looks different.

Perhaps he is different now that Shane knows how his hands feel on his shoulders.

"Uh, I, er, I have something for you," Shane mumbles, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels embarrassed. He picks up the bento box resting on his desk and extends it toward his boss. "My mother made a full recovery, and it wouldn't have been possible without my care. I appreciate your consideration, sir."

Rozanov looks confused, but he takes the bento, wrapping it in his firm, pale hands.

"What is it?"

"Food. Rice, vegetables, and meat," Shane says. It's a recipe his mother taught him some years ago, one that stayed with him throughout his college years. When Rozanov nods without judgment, a bubbling energy takes hold of Shame, prompting him to add, "I told you I was an amazing writer, but I'm also good at cooking."

This is the opportunity to confront any unresolved issues the man might have with him, Shane decides. Echoing the words he'd spoken that night in the elevator is the most appropriate way to approach the subject, even if his hands tremble slightly as they rest on his lap.

"I didn't doubt your words," Rozanov replies. "I appreciate the food, anyway. I like meat."

"I know," Shane says, unable to stop himself. "Do you forget that I order your lunches?" 

At his response, Rozanov does something he never expected.

He laughs.

It's a foreign sound. Shane has seen the man smile at Svetlana, at Troy, and even at Hayden once, but he's never heard him laugh. Rozanov throws his head back and lets out a crystalline, rhythmic, and deep sound. He seems younger, more relaxed, and content.

Oh.

Shane's mind records the sound, and it echoes among his quiet thoughts.

Rozanov looks attractive.

Oh, no.

“How could I forget that my enemy controls my entire fucking life?” Rozanov says with amusement. “I’m surprised you didn’t plan for my imminent downfall.”

“It’s a seven-step plan, sir.” 

His boss laughs again, this time covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Shit, shit, shit. Shane feels the familiar heat spreading through his body until it concentrates deep in his gut, and he immediately feels like slapping himself.

Yes, Rozanov is attractive and beautiful and all the other crap his brain wants to tell him, but he’s still his boss. Insufferable, idiotic. A son of a bitch. A rude asshole. A jerk with more brawn than brains.

Shane isn't attracted to him. Of course not. He can appreciate his beauty because he has eyes, just like he did the first time he saw him, but nothing more. His mind is probably mistaking Rozanov's kindness for attraction again.

That was adorable when he was fifteen, but at twenty-nine it's pathetic.

"Fuck off, I told you to call me Ilya," his boss says again once he stops laughing, still in a good mood. "I'm sick of your lapdog act."

He's certain Rozanov's insults would definitely get him in trouble with HR, but Shane isn't offended. Not at all. It's an electrifying, fun, and casual exchange. Shane doesn't dare dwell on the implications.

Not wanting to lose a game they're not even playing, Shane crosses his arms.

"What the hell? Since when is being a good employee the same as being a 'lapdog'?"

"Since you decided to show your true colors in the elevator. Are you always like this?"

"What's it to you?"

Again, Rozanov—no, Ilya—laughs again. Damn it, it seems like he's doing it on purpose. Shane looks around to make sure he's actually awake and not still trapped in his sheets, but the office seems real. The employees stroll down the hall, oblivious to the conversation, oblivious to the heat that's seeping into every part of his body.

“It doesn’t really matter, Hollander. I’m just interested in you doing your job well, and that means stopping pretending to be someone you’re not,” Ilya says simply, as if he hadn’t altered the dynamic they’ve had for the last four months. “Thanks for lunch. Call Troy and Wyatt to my office; I’ll expect them in five minutes. Tell Harris I changed my mind about the band for the party and that I want Evan. That’s all.”

Without checking if his words were received, his boss enters his office, leaving behind the suffocating sound of his laughter and a faint scent of tobacco and sandalwood.

Oh.

What the fuck is going on?

Shane doesn’t know if he’ll live long enough to get a letter of recommendation. Ilya Rozanov is going to kill him, one way or another. He’s sure of it.

Chapter 2: The basic rule is not to let your imagination run wild

Shane hates to admit that his boss is right.

Prior to the annual charity gala, the Centaurs has been transformed into a circus, just as Ilya had predicted. All his colleagues talk about is the party, their outfits, the guests, and how lucky they are to be part of the event. Work meetings revolve solely around this topic, and every issue seems to focus on the most anticipated celebration of the year.

It's exhausting.

"As Editor-in-Chief, Ilya will be the center of attention," Harris explains as they walk down the hall toward Svetlana's office, "so you need to be by his side, giving him information about every guest who approaches. He has a terrible memory, so we can't risk him offending anyone important."

Shane believes Ilya could offend someone just by being there, but decides to stay silent.

"I know you don't have a date, but you can still have some fun," Harris says as they stop in front of the woman's office. His tone is light and friendly, casual. "As long as you stay close to Ilya, everything will be fine. He likes you, and I think your company will help keep him in a good mood."

It's not the first time his colleagues have mentioned his supposedly good relationship with his boss, but it is the first time Shane has nodded slightly.

It's still disconcerting, but it's also an undeniable truth. After that conversation in his office, Ilya hasn't stopped being the same jerk who sends him on grueling tasks only to discard them as soon as they're finished, but now Shane can express his discontent. Freely and without consequence. It's… unsettling, but also incredibly entertaining.

"The gala is a fun occasion. If you like someone in the office, you can ask them to come with you," Harris says politely, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Everyone does."

"Is that why you're going with Rose?" Shane blurts out, and as soon as Harris's eyes darken, he bites his tongue. "Thanks for the advice. Uh, I'll keep that in mind."

Shane hasn't dared to ask his colleagues directly, but he did ask Hayden why on earth they were acting so strangely. His friend, always eager to gossip, told him it's normal for everyone in the office to hook up with their colleagues.

It's not that Shane is a prude. He likes sex like anyone else, in moderation, he supposes, but not enough to break the company code. Shane read his contract, and there was a clause specifying the prohibition of intimate relationships between employees. 

Does nobody read anymore?

As soon as the office door opens, Svetlana's surprised voice brings him back to the present. She's wearing a fitted green suit and a simple smile that widens when she notices them both.

"Well, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Preparations for the gala, as usual," Shane says. "And to ask you a favor."

"Ilya wants more money for food," Harris explains without preamble. "He's been pestering me about it all week. He even sent Shane to pressure me personally."

“Of course,” Svetlana laughs, stepping aside to let them both into her office. “I have no doubt Ilya wants that, considering he practically ate the dessert table all to himself last year. And if his brother attends this year, yikes. But, if Ilya wants more money, it will come out of his own pocket.”

Svetlana’s office is much larger than his boss’s. It has enormous windows, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, and photographs on the walls. It smells faintly of citrus. Shane nods.

“He knows that, especially because I told him more than ten times.” Harris rolls his eyes, settling familiarly onto the sofa. “Hey, have you decided who you’re going to the gala with yet?”

Svetlana huffs.

“If you came here to make fun of me, Drover, I’m gonna kick you.”

“Oh, I would never—”

While they argue, Shane entertains himself by looking at the photographs on the wall. One of them focuses on Svetlana, Ilya, and an unknown blond man. The three are embracing, with identical, enthusiastic smiles. Shane notices his boss, who looks much younger and more relaxed than he does now. He was probably a teenager when the photo was taken; he doesn't look a day over eighteen.

The next photograph is of a young Svetlana, perhaps ten or twelve years old, holding an adorable white dog. She has the same brown hair and the same perpetual, confident smile. The last picture is of Svetlana and Rose, both in the middle of a laugh, looking at each other.

Oh.

Shane knows the women are close because Hayden, being the gossip that he is, made sure to explain to him the whole thing behind their supposedly secret relationship. 

Svetlana and Rose met at university and they love each other, but Svetlana's parents can’t accept this because Russia is a homophobic and ruthless place. According to Hayden—Shane has no idea where the hell he gets the time to know all this—Rose is tired of waiting for an answer.

Shane thinks that if things are as Hayden says, then life is so fucking unfair. Svetlana is beautiful, intelligent, astute, and seems to be in love with Rose. Isn't the solution obvious? If Shane were in her position, he wouldn't hesitate to abandon his biological family for Rose.

Fleetingly, Ilya's face flashes through his mind. He knows that he and Svetlana are close friends. What does he think of her decision? Would Ilya do the same as Svetlana if he were in her position? 

When Shane accepted the job as his assistant, he made it his mission to research the man's life online. Ilya is the son of Grigori Rozanov, a deceased police chief. Probably, if he'd ever had the chance to meet him, the man would have looked at Shane with disdain.

Then he mentally slaps himself because, why the hell would Shane meet Ilya's father?

As if he'd summoned the devil himself, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

From: Asshole (4:24 pm) 

Where are you?

Shane has decided to change Ilya's name in a symbolic representation of the truce they seem to be maintaining.

To: Asshole (4:24 pm)

With Svetlana.

 

From: Asshole (4:25 pm)

Ah, the witch. Tell her I hope she melts soon.

 

To: Asshole (4:25 pm)

Why would I???

I'm not going to tell her that.

 

From: Asshole (4:25 pm)

She'll get the message sooner or later. Come to my office.

Another interesting development is that his boss has started sending him spontaneous messages. Previously, he limited information sharing to face-to-face interactions, but now Shane receives messages with orders or fleeting ideas that cross Ilya's mind. 

It's informal, much more familiar than he'd expect from the jerk who makes him run all over town to get his favorite drink, but Shane isn't complaining. These text messages allow Shane to glimpse Ilya's true personality, far from being the editor-in-chief who torments him daily.

The man is so many different things that Shane doesn't know how to categorize Ilya. He has a sharp, mocking, and cocky personality. He's also irritatingly intelligent—Shane can't deny that he envies him for his position, even if he's not interested in fashion—and although he sometimes makes pointless jokes, it's clear that Ilya is intellectually superior to most men he's known. 

Not that he's special. Shane still detests him.

“Um, I have to go,” Shane says, briefly interrupting his colleagues’ conversation on the sofa. “Duty calls.”

“Tell Ilya he’s an idiot and I hope his plane’s engines fail.” 

Shane nods at Svetlana’s words and heads to his boss’s office. 

There are still five weeks until the Centaurs’ annual party, so Ilya will be taking a four-day business trip before the big event. It will be the first time Shane will work without the man being physically present, and although he has many pending assignments related to organizing the party, he can’t help feeling uneasy.

Due to the pressure of the gala, Shane has grown accustomed to seeing Ilya's hideous face almost every day for the past month. He won't miss him because he's not crazy, but it will be strange working without his demanding presence.

Ilya waits for him, seated in his office, his gaze fixed on a point in the distance. As soon as Shane enters and takes the chair opposite him, the man straightens up and tilts his head.

"I need to ask you a favor."

Shane raises his eyebrows, surprised by his eagerness.

“A favor? I think you've got the wrong person. You're just bossing me around, or have you forgotten?”

Under the light of their renewed energy, it’s easy to talk to Ilya. The man still looks at him intently and is relentless when it comes to efficiency, but he’s receptive to every sarcastic remark Shane can’t help but make.

“This favor is… of a different nature,” Ilya says, frowning. “You can refuse if you want.”

Shane feels an unusual tingle. Shit. His imagination comes up with a hundred different suggestions in response to his boss’s words; half of them aren’t appropriate for the workplace. 

Shane clears his throat.

“Fine, I’m listening.”

Fascinating. That's the only word Shane can cling to when he sees his boss's lips twist into a familiar grimace. He's been working for the man in front of him for five months, and his keen observation skills have practically memorized every one of his expressions. 

On the most obvious level, this is because Ilya is a predictable person, at least to him. On the more secretive level, it's because Shane spends an embarrassing amount of time watching his boss.

"I'll be out of town for four days," Ilya explains, as if Shane hadn't been the one to buy the plane tickets, book the hotel room, and choose a private taxi company to get him there. "That means my apartment will be empty."

Although Shane manages Ilya's professional life, his personal life remains a mystery. His calendar shows family dinners and the occasional non-work-related event, but he knows nothing beyond what Ilya allows him to know.

He could be married with children, and Shane wouldn't even know.

An image floods his mind. Ilya, dressed in cozy pajamas, holding a baby in his arms while humming a lullaby. It's so painfully domestic that Shane cringes.

Fuck.

He needs a drink and a good fuck. Spending so much time with an attractive man like Ilya is messing with his head, and while Shane can handle certain fantasies, like being pushed against the cleaning closet door and kissed unconscious, he doesn't think he can stand the thought of his mind playing the happy family game.

"I want to ask you to look after my dog." 

His boss's voice snaps him out of his reverie. He looks completely serious, his hands clasped on the desk, his eyes wide.

Shane blinks.

"What?"

“I know it’s not part of your job,” Ilya sighs, “but I don’t have anyone else. Svetlana is allergic. Troy is coming with me on the trip, and the person who was supposed to look after her had a problem.” 

I don’t have anyone else.

The man’s words echo in his mind, and Shane takes a deep breath as a strange wave of satisfaction washes over him.

“You have a dog?”

“Her name is Anya,” Ilya says, as if it were relevant to convincing him. “You can go by in the evenings to make sure she’s okay. Her, eh, basics are taken care of; I just don’t want her to be lonely.”

Oh no, it's worse than he thinks. Shane feels like banging his head against the wall. Ilya's brow furrows in genuine concern, as if he were a decent human being and not a damned uncivilized brute.

Shane hates him.

His life was simpler when Ilya was a heartless monster. Shane can handle disgust, violence, and hatred, but he can't bear the gentleness in the man's voice when he speaks to him.

"Why were you with Svetlana?" Ilya asks suddenly, changing the subject.

“Harris and I went to inform her about your request,” Shane replies. He tries to bite his lip to avoid asking the next question that’s been nagging at him for weeks, but today his boss seems friendly, and his curiosity can’t be contained any longer. “What’s your deal with your brother?” 

Ilya looks at him, his brow slightly furrowed, as if he doesn’t understand his words.

“It seems to be a, uh, complicated matter. You made that scene over Andrei’s cover, then you told me he’s breathing down your neck. So, what’s going on with you and your brother?” 

It’s not his place to ask or question a situation that’s clearly personal, but Shane has developed a strange familiarity with Ilya lately. They spend a lot of time together, exchanging opinions and insults spontaneously. It’s only natural to ask about certain aspects of his life, isn’t it?

Besides, Shane's fatal flaw is that he is too curious for his own good.

Ilya seems to agree with his thoughts. He straightens up to look him in the eye and asks,

"Do you believe in God?"

"What?"

"Do you believe in God?"

Shane rolls his eyes at his irritated tone, but when he sees that his boss is asking a legitimate question, he takes a second to consider it. God? It's not a recurring topic in his mind. Days go by and Shane doesn't necessarily stop to think about whether God is responsible for his fate, but he doesn't dwell on destiny or karma either.

Shane isn't much for abstract concepts. Events happen, and that's it, so Shane has to live with them as best he can.

"I don't know," Shane answers honestly. "What about you?"

“No,” Ilya says firmly. His eyes gleam, fixed on him. “I believe in myself. In my work, in my determination and my dedication to everything I do.” 

Shane feels the hair on his arm prickle. His boss looks more serious than he’s ever seen him, leaning across the desk as if he wants to focus all his attention on him.

“But,” Ilya continues softly, “above all, I believe in doing things right. For the people I love. I have faith in their actions, their dreams, their plans. I owe them everything, and I would put my life in their hands without hesitation.”

Against his will, Shane swallows hard. What the fuck is wrong with Ilya? How can he speak like that, think in such a reverent way, and continue with his routine as if nothing's wrong? It seems as if every one of his movements is imbued with absolute certainty, a tranquility that only comes from complete self-confidence.

And from the affection of his loved ones, it seems.

“So you love your brother,” Shane blurts out, unable to stop himself.

“Fucking hell, no,” Ilya laughs, his voice biting. “I hate him, actually. I hope he fails in the worst way possible, that he crashes and burns. Everything I do is to prove him wrong.” 

Shane nods, even though he doesn't understand his explanation. He ignores the comment about his brother; his energy is focused on rationalizing the bitterness he feels upon hearing Ilya's words. It's unusual for someone to speak of others, of those they love, with such reverence and admiration.

Shane doubts that anyone would speak about him like that.

“What was Svetlana’s response to my request?” Ilya asks, returning to the previous topic.

“That you’re an idiot and that the food money will come out of your own pocket,” Shane replies, smiling slightly as the man lets out a chuckle. “Don’t worry, I can convince her to spend more while we have lunch tomorrow. Fruit salad always puts her in a good mood.”

“Hmm,” Ilya’s tone is contemplative. They look at each other for a moment, and when the man’s expression turns uncertain, Shane raises his eyebrows, challenging him to verbalize his thoughts. “What’s going on between you and Svetlana?”

Ilya's question takes him by surprise.

"What do you mean?"

"I know you have lunch with her sometimes," his boss explains, and for the first time since he entered his office, he looks down at his own hands. "Svetlana's always talking about you, how smart you are, how funny you are, blah blah. Hayden told me you skipped lunch last week because you were helping her with one of her spreadsheets. So, what's going on between you and Svetlana?"

It's as if time has stopped. Shane's heart is pounding, drowning out any sound other than the deep voice of the man in front of him. Ilya's head is tilted to one side, as if trying to hide his expression.

Shane can't begin to understand his boss's words.

How can Ilya ask him if there's something going on with Svetlana, when it's obvious that she's head over heels for Rose? Shane enjoys her company because Svetlana never asks questions and fills the silence without making demands; however, there's no way in hell where his interest in Svetlana is romantic. 

Ilya must know this, right? He and Svetlana have been friends for years; Hayden confirmed this when he asked him. Besides, the familiarity with which they interact is proof enough. She constantly teases Ilya, playfully hitting him and laughing a moment later. Ilya must know that Svetlana is in love with Rose; it's practically a scientific fact at this point.

However, the scientific fact that his boss is an idiot seems to outweigh everything else.

"Ilya," Shane says slowly, savoring his name on the tip of his tongue. "It's called having friends. You should try it sometime."

"You can't talk to me about having friends when I have more than you, boring man."

"Boring? I'm not boring."

"Please, I saw you reading a book last week. At your lunch."

"Oh, fuck you."

"I can’t. It's, how do you say it? Not safe for work."

Ilya raises his clear eyes and catches Shane's in a magnetic exchange. Shane studies his face and is surprised to see it somber; his eyebrows are drawn together in the center of his forehead, like when he's angry with the investors or some trainee gets on his nerves.

Shane finds himself eager to hear the trill of his laughter or see his relaxed expression. The overwhelming need closes his throat, forcing him to take a deep breath.

When enough seconds have passed, Ilya says:

"So, will you look after my dog?"

“Okay,” Shane agrees simply, standing up. He needs to get out of that damn office now or he’s going to explode. “Before you go, you can give me your keys and instructions for her care. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.” 

Without looking at him, Shane leaves Ilya’s office and moves quickly toward the elevator. On the way, he finds Hayden chatting with one of his colleagues; he grabs his arm without explanation and forces him to go up with him to the building’s rooftop.

“Hey, man, are you okay?” 

Hayden’s tone is light. Shane takes a deep breath, counts down from ten to one, and focuses on an almost translucent cloud. Then he exhales. Maybe he should start smoking. That would justify his sudden urges to go outside for some air when he feels like he’s going to die.

“I think I need to quit.”

“What the hell?” Hayden gasps in surprise, turning his whole body toward him. “Explain yourself.”

Shane glares at his friend.

“Do I really have to?”

“When you’re planning to abandon Svetlana and me without any explanation, uh, yeah, I think it’s vital that you do.”

Shane wants to tell him that he and Svetlana aren’t even that close, but he supposes it’s a weak lie. The woman is nice to him, helps him with things he doesn’t understand, and they often talk about the magazine issues, so Shane appreciates the time they spend together. He doesn’t appreciate having that thrown in his face during a moment of weakness.

“I think my position in here has become problematic,” Shane says vaguely, unable to organize his racing thoughts. “For me, at least.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Shane doesn't know how to explain the strange tingling that runs through him from head to toe when Ilya looks at him three seconds longer than necessary. Nor can he express the burning, ghostly, and haunting sensation that consumes his body when his boss laughs.

Perhaps he's possessed.

Perhaps he's gone mad.

There's a small chance he's just being dramatic. Shane hadn't expected his outburst that time, when between drunken breaths he'd told Ilya everything he thought of his damn face, to open a black hole beneath his feet and consume his peace of mind.

Now Ilya is acting casual. He treats Shane like an equal, as if in some parallel universe they'd met under normal circumstances and were friends. He gives him explanations and sends him messages for no reason. Ilya laughs at his words, calls him boring with amusement, asks him spiritual questions, and tells him to take care of his stupid dog.

It's abnormal. It's infuriating. It's ridiculous because he and Ilya aren't friends, much less equals.

How is Shane supposed to be indifferent to his attitude? He's only a man.

Shane's lost count of the times his heart leaps in his chest when Ilya smiles.

He's in so, so much trouble.

"Shane," Hayden says, drawing his attention, "explain yourself before I have a heart attack."

"How did you realize you liked Jackie?"

Hayden succeeded in inviting Jackie to the magazine gala, so he's been floating on a cloud of joy and contentment for the past few days. He insists the next step is marriage, even though they haven't even held hands yet. It's endearing and infuriating in equal measure.

At his question, his friend stays silent for a few moments. Shane can feel his piercing gaze, but he ignores it in favor of taking the deepest breath he can.

"She smiled at me while I was telling her a story."

"Oh."

Isn't that the most obvious, inevitable, and natural thing in the world? Shane exhales. 

It's worse than he thinks.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Hayden says after a few minutes, as if he’s uncovered all the secrets he’s been hiding. His friend’s careful expression confirms that he did. “We work in the same space as other people; it’s normal to feel a certain way when we share every second of the day. It doesn’t mean we have to act on it.”

“Is this your way of telling me you secretly love me?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Shane laughs.

He knows Hayden is right. Shane has forgotten that, no matter what fantasies his mind conjured up daily, Ilya would never be the protagonist of them.

It's common sense, after all. They're different people, from opposite worlds, with different realities. Shane remembers the photograph of Svetlana and Rose in the woman's office, and his heart aches.

Shane isn't usually attracted to people. He quickly tires of their mind games and the double meanings that he can never understand, but sometimes, some people's light shines brighter than others'.

Ilya has a fucking spotlight on him.

"Don't quit," Hayden complains. "Who am I going to have coffee with in the mornings? Besides, I won't have anyone to listen to my gossip."

"You can tell Jackie."

"We're not at that point in our relationship yet!"

"You're right, I can't subject Jackie to that torture," Shane says, dodging his friend's nudge at his words. "Come on, it's time to head back. I don't want Rose to think I'm a bad influence."

For the rest of the day, Shane dwells on Hayden's words. He's simply confused because Ilya is an attractive man who speaks to him more than three words a day. He's not genuinely interested in him, and besides, he's a jerk. 

Shane needs to have higher standards. 

He decides, from that moment on, that he will ignore all the treacherous thoughts involving Ilya. He's his boss, a guy he can tolerate now, but he's his boss nonetheless. 

Shane needs to survive a couple more months so he can then ask for a recommendation letter to start making his dream a reality. Soon he'll be working as a sports critic, and all his confused feelings about Ilya are going to be buried six feet under.

Despite it not being a video call, Shane tries to maintain a poker face in the face of the absurd scenario he is witnessing. 

“Just tell him you’re my assistant,” Ilya says, exasperated. “I already spoke to him this morning; he’s a decrepit old man who can’t even remember his own name.”

“I need your ID, sir.” 

The man in front of Shane does indeed look like a decrepit old man, but he doesn’t bother to agree with his boss. He’s been trying to get into the building for fifteen minutes, but the receptionist refuses to let him in without an ID. An ID that Shane doesn’t have because he stupidly left it in his desk.

“I already told you I don’t have it,” Shane says through gritted teeth. “I have the apartment owner on the line; if it were so—”

“It’s protocol, you can’t go in without an ID, sir.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Ilya growls in his ear. Shane stifles a shiver, gripping the phone tightly. “I’m going to get on a plane, take a taxi, and go straight there and kill him. Anya is alone, sad, abandoned, and this idiot…” 

Not wanting to listen to his boss’s ramblings, Shane hangs up. He’s exhausted from the workday and is starting to regret agreeing to the favor. The man in front of him clearly cares about his job, but he doesn’t seem like an aggressive type. Maybe Shane can convince him with what he knows best: persuasion.

“Sir,” Shabe begins, deliberately changing his tone of voice, "my boss is a jerk. This is his apartment, and I’m here to look after his pet. If I don’t see her today, I’ll be in serious trouble. Why don’t you take a picture of my face, make a copy of my fingerprint, and escort me to the destination? That way you can be sure this is legitimate.”

Shane slowly flutters his eyelashes, perfectly mimicking what he sometimes sees Svetlana do. Somewhere in the city, Hayden is probably falling off his chair laughing.

The receptionist seems to hesitate for a moment, but eventually nods. Checkmate.

Although the building exudes opulence, his boss's apartment is on the third floor of twenty. When the receptionist checks that the key Shane has opens the door, he leaves with the promise to return for him if he takes too long.

As soon as Shane enters, a familiar scent envelops him. The perfume Ilya leaves in his wake seems to be his personal fragrance, because the moment he steps forward and leaves the front door behind, Shane smells the usual aroma of tobacco and sandalwood.

The apartment is lit by a warm panel that divides the living room from another room, but it's not enough for Shane to make out the whole place. When he can't find the light switch, he resigns himself to his terrible fate.

He calls Ilya.

"Give me that damn receptionist's name, I'll get him fired," his boss says as soon as he answers the phone. Even though he still seems agitated, Shane notices that he hasn't called back. Perhaps he's confident he can handle it himself. "I can't believe that—"

“Shut up. I’m in your apartment, but I can’t see shit. Where’s the stupid light switch?”

“Oh,” Ilya says, but he doesn’t seem that surprised. After a moment of silence, the lights illuminate the space. “Did it work?”

Shane nods, and when he remembers the man can’t see him, he opens his mouth.

“Yeah, I’ll call you later.”

Once the other line goes dead, Shane moves around the place to take it all in. It has reddish wood walls and black paneling that contrast with the white ceramic floor. The living room is spacious, with two sofas, a medium-sized television, and floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city’s luminous night sky.

It’s a relatively standard apartment. There’s nothing to indicate that Ilya lives there except his scent. When Shane approaches the table to look at it, he sees a photograph of the face of a smiling woman with blonde hair and large, light-colored eyes. A girlfriend, perhaps. Shane tries to imagine Ilya and that woman living in the apartment, but it's a strange picture.

Suddenly, a sharp whimper catches his attention.

"Anya?"

Behind the sofa, a white ball of fur moves toward him. It's a small dog with pointed ears and brown spots. Shane watches the animal timidly approach to sniff him.

"Um, hi," he says hesitantly. "I'm Shane, uh, Ilya's assistant."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels stupid. He didn't have pets growing up, and his mom is still traumatized—no matter how much she denies it—by the loss of a cat she had before Shane, so he's never lived with animals.

It can't be that hard if Ilya does it. That asshole isn't going to beat him at something so simple.

"I know you must be lonely," he continues, but this time Shane crouches down to be at her level. The dog is surprisingly shy, so he holds out a hand for her to sniff, praying he won't get bitten. "I came to keep you company for a while."

Anya seems to have reached some conclusion, because she pushes her little head against Shane's palm, wanting him to pet her. Her fur is surprisingly soft. Since she doesn't seem bothered by his presence, Shane spends a few minutes petting her until curiosity gets the better of him, and he resumes exploring Ilya's apartment. Next to the living room are the bathroom, a library, and a fully equipped gym. The door at the end of the hall must be the master bedroom, but Shane doesn't dare open it.

He doesn't think he can see where Ilya sleeps and pretend everything is normal.

When it's time to look at the kitchen, Shane hears Anya's paws following him. The dog trots over to a corner where there's a water bowl and a plate full of pet food. Then she sits down and stares at Shane.

And she starts barking. Loudly.

"Uh, what's wrong?" Shane asks nervously. The dog tilts her head and barks louder. "What do you want?"

In an obvious move, Anya doesn't answer and keeps barking. Is she in pain? Is she sick? Shit, Shane's been with the dog for fifteen minutes and he's already screwed up somehow. Ilya is going to kill him. Or fire him. Or both; either option is equally terrible.

Then, the animal pushes the food bowl with her head and barks again.

Ah.

"You're hungry," Shane says, looking at the full bowl. He doubts Ilya, with the money he has, would feed his dog low-quality food, but it's clear Anya hasn't touched the bowl all day. "Uh, I have no idea what dogs eat, but we can find out."

Anya responds by sitting down in front of him and sticking out her tongue. She's an adorable and manipulative dog; in a strange way, she reminds him of Ilya.

With a sigh, Shane starts searching the cabinets. There are a few spices, rice, cans of peas, and dishes. When he opens the refrigerator, the conclusion is obvious.

Ilya Rozanov is an idiot.

How can a man with those muscles eat like that? In the refrigerator, there's a six-pack of beer, some energy drinks, eggs, and a halved onion. Nothing else.

Ilya answers after two rings.

"Hello?"

"You're an idiot," Shane says, echoing his thoughts. "What do you eat all day?"

"Huh?"

“Your refrigerator is empty,” Shane explains, closing the appliance door and checking the freezer drawer. There’s the explanation for his muscles: it’s overflowing with different kinds of meat and fish. “Haven’t you ever heard of vegetables?”

“I’m at the office all day, Shane,” Ilya replies, and he can almost picture him rolling his eyes. “I don’t have time to cook. I usually eat out or get whatever you order for lunch. Why the fuck are you asking me for explanations?”

Anya barks to get his attention, making him turn around. She stretches on her front paws and wags her tail.

On the other end of the line, Ilya makes a cooing sound. Shit.

“Oh, Anya’s hungry. Has she run out of food?”

“It’s more of a ‘she doesn’t want to eat it’ situation,” Shane says, without questioning how the hell he knows the dog’s condition. “She started barking as soon as I walked into the kitchen.”

“Hmm, I should have known she wouldn’t like it. She was sick a few weeks ago and they changed her food. She probably hasn’t eaten all day. Give her a can of tuna and she’ll be fine.”

“What? Just that?”

“I can send someone else to drop off a better meal tomorrow.” 

Shane scoffs, offended, and looks at Anya, who seems to hear her owner’s voice.

Fuck Ilya, he doesn’t think he can do a decent job? Shane will research the best dog food recipes online and metaphorically kick his boss’s ass when it comes to pet sitting.

And maybe, when he gets back to the city, Shane can kick Ilya’s ass, not so metaphorically.

“Fine, I’ll sort it out. Bye.”

After hanging up, Shane starts cooking dinner for Anya. He's not the best cook in the world, but a quick internet search gives him a precise recipe for a chicken and vegetable meal.

Shane is very good at following instructions, so he successfully makes dinner under the watchful eye of his boss's dog, who seems more hungry than genuinely interested. He makes enough for the next few days, so he puts the leftovers in the refrigerator. 

When Anya catches a whiff of her new food, she barks in apparent approval and immediately starts eating. Shane takes out his phone and snaps a picture.

To: Asshole (8.07 pm)

1 image attachment

Guess who her new favorite person is

 

From: Asshole (8.08 pm)

Don't take it personally, it's not a hard place to win.

 

To: Asshole (8.08 pm)

Fuck off

 

From: Asshole (8.08 pm)

😛

Shane strokes the dog's soft back and tries his best not to smile.

The rest of the nights are simpler. Shane remembers to bring his ID, Anya eats her food without complaint, and demands all the affection she can get until it's time to go home. She's a calm animal. Endearing, even. She doesn't seem bothered at all by the presence of a stranger; instead, she seems to relentlessly pursue affection.

Ilya is probably a loving owner. Shane tries not to dwell on it.

The day Ilya returns to the office, Shane finds a small yellow sticky note on his desk. The note has words written in scrawny handwriting, next to a hideous but adorable doodle resembling a dog's head, with pointy ears and dark-spotted fur.

Thanks for taking care of me.

Anya

Shane stares at the note without blinking until his eyes sting. Then, he secretly tucks it away among his personal papers, pretending his heart isn't racing.

He has a perfect plan.

Shane is going to make the last copies he needs to study the guests at next week's gala; then, stealthily, he'll escape to the rooftop to work on reviewing the data of those idiots, all while hiding from Svetlana.

It's an excellent idea.

The sheets of paper fall one after another into the printer. Shane watches the rapid action, tapping his foot against the floor of the copy room. This is a small room next to Harris's office, containing three high-tech printers, a cabinet overflowing with documents, and a chair. The door has a tiny window that obscures the entire room, making it easy to hide.

At least, that's how it is until two interns enter the room, speaking in irritatingly loud tones.

"I'm exhausted," one of them huffs. "I can't wait for my internship to end so I can get out of here."

“At least he didn’t call you an idiot when you asked him what kind of belts he wanted. How hard is it to say ‘the yellow one’?” the other replies.

“He dresses like he’s in the club, I don’t think he has the right to call you an idiot.” 

When both men notice Shane, they greet him with a slight nod and soon resume their grumbling as they get ready to make their own copies. Shane rolls his eyes and suppresses the exasperation that rises within him at the rookies’ words, preferring to wish the printer would hurry the fuck up.

According to Harris's remarks at the last meeting, the scale of this year's charity gala is unprecedented. Therefore, they need to hire more staff to cover every aspect of the Centaurs perfectly, which means new employees and interns to support the various departments. 

In theory, this is beneficial, but in practice, Shane has to put up with inexperienced interns asking him for appointments to ask Ilya about trivial details. It's infuriating.

“He wants me to do ten different sketches by this afternoon. Where am I going to find the energy to do it? Troy’s already kicking my ass,” one of the interns groans.

“If he weren’t one of the best editors in the industry, nobody would put up with him.”

Shane purses his lips in an annoyed grimace and taps his foot more quickly on the floor.

It's obvious from their words and complaints that they're talking about Ilya. Jerks. The interns don't look a day over twenty-five. Do they realize how lucky they are to work on the Centaurs, to be around someone like Ilya? Yes, Shane agrees the man is unbearable, but it's different when someone other than him or Svetlana says so.

"He's handsome, at least," sighs one of the interns. "That makes everything easier. Do you think he'd say yes if I asked him to be my date for the gala?"

Shane imagines Ilya, blank expression and muscular arms crossed, listening to the request from the dark-haired, lanky intern. Please. Shane has to take a deep breath to keep from laughing.

“I don’t think he’s gay. He’s usually with Svetlana from the Finance Department. He probably fucks her in the conference room…”

“Hey,” Shane interrupts, drawing the men’s attention. 

They both turn to him in surprise, as if they’d forgotten he was there. Fucking bastards. Who do they think they are, talking about Svetlana like that? Ilya might be an asshole, but he respects his friend and the workplace. Shane feels furious on behalf of his boss, and before he can stop himself, he approaches the interns.

“What are your names?” Shane asks, suppressing the urge to punch both men simultaneously. “I want your first and last names. I’m going to report you to your boss.”

"What?" one of them says, the color draining from his face. "Was it because of Svetlana? I lied, actually Ilya looks super gay, I don't think he could be with any woman in the office."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the other rookie adds nervously. "We even heard someone from the Graphic Design Department saying he's fucking his assistant, so I don't think he and Svetlana are romantically involved." 

Any action Shane intends to take freezes upon hearing the men's words. 

What the flying fuck.

He can't believe it. Shane blinks, stunned, then looks at the interns searching for mocking expressions. It's probably a bad joke; they obviously know Shane is Ilya's assistant, right? Otherwise, their joke doesn't make sense.

However, the two people in front of him seem to be serious. They both wear expressions of equal parts fear and worry.

Oh, shit.

Him and Ilya? Him and Ilya? Shane has a… creative imagination; it's not the first time that idea has crossed his mind. In the confines of his own mind, he can tolerate it, entertain it even if he feels brave, but it's a completely different story to hear it from the mouths of strangers.

Shane swallows hard, and immediately dismisses any thought when the word "fucking" appears with the force of a whirlwind in his mind. No, no, no. It's impossible that that rumor is circulating in the office, especially when Shane takes great pride in being his boss's number one hater.

He's going to kill the guy from the Graphic Design Department who's spreading that rumor.

He's going to dismember Hayden if he's that guy.

Before Shane can slap each of the interns for their audacity, the door to the copy room room opens and Ilya Rozanov himself appears.

He hasn't seen his boss all morning. Shane has been busy sneaking around the office to avoid Svetlana, while Ilya has holed up in his office to approve the final articles to be published before the charity gala. Today he's wearing a white shirt and wide-legged black trousers. He looks casual, relaxed, and attractive.

God, Shane hates him so much.

Ilya notices him first, searching his eyes with curiosity. Then, he glances at the interns and immediately grimaces.

"What are you doing wasting time?" his boss spits out, but quickly refocuses on Shane. "And you, where were you? What's the point of being my assistant if you're never around to do your job?"

It's unsettling that, due to the long hours he spends with Ilya, Shane has learned to identify most of his expressions and the nuances of his voice. He can read between the lines, understanding the true intentions behind his actions, which seem to be asking him if he's alright.

The interns clearly don't possess the same skill. Their eyes are wide, staring at them in shock.

Then, Shane remembers their words, and he can't help the discomfort that rushes to his cheeks. His face burns at the thought of standing in front of two people who think Ilya is fucking him in the meeting room.

A fleeting memory appears in his mind. Ilya's hands, rough and burning, pushing him against the cleaning closet door that time he confronted him about Hayden's supposed mistake. They haven't physically confronted each other again, but Shane can still feel the man's warm knuckles against his neck when he grabbed his shirt collar. 

Shit.

Shane swallows hard to focus, and glares at Ilya.

"What do you want? I've been in the office all morning."

"I needed you," his boss replies simply, shrugging.

Ah, this definitely isn't helping his case. One of the interns gasps, as if he's watching a scene from a romantic movie.

If he and Ilya were to star in a movie, it definitely wouldn't be a romance. Horror, most likely. Comedy, action, drama, even adult film, but never romance. No matter how his boss's simple words make his heart leap, Shane has made peace with his recent madness.

"Uh, er, we're going to, mh, do stuff," one of the interns says, lowering his head. "Excuse us." 

When the men leave the room, Ilya shrugs indifferently and heads over to the printer Shane is using to grab a sheet of paper with his large hands.

"Were you going over the list?"

“Yeah, Harris sent me one last updated version of the guest list,” Shane exhales, stepping closer to his boss. “It never ends.”

“Tell me about it,” Ilya grumbles. “After reviewing the items, I spent all morning authorizing transactions for the damn gala. Svetlana sent Elena to make sure I got it done before lunch.”

At the mention of his friend, Shane flinches.

“You haven’t seen Svetlana around here, have you?”

“What, are you running away from her?”

When Shane doesn't answer, his boss raises his eyebrows so high they almost touch his hair.

"Are you... running away from Svetlana?" Ilya asks incredulously. "What happened? Did you decide those damn interns are better company?" 

Shane punches him in the arm, causing the man's soft cologne to fill the space between them. Fuck, Ilya smells nauseatingly good.

"Don't talk to me about those jerks," Shane huffs. For a moment, he's tempted to tell the man about the rumor going around about them, but he doesn't think he can handle the look of disgust right now. "I'm not running away from Svetlana, I'm just... avoiding her. She's furious, for some reason. Furious in capital letters."

"I didn't think you were such a wip."

"Shut the fuck up, jackass."

"Hey, that's a new one." 

Shane has no idea what got into Svetlana to make her so angry. Earlier that morning, she'd been in a good mood: she'd ignored an intern when he tried to flirt with her, joked with Shane about all the champagne they were going to drink at the gala in a few weeks, and updated him on the new—apparently secret—romance between Troy and Harris.

Something happened between ten and twelve.

"Don't look at me," Ilya says, as if reading his mind. "I'm the one who should be angry, after I sent Elena to babysit me like a child."

"Not everything revolves around you."

"Want to bet?"

"This conversation is stupid," Shane grumbles, crossing his arms. He craves fresh air; the overwhelming smell of cigarettes on Ilya's clothes conjures up images of his lips that Shane doesn't want to think about. "What did you need me for?"

Ilya has the nerve to laugh, that perfect sound that ruins his day. Shane punches him in the arm again.

"Fuck, I'm your boss and I have to explain myself. You're the most ridiculous person I know," Ilya says, but his eyes gleam with amusement. "I've been evaluating your position, and I've come to a conclusion. From now on, your responsibilities will be distributed differently. Fifty percent of your time will be spent being my assistant and kissing the floor I walk on."

"Oh, you're such an asshole, I'm impressed—"

"And the other fifty percent will be focused on your work as a writer." 

Shane's words die in his mouth as soon as Ilya finishes speaking. The man looks serious, his gaze fixed exclusively on him, with that editorial director's posture that sometimes haunts his dreams.

What?

The new distribution makes no sense. Shane isn't a writer for the magazine; he was hired solely to assist his idiot boss. He'll never do any writing work; Marlow had repeated that at least twenty times during the interview to keep him from getting his hopes up.

"Wyatt needs some extra help," Ilya explain casually, as if it were a trivial matter. "Apparently, the editorial department needs a new writer. He refuses to hire one of the interns. Wyatt mentioned you in a conversation, showed me your college work and previous jobs, and we decided it would be a good idea to bring you on board."

Wyatt Hayes. Shane doesn't know him personally, but he's thoroughly researched his career. He's aware of Wyatt's expertise, the publishing awards he's received, and his extensive experience. Working with Wyatt is a golden opportunity. He also knows Wyatt is a relaxed and easygoing guy; the exact opposite of Ilya.

Shane tries not to tremble with anticipation and looks at Ilya for an expression that might betray his words, but his boss remains serious. His eyes are intriguing, two hazel wells, brimming with an infinite, energetic feeling. It seems that intensity is his default feeling.

These days, Shane no longer feels Ilya's gaze uncomfortably scrutinizing him. On the contrary, it's almost as if he expects the man's eyes to be on him.

Look at me, look at me, look at me.

It's clear Shane has lost his mind, but it doesn't worry him as much as it did a couple of weeks ago.

“Why do you seem so surprised?” Ilya murmurs gently. “You said yourself that you were a good writer.”

“I said I was an amazing writer.”

The man laughs.

“You’re very funny, you know that?”

No, Shane isn’t a funny person. Historically, people have stuck to him for reasons of convenience. In high school, for his good grades; in college, for his extensive credit and his connections with the professors. At work, he assumes, people are drawn to him because he’s Ilya’s assistant. Shane works tirelessly on that polished, sociable, and accommodating version of himself, which is his professional persona.

For the first three months at the Centaurs, Shane had tried to replicate that professional persona with Ilya, but since that night in the elevator, Shane has brought out his worst habits in order to repel his boss.

He must have assumed that, given how horrible Ilya is, it would have the opposite effect.

“The pot calling the kettle black,” Shane sighs with mock sympathy.

“Huh? Who’s calling whom?”

“I don’t know, it’s just a saying.”

Suddenly, the familiar sound of Svetlana’s shoes clicking on the floor echoes loudly outside the copy room. Shane catches his breath as the doorknob turns and the door creaks open, the woman’s hair peeking through the doorway.

Before Svetlana can enter the room and notice them, a fourth voice speaks.

“Are you still upset?”

It's Rose.

Shane exchanges a glance with Ilya. Neither of them is in Svetlana's field of vision, so they can't decipher the woman's expression without revealing their position.

"I don't want to talk to you," Svetlana replies so coldly that Shane freezes. "I'm looking for someone else, leave me alone."

"Please, you have to understand. It wasn't a decision I—"

"I don't care. I want you to forget everything I ever said to you." 

Rose's tone, in contrast to Svetlana's, sounds pleading and desperate. What the hell is going on?

Shane shifts uncomfortably. He doesn't want to invade the women's privacy; the conversation is definitely none of his business. Before he can open his mouth to announce his presence, he's interrupted by Rose's voice.

"Svetlana," the woman pleads once more, her tone cracking on the last syllable.

"Do you have any idea what it meant that—"

Svetlana's words disappear behind the door as she closes it.

After that, for a long moment, Shane can only breathe raggedly.

He doesn't know what the hell happened, but both Svetlana and Rose sound distressed. His friend's voice is characterized by a more hostile and distant tone, but Shane has learned to understand her over these past months. It's something deeper, more painful. In retrospect, he should have guessed that what had angered his friend had something to do with Rose; she's the only one who could have disrupted Svetlana's world in that way.

“Shit,” Ilya exhales against his cheek. At some point, they get close enough for Shane to catch a whiff of his warm, slightly minty breath. “I’ve never heard Svetlana so angry.”

“I guess someone has to go talk to her, huh?” 

Ilya nods, and slowly, his expression softens into something playful and amused. 

When Shane visits his parents on weekends, they always ask him how work is going. Shane talks about Hayden, Svetlana, the cafeteria food, and the stupid tasks he has to complete to please his boss, but he avoids talking about Ilya directly.

In a way, it’s a protective measure. His mother is perceptive, always attentive to details and what others are hiding. Especially when it comes to Shane.

He doesn't want to explain the smiles that spontaneously appear on his face when he thinks of Ilya and his awful sense of humor. He's incapable of putting into words the way his hands tremble if his boss gets too close, and he definitely doesn't need to justify the pleasure he gets from the defiant look in Ilya's eyes.

When it's just the two of them, immersed in their own private bubble, Shane can pretend it's reciprocated. He allows himself to believe that Ilya's heartbeat is as anxious as his own, and that the smiles the man gives him are saturated with the same effervescence as his own.

"Oh," Ilya murmurs, raising an eyebrow provocatively. "Rock, paper, scissors. Sudden death. The loser faces Svetlana."

"The only thing that's going to die here is my will to live. Besides, she's your friend. Shouldn't you go?"

"I can smell the fear. Didn't you shower today?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Shane raises his hand, suppressing the urge to laugh. Sometimes everything is simple with Ilya. Always, really, especially when he's overcome with the urge to suffocate him. With something horrible like a bag full of rocks. Or with kisses.

Ew.

"I'll make sure to bring flowers to your grave, if your will to live is going to die,” Ilya says. “Do you like roses?"

"No, but I can bring them to yours."

"I don't want you near my grave, you'll scare away my suitors."

"Who, the old woman who died in 1929?"

Ilya's laughter bubbles between them, seeming to enter Shane's mouth and trickle down his throat like candy. God, Ilya is unbearable.

"Okay, sudden death. One, two… three," Shane exclaims.

Shane plays paper, but his boss plays scissors. Shit.

"I always win at everything, I can't say I'm surprised," Ilya sighs, shaking his head. "However, I'll be lenient this time."

"I didn't know you knew such complex words."

"Shut up. Who's the boss here, huh? Go grab something to eat and then come back to the office so Wyatt and I can set up your new responsibilities. I'll talk to Svetlana." 

Without giving him time to argue, Ilya smiles provocatively and leaves the copy room to follow Svetlana. Shane stands still by the printer and the sheets with the guest details, feeling a laugh stuck in his throat.

Will he ever get used to this relaxed, less stern version of the man? Shane doubts it. Maybe it's for the best; it'll make his transition to a new job easier when he quits in a few months.

The rest of the days are a whirlwind of anticipation and anxiety among the employees. The charity gala is the only topic of conversation morning, noon, and night. This extends to every department because, according to Harris, it's essential to be fully aligned with the event of the year. Ilya and Wyatt have decided that his role as editor will begin after the party, so Shane takes advantage of the opportunity to get ahead on more work than ever before.

Caught in a whirlwind of responsibilities, he barely notices the days passing. Before he knows it, Shane is standing behind Ilya amidst a throng of people, wearing a grey suit that hugs his waist.

It's hell.

"Can you stop already?" Ilya explodes, making no attempt to hide his irritation. "If you keep pulling at your collar, you'll wrinkle your shirt."

"I don't give a damn," Shane snarls, equally exasperated. 

It is, objectively, the event of the year.

The charity gala embodies what the Centaurs is all about: elegance, style, grace, and cutting-edge design. Harris has done an excellent job, from the flowers in every corner to the porcelain adorning the tables and the ceiling. Guests mingle organically throughout the room, chatting and laughing in a social bubble.

Even so, Shane can't enjoy the evening in peace. The lighting is too harsh, the music is too loud, and he can't breathe properly. It's the definition of hell. Shane has never appreciated social events, but he can tolerate them; unfortunately, his limit was reached at least half an hour ago, and his damn suit isn't helping.

Ilya is wearing an all-black suit, Italian shoes, and his hair is meticulously styled for the evening. He looks more elegant than Shane has ever seen him, attractive, sensual. When Shane saw him arrive at the hotel, he thought he wouldn't survive having him around all night.

That thought quickly morphed because Shane can't stop feeling extremely uncomfortable and irritated with everything around him.

His boss seems to be on the same wavelength. Just inches away from him, Ilya rolls his eyes.

"There's still a long night ahead, do you think you can stop acting like a brat?"

"I'm not a brat," Shane complains, sounding exactly like one. "Don't tell me this is the best day of your life."

"No, but I'm capable of—who are they?"

Shane scans his field of vision and figures out who his boss is referring to. Two men, one with pink hair and the other blond, are walking in his direction. He quickly gives them the information, and Ilya smiles falsely.

"Ah, Jeremy, Louis," Ilya says, extending his hand to greet them. "I'm glad you're here."

"Thank you for the invitation. It's a great party," Louis, editor-in-chief of a cooking magazine, replies with a smile. "You have a fantastic team."

Shane tunes out the conversation, more to isolate himself than to give them any privacy. He's spent the night listening to his boss chat casually with at least forty different people while he remains silent behind his back.

It's definitely hell.

At least Harris's work has paid off. All the guests seem to agree: it's the gala of the year, the most sublime party of the season, one of the best organizations, blah, blah. Yes, the hotel ballroom looks incredible and the food is delicious, but Shane would enjoy it more with his friends.

In the crowd, Shane tries to find Hayden. He spots him at the bar, drinking with Svetlana. They both look amazing; his friend is wearing a streetwear-style suit that contrasts with Svetlana's spectacular blue dress, which hugs her figure and highlights her voluminous hair.

They seem to be having a good time.

Shane laments being doomed to listen to what the hell Ilya thinks about the next issue of the magazine. Hayden seems engrossed in explaining something interesting—objectively idiotic, probably—while sipping shots of tequila with Svetlana.

"Hey," his boss says, catching his attention. The furrow in his brow suggests it wasn't the first time he'd said his name. "You're off for the night."

"What?"

"You did your job, helping me with the guests and all. Andrei didn't show up, so I'll call it a night," Ilya explains, shrugging. "It's only fair you enjoy the party. Anyway, I have to go make a call, so you can do something else."

"Uh," Shane says, unsure how to respond. Ilya has been grumpy all night; almost like him, but for different reasons, he supposes. Shane doesn't think Ilya minds smiling and being a functional human being. Shane glances at Hayden and sighs. "Fine. If you need me, I'll be around."

Before Ilya—or himself—changes his mind, Shane weaves his way through the crowd toward the bar. It's ridiculous; who knows so many people? Besides the staff, Harris seems to have invited the entire town: acquaintances, businesspeople, lawyers, entertainers, writers, politicians. At the start of the day, it seemed exciting; now it's exhausting.

"Shane!" Hayden shouts, his tone indicating he's nearing his drinking limit. "Man, I haven't seen you all night. Where were you?"

"Babysitting," Shane replies, forcing himself not to look back for Ilya, "but my vacation just started."

His friend laughs as if it's the best joke ever, and beside him, Svetlana joins in with a chorus of laughter.

"How are you—?"

"You'd be a great babysitter," Svetlana interrupts, slurring her words. "Ilya never seems angry around you."

Oh, no. A couple of months ago, Troy had mentioned with a certain pride that Svetlana had a high alcohol tolerance. She always came in second to Ilya in their competitions, never even coming close to being slightly tipsy.

However, it's obvious that Svetlana is drunk now. Her face is flushed, and her movements are clumsy, slowed by the alcohol in her blood.

“Right? That’s what I say,” Hayden adds, nodding quickly. “Ilya and Shane, best friends forever. Friends. Very good friends.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, approaching Svetlana to take the glass of alcohol from her hands. The woman doesn’t flinch, still laughing. 

Svetlana and Troy, according to a conversation they had at lunch a few days ago, agreed to go to the Gala together. Shane looks around the bar, but Troy is gone. Conveniently, Harris isn’t there either. 

Ew.

If Shane is honest, he’s a little worried about Svetlana. After the “incident” in the copy room—which Svetlana had refused to explain to either Ilya or Shane—she said that the matter with Rose is settled and over. Her words, not his. Shane doesn’t even understand fully what the matter is.

Because of the way she has chosen to drink until she is close to passing out, Shane doesn't think Svetlana is being honest.

"Man, this is a great party," Hayden sighs, letting his head fall against the bar. "Jackie looks amazing, don't you think? I'm going to marry her. Look at her." 

Through the sea of people, he spots Jackie with Rose and Wyatt, Shane's new boss. The three of them seem deep in conversation, but Wyatt's gaze is fixed on Rose, whom he has firmly wrapped an arm around.

Svetlana seems to see the same thing, because she huffs loudly and curses under her breath.

"Yes, Hayden, do it," Svetlana says. "Get married before... before she finds... before she finds another idiot. Because that's how they are. They smile at you, they promise you things, and... and then they leave. With someone else. With a man. An idiot man who can't make decisions, unlike you who can, because... because you're the f-fucking CFO."

Hayden must be more drunk than he looks, because he nods solemnly, oblivious to Svetlana's personal words.

Shit.

Shane can see that beneath Svetlana's seemingly relaxed demeanor, she's hurting. Before the gala, Rose had been sitting in the cafeteria with Wyatt.  Shane only became aware of this because Hayden forces him to gather any information that could possibly turn into gossip. During those moments, Svetlana pretended not to care while eating her lunch and pressuring Troy to share information about him and Harris.

However, Shane now notices the details. He saw his friend's gaze flicker toward Rose's table when she thought she wasn't being watched; he heard Svetlana's sighs of defeat when Rose arrived arm in arm with the man at the start of the gala.

"Time to go back to my date," Hayden says with a proud smile. The man stands and pats him on the back as he passes. "You look hot, Shane." 

Shane doesn't hide his discomfort even though the man is no longer there. Svetlana laughs.

“He's right. Grey suits you. I like you, Shane. You have a strong presence and you’re strangely passionate. Good for you. You’re great, Shane.” 

Shane feels his cheeks burn and greets Svetlana’s words with a small smile. His friendship with the woman has been completely unexpected, but Shane is grateful. Besides, he knows this will be the only time he’ll hear her say something like that; he doubts he’ll ever see her this drunk again.

“You deserve to be happy,” Svetlana decides unexpectedly, slamming her fist on the bar. “I’m going to find you a partner right now. What do you like? Big breasts and pretty faces, I’m sure. You like men too, right? Everyone in this business play both sides. Look at Elena! She’s in love with someone else, but she’s definitely up for a one-night stand.”

"Huh?" 

Shane can't process Svetlana's rapid-fire words because she immediately opens her mouth again.

"Maybe Teresa wants to take a chance today… although if it's men you prefer, Kevin is always available for a good time. I think it's funny how everyone ignores the no-sex-between-employees policy. Kevin would have been fired ages ago. Look at him! He's handsome, isn't he?"

Svetlana clumsily points at a man standing next to Hayden and Jackie, someone Shane's never seen before in his life.

"Mmh, you like him, then," Svetlana says suggestively. With horror, he sees his friend raise her hand in the air. "Hey, Kevin! Shane wants you to..."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Shane yells, covering Svetlana's mouth with his palm. He immediately regrets his closeness, but he calms down when he feels her vibrate with laughter under his grip. "I don't need a one-night stand. What I do need is for you to stop drinking."

"Pfft, everything's fine between me and alcohol. I could keep drinking for days." She tries to snatch the glass from his hands, but Shane is faster. "Boo, you're boring. You need to sleep with Kevin."

"Stop it."

"What's wrong with it? I've heard good things. Marco said his…"

"Svetlana! Stop it, please."

"Why are you two yelling?"

Shane's soul leaps out of his chest and escapes into another universe when Ilya's familiar voice sounds behind them.

"Oh, Ilya!" Svetlana smiles, greeting him clumsily. When Shane turns to look at him, he sees out of the corner of his eye how the woman's expression becomes suggestive. "I was trying to convince Shane that Kevin's a good lay. Do you think it would be a good idea for them to sleep together?"

"Don't answer that," Shane says quickly, his voice barely a whisper. "For God's sake, don't say anything."

Ilya's expression doesn't betray what he's thinking. He just takes a step forward, looks Shane up and down, and then focuses on Svetlana.

"No," his boss replies slowly, deliberately and carefully, "I don't think it's a good idea, whoever the fuck Kevin is. Svetlana, are you drunk?"

Svetlana laughs softly, resting her chin on her hand.

Fuck. Shane takes a deep breath, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I don't think it's a good idea. What the hell does that even mean? He glances at Ilya, whose eyes are fixed on Svetlana, his brow furrowed. Yes, he looks attractive in that suit. Elegant, distinguished. Like someone important who, for some reason, has been forced to share the same air as Shane.

"Yep. And I think you should too. We should all drink. It solves problems. Why don't we drink all the time?"

"Because you'd be an alcoholic," Ilya says, exasperated. In one swift motion, he takes Svetlana by the waist and pulls her to her feet. "I'll take you home. I don't want you saying anything you'll regret."

“But I’m talking to Shane,” Svetlana protests, pouting. “Shane, come with us. We can keep drinking at my place. I have a neighbor you’d definitely like, and he has a great—”

“We’re leaving,” Ilya interrupts with a grunt. 

Shane watches his boss effortlessly walk away from the bar, carrying Svetlana with one arm. She leans her entire body against Ilya, a comfortable and familiar movement. Shane remembers the photograph of Svetlana in the office. They've been friends for so many years, so this probably isn't the first time he's seen her like this.

"Hey, you. Hurry up. Do you want us to stay here all night or what?" 

Ilya's voice pulls Shane from his thoughts. His boss and Svetlana are standing a few feet away, embracing. They're waiting for him.

Shane smiles.

"You have to work on your patience. Let's go."

Svetlana's house is just a few minutes from the hotel, so while Ilya drives, Shane supports the woman who looks like she's about to throw up. Fortunately, disaster is averted, and before he knows it, the three of them are in Svetlana's living room. 

Her home is a small, cozy apartment in an industrial-style building. It's filled with plants and photographs and, like her office, has a faint citrus scent. Shane can't help but notice the numerous pictures featuring Rose's face.

“Let’s get back to our previous topic,” Svetlana says, clapping her hands clumsily. They’re sitting on the sofa, waiting for Ilya, who’s gone to the kitchen for a glass of water. “Tell me, what kind of partner do you want?”

“Svetlana,” Shane sighs, channeling the last of his remaining patience, “I don’t need your help finding anything. Can we stop talking about this?”

“But why not? Do you think no one will ever love you?”

Shane definitely didn't say that, but Svetlana's desolate, sorrowful expression stops him in his tracks. She looks like she's about to cry, and Shane doesn't want to be responsible for her sadness. Not when the real problem is something else.

His boss chooses that moment to appear. He's taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Shane notices that the garment has almost invisible details, a pointed pattern that blends into the fabric. Ilya looks more relaxed now that they've escaped the throng of people; a reflection of Shane's relief. His boss's hair is tousled, and he wears a peaceful expression. His hands bring the water for Svetlana.

"Ilya," the woman calls, straightening up suddenly, "tell me something you like about Shane."

"Huh? Svetlana, stop it. Ilya, you don't have to—"

"He's brave," the man replies, not at all surprised by the question. He hands the glass to Svetlana. "Bold. He doesn't put up with other people's crap." 

Perhaps it's Shane who's incredibly drunk despite not having drunk a drop of alcohol, because his ears can't comprehend what they're hearing. He doesn't know what's more surprising: the response or the natural way the words flow from Ilya's mouth.

Oblivious to his thoughts, Svetlana rolls her eyes.

"Those aren't compliments."

"You didn't ask me to give him a compliment."

"Shane thinks he'll never be loved and will be alone forever, that's why he—”

“I didn’t say that,” Shane interrupts weakly. Ilya’s eyes focus on him, clear and curious. “She’s drunk, you wouldn’t believe what’s coming out of her mouth.”

Ilya laughs.

“Sveta, I don’t think he needs your help finding a partner. I’m more interested in why the hell you chose to get drunk,” the man says simply. He moves across the room to sit on the floor next to Svetlana’s lap. “Did something else happen? You were fine before the party, you said things with Rose were sorted out.”

The room falls silent. The earlier animosity has vanished; Svetlana lowers her eyes and slumps her shoulders, as if she's lost a battle. She looks like a little girl.

"Rose won't put up with it anymore," Svetlana murmurs, without looking up. "She said she's not going to wait for me."

Oh.

Shane swallows hard, feeling the weight in his friend's words. Judging by their argument in the copy room, that had been the turning point in her decision. From the lack of surprise on Ilya's face, he must have sensed it.

"No matter what I say or do, it will all be in vain. Ilya, you know, my father—I can't do that to him. I just can't." 

Svetlana doesn't cry, but it is practically the same, judging by the devastated expression that masks her joy. She is such an energetic, intelligent, and beautiful woman; how can something like this happen to her?

Shane thinks of Rose and how the two of them interact. The way they laugh when they are in the same room and the gentleness of her gaze when it focuses on Svetlana. It is obvious that her decision is painful, against her will.

Ilya seems to reach the same conclusion, yet his expression betrays no understanding. He looks angry.

"Don't be ridiculous, Svetlana," his boss says, standing up. "This has been going on for far too many years. What more do you want to sacrifice?"

"Ilya," Shane warns, uneasy, "I think this situation is more complicated than that."

"What's so complicated about it? Svetlana loves her, Rose loves her, they love each other. Fuck her papa. End of story."

“If it were that simple, it’s obvious they wouldn’t be in this situation. Your asshole attitude isn’t helping.”

“She’s in this situation because she’s a coward,” Ilya repeats, clenching his fists, “and it’s that simple. I know you, Svetlana. Nothing makes you as happy as Rose. Why the hell aren’t you more selfish?” 

Shane exhales, trying to stay calm. Fuck, he’s too exhausted to have this argument. It’s not even appropriate to have it with him in the room. Svetlana hasn’t approved of his presence in such a personal matter. 

Ilya murmurs something in Russian, fast and upset. 

“It’s obvious that leaving her family is causing her problems,” Shane explains slowly. He feels foolish explaining the situation to a man who probably lives, or lived, the same thing as Svetlana, but he feels the need to do it. He thinks of his mother who wants a daughter-in-law, his father who longs for grandchildren. Shane swallows. “What, have you never had to make a difficult decision? What would you do if we were in that position, oh, great mature man, who has it all figured out?”

When the room falls silent, Shane takes stock of his words. Oh, no. No, no, no. His eyes widen, and thoughts race at breakneck speed on the tip of his tongue to retract the “we” implied by his words, but Ilya is faster.

“Now, I wouldn't hesitate to walk away from everything and everyone if I were asked to make a decision. Between you and the world, I'd choose you.”

This argument is pointless. There's no reason in the intensity of Ilya's words, nor in the burning conviction that shines in his eyes. They aren't in that situation, and they never would be, because there is no "we" between them, but that doesn't stop Shane's heart from pounding wildly in his chest.

“Now, you say that, but surely there was a time when you didn’t feel this way,” Shane replies in a futile attempt to maintain his composure. “Svetlana has a difficult relationship with her family, sometimes—”

“What, are you saying that if you were her, you wouldn’t choose me?

Choose Ilya?

Shane holds his breath. He gazes, for a moment, at the man before him. His voice, deep and resonant; his clear eyes, like the sky at dusk; his large, warm hands that seem clumsy, yet approach every aspect of life with gentleness. The infinite beauty of his features, the magnetic presence with which he commands everyone's attention.

Shane discovers, gripped by an unfamiliar conviction, that there is no universe where he wouldn't choose Ilya.

"I want to throw up," Svetlana suddenly says. Her expression is twisted with disgust, and her complexion turns greenish. "Oh, no. Everything is spinning. I need to go to the bathroom."

Ilya sighs, taking her by the waist, and says a few quick words in Russian that Shane can't quite understand. Before leaving the room, his boss turns to look him in the eye with an inscrutable expression.

"Can you go home on your own?"

Unable to speak to him directly, Shane nods. He bids Svetlana goodbye with soft words of encouragement and, his legs trembling, he retreats to the main street.

The return to his apartment is a hazy memory. Shane knows he stopped at least three times to take deep breaths because his hands don't shiver as he undresses to hide under the covers.

When he closes his eyes, all that exists in his mind is Ilya's voice echoing over and over.

Between you and the world, I'd choose you.

Shane hopes Ilya knows it's mutual. He'd die before saying it out loud.

Chapter 3: Indifferent, casual, detached

Chapter Notes

Wyatt Hayes is everything the intellectual world says he is: brilliant, insightful, sharp. His intelligence is both terrifying and admirable. Through the narrow corridors of the fifteenth floor, Shane has discovered that the man moves with a relaxed yet commanding poise, radiating an impeccable command based on his knowledge of literature and research.

Working for the Editorial Department is definitely an extraordinary experience.

For the past three weeks, since the charity gala, Shane has been splitting his time between assisting Ilya and working for Wyatt in the Editorial Department. His new contract stipulates that he spends the first three days with his boss, while the remaining two days he goes down five floors to occupy a small cubicle with other writers.

It's a completely different atmosphere. Shane is constantly amazed by Wyatt's performance—he's embarrassed to admit he's a bit of a fan, actually—and every Thursday and Friday, he buzzes with excitement to write whatever Wyatt asks him to. He's an understanding and kind boss, yes, but Wyatt is also ruthless when it comes to correcting his mistakes. Even though it's only been a few days, Shane feels he's learned more than ever.

There's no doubt the Editorial Department seems to be operating on a different frequency.

More deliberate, more intellectual, less Ilya.

Shane handles it well. In his new normal, he makes a significant effort to balance the various aspects of his life, navigating the endless responsibilities of holding two jobs, the difficulties of a new environment, and a voice that, suspiciously similar to his mother's, reminds him to act efficiently and with commitment.

But, fuck, there are certain aspects of his life that just don't cooperate at all.

From: Asshole (9:05 am)

We need to go over the lunch seating chart. 

Where are you.

Shane stares indignantly at his phone screen and, to avoid kicking someone nearby, takes a deep breath.

To: Asshole (9:06 am)

Moron. It's Wednesday. 

Wyatt asked for this extra day to get ahead on the next edition. I'll be with him Thursday and Friday as well.

From: Asshole (9:06 am)

OK.

Shane shakes his head and sets his phone aside. He needs to concentrate on the article he's writing; he has to finish it today before 5:00 p.m. or Wyatt will cut his head off.

Well, Wyatt isn't Ilya. The man will just look at him with his penetrating, friendly but serious eyes and bluntly tell him what needs correcting and how he can improve it.

It's incredible.

Shane can't begin to appreciate the opportunity Wyatt is giving him. Likewise, he can't ignore Ilya's flexibility in all of this. The man continues to rely on him for the essentials—his schedule, meetings, travel, and daily organization—but has stopped sending him on pointless tasks. Ilya doesn't object when Wyatt unexpectedly requests Shane's presence, as he did today. He shrugs and continues with his duties indifferently.

Shane has no idea how Ilya is managing now that he doesn't work for him every day. He prefers not to dwell on anxious thoughts about it; Shane isn't going to voice his concern aloud. It's hard enough looking his boss in the eye after the charity gala.

"Hey, Shane." 

Nikolai Andropov's thick accent draws his attention. From the next cubicle, his new colleague peeks his smiling face over the barrier separating them. He's a man about Shane's age, with wavy blond hair, who welcomed him warmly as soon as Wyatt assigned him his space in the new office. 

Shane smiles back.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to thank you for helping me with Cliff's article. Would you like to have lunch together? I can pay for your meal, you know, to return the favor." 

Since the charity gala, lunches with his usual group have become infrequent. Shane eats with Hayden or alone, as Harris spends his time with Troy and Svetlana has decided to skip lunch altogether. While he misses his usual group, Shane supposes it's healthy to get a change of scenery and spend time with other colleagues. After all, Nikolai is nice.

"Of course," Shane agrees. "One?"

"One is perfect"

Shane’s new normal has multiple benefits, both for his professional development and his personal life. Working in the Editorial Department is more predictable than being Ilya's assistant, so his days on the fifteenth floor unfold in the same way: writing articles and columns for the next edition, reviewing them with Wyatt, and leaving the office at the scheduled time.

Shane believes he's at the peak of his career and, perhaps, his personal life. He works diligently, drinks coffee with Hayden, visits Svetlana in her office to make sure she's okay, and spends weekends with his parents.

It's perfect. Fluid. Everything seems to be working flawlessly.

And yet, Shane feels that something is off.

Following the pattern of the other misfortunes in his life, the culprit has a name, a surname, and a stupid Russian accent.

Ilya Rozanov.

Shane barely has time to think about him.

Barely.

Despite his new position, Shane continues to diligently carry out every order and requirement of the man when they work together. Ilya doesn't act any differently than usual or give any indication that anything is wrong, but Shane can sense it.

Shane knows there's something strange inside, about the pumping of his heart, the echo of his footsteps, the absence of something. During the day, he pretends that the foreign beating of his heart is his own and that it's normal for his movements to be so silent. During the night, Shane is unable to escape a suffocating sense of loss. 

He can't figure out exactly what is slipping through his fingers at an alarming rate, but the agony of feeling it seems to need no explanation. 

Shane is convinced that the only thing he's losing is his sanity. 

One of the theories he considers is that his unease is related to what happened the night of the gala. Shane tries not to recall the ferocity in Ilya's gaze when he asked if he would choose him, just as he willfully ignores the echo of his thoughts when he said that he would choose him. However, as soon as he saw his boss on Monday morning the following week and felt his throat close up, Shane made a decision.

Yes, he feels a ridiculous, unjustified, and shameful attraction to Ilya, but Shane's not going to succumb to it because the man doesn't reciprocate his feelings and, above all, because he's not fucking insane.

Shane is an adult, not a teenager, so he can survive the smile of a sensual, idiotic, and kind man like Ilya. His attraction is an inconvenience; not something relevant in his life.

On the days they work together, they maintain that non-professional dynamic that he ignores in favor of having fun, but Shane avoids crossing the invisible boundaries he sets for himself. Ilya provokes him with sardonic comments, and he responds with his usual impatience, but he's careful not to meet his twinkling eyes. His boss laughs at something Shane says, and he ignores the way his heart pounds in his chest. 

Indifferent, casual, detached. 

That's how Shane plans to survive the months he has left on the Centaurs, and thus get that fucking recommendation letter. After all, Shane is an expert at faking normalcy. He can pretend that everything is fine, that the feeling of absence is unreal, and that his attraction to Ilya doesn't exist. He always manages without a problem; this time will be no different.

At least, that's what he thinks until another week with Wyatt ends and Monday arrives.

Shane shows up at the office earlier than usual. He has to organize Ilya's office, confirm the attendees for the business lunch, and sort out the man's schedule for his trip next week. Shane mentally ranks his obligations according to their level of importance, and as he approaches the office, he texts Hayden to tell him they can get coffee in half an hour.

Because his eyes are glued to his phone, Shane doesn't notice a change in the space until he trips over something solid.

"What the—" he grunts as his calf slams into a piece of furniture, but his words die as soon as an unfamiliar face appears in his field of vision. "Uh."

It's a boy. A teenager, maybe, probably no more than eighteen, judging by his innocent expression and smooth skin. He's wearing a loose shirt draped over his shoulders and a ridiculous blue beanie over his brown hair, which makes him look even younger.

The boy returns his gaze from behind a desk. His desk, which is now located farther from Ilya's office and closer to the central corridor.

Shane blinks, stunned.

"Um, g-good morning," the teenager greets him in a trembling voice, sitting in the chair. His chair. "How can I help you?"

Maybe he's still dreaming. Shane straightens up, looks into the boy's enormous dark eyes, and tries to understand why on earth he's greeting him as if the stranger were Shane. Perhaps he's the son of some employee and has gotten lost. It's likely, judging by his nervous and frightened expression.

Shane is the adult in the situation, so he ignores the discomfort of finding someone else occupying his space, recovers from the surprise, and smiles cordially.

"What's your name?"

Before the boy can answer, Shane's phone vibrates in a familiar pattern. Almost reflexively, he answers without looking at the caller ID.

"What do you want?"

"Hello," greets Ilya's husky, raspy voice, as it always sounds in the mornings. "I need you to confirm the guests' attendance for the—"

"Why are you reminding me what I have to do?" Shane interrupts irritably, unable to help himself. "I'm aware of my responsibilities."

Ilya laughs on the other end of the line, the sound momentarily muffled by traffic. He must be on his way to the office.

What, now Ilya doesn't think Shane can do a good job?

"You're unbearable. Fuck you." 

His boss's playful tone makes him suppress a smile, allowing him to forget his annoyance.

"You first."

"Hmm, I see what I can do about that. What days will you be with Wyatt this week?"

Aware that the teenager's eyes are still fixed on him, Shane takes off his jacket and leaves it on the desk. A dick move, but somehow he has to mark his territory or something. He likes his space. Then, Shane heads toward Ilya's office.

"Thursday and Friday. Wyatt wants me to write an article about the Boston Bears, to complement the wr—what the fuck happened here?"

In front of him, his boss's office is in perfect order. Practically spotless, the room has been set up the way Ilya prefers: a bottle of water on his desk, the issue of his favorite magazine, and his computer turned on.

It's impossible that Ilya spontaneously decided to tidy his office for the first time in the six months he's known him.

It takes Shane three seconds to connect the recent events before him. His desk in a new location, the teenager, Ilya's call, and the tidy office.

Then Shane inhales sharply and tightens his grip on the phone.

"Ilya Rozanov," Shane spits through gritted teeth, each letter pronounced with fury. The familiar sting of anger burns every surface of his skin, relentless. "I'd appreciate that, if you're going to replace me, you'd have the decency to tell me to my face."

"Huh? What are you—?"

Without wanting to hear Ilya's stupid tone, Shane hangs up. Fucking bastard. Who does he think he is? Yes, he's his boss, but there are basic work rules. And human rules. Shane isn't replaceable, not when he does exceptional work. Not when the other option is…

Son of a bitch.

Shane takes long strides until he stops in front of the boy, who's still sitting in the same spot where he left him. Now he doesn't feel a shred of cordiality toward him, but Shane is a polite person.

He takes a deep breath, counts to three, and opens his mouth.

"What's your name?" Shane demands, making the boy jump slightly in surprise.

“Luca Haas, sir,” he replies in a soft but firm voice. “I’m Ilya Rozanov’s new assistant.” 

Shane exhales sharply and takes a step back.

Shit.

So Ilya has replaced him after all. He’s been working for Wyatt for three weeks, seven fucking days in total, and his boss has already decided to replace him with someone young, harmless, and seemingly more efficient.

Shane tries to approach the situation logically. Ilya needs constant help, and now that he's away from the office two days a week, Shane needs a replacement. Someone different, more efficient, better.

Fuck, he feels physically ill. He finds it impossible to remain objective. Shane's mind is blinded by rage, humiliation, and something he denies is sadness; he can't believe how naive he's been. Why would Ilya offer him a job working for Wyatt for no reason? Now his true motive is clear.

He wanted to get rid of him. The bastard even moved his desk.

Perhaps Ilya has grown tired of their dynamic. After spending a few days away from Shane, he probably realized he's better off without him. His presence is no longer essential in the office; there's no reason for him to continue working for Ilya.

Not when his replacement is already settled in.

"Sir," says the young man behind the desk, "would you like a glass of water?" 

Shane feels like laughing at the idea of being an intruder in his own workplace, but he holds it in. The young man isn't to blame for his boss being an asshole.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” he replies, forcing a smile. “Welcome, Luca. I’m Shane Hollander, the—”

“Shane!” the boy gasps, immediately giving an odd bow. When he looks back at him, his eyes are bright. “You’re Ilya’s other assistant.”

Uh. Shane nods, surprised by his attitude.

“Yes, I—”

“You’re amazing!” Luca exclaims, startling him. “The work you do is incredible. Have you really been doing this alone for the last few months?”

The boy's enthusiasm seems genuine, but Shane is puzzled. What on earth is he talking about? He's just assisting Ilya; it's nothing to admire. Yes, he sometimes works unusual hours, and Shane usually does more than what's asked of him, but he's used to the fast-paced, unpredictable work. The job is enjoyable and entertaining; anyone can do it without problems.

Perhaps the boy knows him from his work from when he was in college. When he was a student, Shane excelled at absolutely everything. Now, he's trapped under Ilya's tyrannical orders. Or about to lose them, it seems.

Lacking words, Shane nods his head. Luca beams at the gesture.

"You're amazing! Thank you for the opportunity. It's an honor to work alongside you. I promise I'll do my best, sir."

"Uh, no problem, of course."

Luca is polite, at least. He seems both shy and full of energy simultaneously, as if he wants to both run away and explode at the same time. It's hard to imagine Ilya spending time with the boy, but his mind doesn't have time to theorize because his boss appears in the office as soon as he finishes speaking.

When Ilya approaches them, Luca stands up and gives that peculiar bow again.

"Good morning!" the boy says cheerfully. "Welcome, Ilya."

His boss wears a blue tank top and black pants, a recurring outfit that Shane knows quite well. It's one of his favorites; Ilya wears it regardless of whether the sun is blazing or the rain is pouring down, a reflection of his uncompromising personality. It's also one of the few outfits that allows him to see his muscles flex every time Ilya moves.

Shane doesn't want to admit it—annoyance burns fresh on his skin and the motto "indifferent, casual, detached" spins in his head—but he's missed Ilya's face. Handsome, with sharp, familiar features. Standing in front of him, it feels like the days Shane hasn't seen him have been months.

It's hard to ignore how that feeling of loss, of absence and emptiness, becomes overwhelmingly complete as soon as Ilya's curious gaze falls on him.

Shit.

Ilya blinks, then looks at the boy behind the desk.

"Uh, hey, Luca, I told you that you don't have to do that every time I show up," his boss greets him in a soft, almost affectionate voice. Shane pretends that hearing him speak like that isn't like a punch to the gut. "What are you doing here so early? Your shift doesn't start until nine."

"Hayden told me that Shane always arrives early to tidy up the office," Luca explains simply.

"That's because Ilya's an animal who doesn't clean after himself," Shane grumbles, crossing his arms.

Hayden knows about the new guy? That lying traitor. Shane has asked him for updates every day he's not in the office, but his friend hasn't mentioned any changes. 

Ilya turns his gaze back to him. Despite the furrow in his brow, his boss wears a cautious expression, as if he doesn't want to scare him. Perhaps he's developed a survival instinct, because if he decides to approach, Shane is definitely going to scream.

"Uh," Ilya clears his throat, "hello."

Shane decides to rescue Luca from this strange dynamic; he seems like a decent, hardworking guy. He's dug his own grave; Shane has to face the consequences in private.

Without answering, Shane walks toward Ilya's office. When the man follows him, he enters the office and closes the door, officially isolating them from the rest of the world.

Shane sits on the sofa by the window and takes a deep breath.

Although he maintains a calm expression, Shane feels uncertainty breathing down his neck. What is he supposed to say? He's furious, yes, but he's also aware that his emotions are out of place. He and Ilya aren't friends. The man owes him no loyalty or deference because, if they're both honest, it should be the other way around.

Ilya is the boss, and Shane is his assistant.

And the assistant can be discarded in the blink of an eye and he has no say in the matter.

Shane doesn't understand how the hell he got into this situation. He's spent his whole life understanding power dynamics, internalizing the role he should play in a relationship like this. Shane knows all the rules in the workplace. 

Why does Ilya seem to be the exception to everything in his fucking life?

“Before you insult my entire family line,” Ilya sighs and, in a surprising move, takes a seat next to Shane, “although they deserve it, let me explain.”

“You have thirty seconds.” 

Shane wants to slap himself when he recognizes the slight twitch in Ilya’s right eyebrow, the one that appears every time the man tries to suppress a smile.

“Luca showed up at the office last week,” his boss begins. He smells of tobacco and sandalwood, a familiar scent that Shane tries not to miss when he goes down to the fifteenth floor. “When I arrived Thursday morning, that kid was in my office with Marlow.”

“I bet you thought he was your long-lost son.” 

Ilya snorts with obvious amusement and gives him a light shove with his shoulder. Shane pretends his arm isn’t burning at the contact.

“Maybe, but that’s not the case. Anyway, Marlow told me he’s a gifted kid or something, who just graduated from university,” the man explains, raising his eyebrows in amazement to recreate a scene Shane wasn’t a part of. “I was surprised that, with his resume, he wanted to be my assistant, but the kid said he was a fan of my work. Obviously, I had to give him a chance.”

"So it's about vanity." 

Ilya laughs, the pleasurable sound vibrating on his skin. Shane wants to move away from him, but feels his body leaning forward slightly.

"Yes, I won't deny it. After you belittle me daily, I suppose a little appreciation won’t hurt. I talked to Wyatt, and he said Luca could help me out on the days you're not here, and lighten your load."

“I see,” Shane murmurs, shifting his gaze to the floor. Suddenly, the rug’s pattern seems perfect for concealing the unease creeping into his chest. “Wyatt wants you to have a new assistant. Has he complained about my performance? Have you complained about my performance?”

“What? No.” 

Shane feels two warm fingers grasp his chin. Ilya redirects his gaze toward him, forcing him to meet his eyes. They appear confused, as if the thought had never even crossed his mind.

“I don’t need or want a new assistant. Luca’s here because he took the trouble to find me. Besides, the kid’s twenty; it’s his first job. The working world is tough, and I like him. I’m not going to tell him to quit after I hire him.” 

Ilya’s breath falls on his lips. Shane notices the small space between them and ignores his racing heart, focusing instead on his boss’s serious gaze, full of conviction, as it always is when he speaks of someone he cares about.

His boss said he liked Luca, but that's probably a variation of the translation. Despite being Russian, Ilya usually has no trouble communicating. His words are clear and his accent flows smoothly, so Shane knows what he's saying is true. 

He likes him.

Shane shifts to shake off the unbearable heat that's suffocating him.

"Isn't he a little young for you?" he spits out, unable to stop himself.

Ilya raises his eyebrows so high they disappear beneath his curls.

"Young? Twenty isn't young to be working. You started working at sixteen, didn't you?"

Shane freezes, confused by the statement. Yes, he worked at sixteen on his community newsletter, but it wasn't on his resume. How the fuck does Ilya know that?

"Ah, you're jealous," Ilya says suddenly, and the laughter that erupts hammers at his chest with embarrassment. Shane wants to deny it, but his boss speaks again. "I don't like him romantically, he's just a good employee. I won't replace you, don't worry."

It's satisfying to know Ilya well enough to know that honesty is a recurring practice for him, so his words are undeniably true. Even so, Shane struggles to shake off the feeling of unease immediately. A stranger has been casually filling in for his boss these past few days, as if he were replaceable. 

He is, everyone is replaceable in the working world, but Shane doesn't want to be replaceable for Ilya. To hell with indifference, casualness, detachment.

"I don't want you to leave," Ilya murmurs, as if reading his thoughts. His voice, now soft and quiet, slips between them like honey. "I don't even want you to leave the office two days a week."

Shane swallows hard. In the workplace, Ilya is ruthless. The other employees detest his domineering attitude, the kind that accepts no excuses or easy ways out. He hated him once, too. Ilya is merciless, and yet Shane feels the warmth of his boss's fingers on his chin, holding him with an impossible gentleness. Ilya's eyes are honest, warm, sincere.

With Shane, Ilya is an endearing man. Caring. Affectionate.

Shane has to pull away before he tries something stupid like kissing him.

"So why did you agree to let me work with Wyatt?" he tilts his head, holding his gaze defiantly. "You're in charge here, or have you forgotten?"

Ilya snorts.

“For someone who constantly complains about following my orders, you remind me that way too much.”

“I can’t let others take advantage of you. What if Luca starts treating you like that too? The power structure would be in serious trouble.”

“If the kid talked to me that, he wouldn’t live to tell the tale.”

Shane laughs this time. The fingers on his chin tremble slightly, but Ilya keeps them steady.

“So why am I still here?” Shane says. “I should have been six feet under a long time ago.”

"Sometimes, my decisions are questionable. I guess I like you more alive than dead."

Oh, shit. Ilya says the dumbest things. No matter how much time has passed, Shane still hates him. Now for different reasons, but the warm feeling still burns in his chest. In his fingertips, deep in his gut.

Only now it's not anger anymore.

“Luca will be a great addition to the team,” Ilya says. He slowly removes his fingers from his chin, but his body remains pressed against Shane’s. “That way you won’t be stressed on the days you work with Wyatt.”

“Who says I’m stressed? I’m perfectly capable of handling the pressure of two jobs. I can—”

“Shut the fuck up. When was the last time you slept well?”

Shane stays silent. Not because of the order, but because of the impact Ilya’s words have on him. His dark circles are less pronounced than they were during the first few weeks he started working on the Centaurs, so he doesn’t think Ilya would notice.

He's tried to fight what keeps him up at night, but it's difficult when the thing that ruins his nights sits next to him, takes his chin as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and smells like everything that's right.

Shane is aware of the problem he has. What else can he do? He's actively fighting the delusional part of his brain, but Shane fears that the night of the charity gala has messed up his perception of the world. Ilya's expression, saying he would choose him over anything and everyone, is seared into his retina, and it clings to all the immature illusions he never allows himself to acknowledge.

Shane isn't usually the first choice. Shane works hard and accepts the people who approach him because of his circumstances, but others don't seek to be a part of his life willingly. They don't choose him, and that's okay. It's not something that worries him or makes him sad, not really.

Between you and the world, I'd choose you.

However, the idiot, asshole, selfish and uncivilized Ilya, uttered those words with ease and simplicity. As if choosing Shane in a fictional scenario were the simplest thing in the world; as if it were feasible to do so in a real one.

Since there's no way to express his thoughts without sounding insane, Shane opts for the other reality that also deeply troubles him.

"I'm not stressed about work, I'm worried about Svetlana," Shane says with a grimace. "She spends almost every day locked in her office. She doesn't even accept my invitations to lunch."

“I thought it was just me,” Ilya mutters, frowning. “Troy mentioned she’s not returning his calls. We should do something about it. An intervention, or force her to go on a date with someone else.”

“Idiot, how is going out with someone else going to help her? Don’t you know anything about getting over someone?”

“No.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide his exasperation.

“Of course not. You’ve probably never been rejected, huh?” 

Ilya laughs, tilting his head back slightly to expose his thick, masculine, and ridiculously kissable neck.

Fucking bastard. He's a handsome man, with firm muscles and an attractive smile; Ilya probably has an endless list of interested women waiting for their chance to be his girlfriend. Or sleep with him. Perhaps, due to the limited time he seems to have, the man limits himself to fleeting, physical relationships with other people.

All successful, judging by the amused tone of his laughter.

"Save your envy for when it's useful," Ilya says, placing both hands behind his neck and opening his arms arrogantly. Shane gives him a sharp kick in the calf, which only makes his smile widen. "I suppose Svetlana could use the company of her friends."

“If you give me a list, I can call them and schedule an outing on your calendar,” Shane suggests. “Or if you’d prefer—”

“I mean you and me, idiot,” the man interrupts. “Do you want to come over to my place tonight?” 

Shane freezes, praying the warmth of his face isn’t visible. He understands the context of Ilya’s words because he’s in the same office as him, but he can’t stop his mind from wandering to inappropriate thoughts. Shane imagines himself in his boss’s apartment, sitting in this same position, but distracting Ilya in… more entertaining ways.

Holy shit.

Svetlana. Svetlana is his priority now. Shane is worried about her, especially since she seems more depressed and isolated every day. Ever since she confessed that she and Rose are no longer a couple, it seems like her life force has left her. Yes, Svetlana. They need to help her soon.

Shane nods, trying to clear his head of idiotic thoughts. Damn it, he needs some fresh air and to get his fucking control back. Shane can't act like a teenager; he's better than this.

Well, no, but the person he's pretending to be is.

“It’ll be good for Svetlana,” Shane says, swallowing hard, “if we keep her company.”

“Yes, we should come up with a plan to get her out of her self-imposed seclusion. The world isn’t going to end just because she broke up with Rose.”

“Clearly you’ve never suffered for love.”

“Have you?”

Shane snorts mockingly, but Ilya’s eyes seem curious, waiting for a genuine answer.

They're both close, like that time in the cleaning closet. Shane can clearly see his moist lips; it would be so easy to kiss him, if only he were braver and the situation were different. Ilya's voluptuous, warm body fills most of the sofa and touches every one of his limbs. Shane isn't small or skinny; he's not usually intimidated by guys who are more muscular or stronger than him. Now, next to Ilya's warm silhouette, he feels diminished. Not in a bad way.

In ways he can't allow himself to think about right now.

Yes, Shane is suffering. A lot.

"What is it to you?" Shane retorts weakly, but when Ilya raises his eyebrows, he has no choice but to answer. "If you really want to know, no, not really. I'm not usually in that position."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just don't usually attract other people."

Shane likes romance, yes, but he's always been uncomfortable with the intimacy that comes with it. When he discovered he was gay—a surprise to no one but himself—Shane thought maybe his perspective would change, but it didn't. It's difficult for him to establish romantic connections, partly because people are never clear enough or because he's simply not interested. 

Yes, he knows he's objectively attractive, but Shane is also aware that he's not exactly a desirable boyfriend candidate. His last romantic relationship was with Jessica, who made it very clear that he's not what people are looking for romantically.

Shane settles for a one-night stand with strangers every few months. It's not something he necessarily enjoys—men never satisfy him the way he really likes, so Shane prefers to take matters into his own hands—but it helps him not to lose practice.

Ilya has come along and shattered his entire belief system. Shane likes him, wants to share experiences with him in settings he usually avoids and in places he's never been before. He wants Ilya to take him and be rough, soft, fast, and slow. He wants to hear him talk about what he likes, and he wants the man to tell him what he prefers so Shane can please him.

But it's not going to happen. Shane has already accepted the idea that it's a one-sided attraction; now all that's left is to convince his stubborn heart. It's humiliating to expose his most shameful feelings, so Shane just shrugs when he finishes speaking.

His boss stares at him for a few long seconds. Then, his face contorts in pure disbelief.

"Are you serious?"

"What?"

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ilya says, straightening up abruptly. Without breaking eye contact, the man’s large, warm hands find his shoulders. “If this is your idea of humor, you’re terrible at making jokes.”

“What—?” Shane stammers, flustered by the sudden contact. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I thought you just liked to provoke other people, but don’t you really realize what you’re doing?”

Provoke? Shane doesn't provoke anyone. He doesn't even know how to do that.

Ilya's eyes, clear passageways, seem to sparkle with an interesting discovery. Shane never quite understands what the hell his idiot boss is talking about, so he takes advantage of the second of silence to appreciate the fervor of his touch on his shoulders.

Are other parts of his body as warm as his hands?

Focus.

“Shane,” Ilya smiles, not moving away. Oh. His voice is soft and secretive, which, combined with his name, feels like a direct attack on his sanity. “Are you blind or what? A lot of people in this office are attracted to you. I thought you knew it and enjoyed leading them on, but turns out you’re just dumb.” 

Shane is too stunned by the use of his name and because Ilya is apparently thinking about his love life, that he can’t respond to the insult.

“It’s impossible that you haven’t noticed. I’ve seen more employees talking about you than doing their jobs. You know Troy was thinking of asking you out when you got here, right? Well, that was before he and Harris confessed their feelings, but still. Oh, and Rose too. That’s why I thought it was strange that you’re friends with Svetlana.”

Troy? Rose? Shane's going to faint. Nothing his boss is saying makes any sense. Yes, he remembers Troy voluntarily approaching him the first week he arrived, but that's because he's always hanging around Ilya's office. And Rose's in love with Svetlana, so why would she be interested in him?

“Uh,” Shane says eloquently. Then he clears his throat and looks at Ilya. “I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need you to lie to make me feel good.”

“I couldn’t care less if you feel good,” his boss replies with a half-smile. “In my defense, I’m only telling you this because I’m genuinely surprised.”

“How the hell could you know Troy or Rose were interested in me?” 

Ilya shrugs.

“Svetlana knows everything. She’s sick of everyone asking her if you’re single. And she definitely doesn’t want you hitting on Rose.”

“That explains everything,” Shane says sarcastically, but then he thinks about the woman’s attitude at the party. “Is that why Svetlana was so obsessed with pairing me off with someone at the charity gala?”

“Probably. Most people here are too scared of me to ask about you, but those weeks with the fucking interns were a nightmare,” Ilya grunts, collapsing onto the sofa and letting his hands fall to his sides. Shane takes a deep breath to stave off the feeling of loss in the absence of warmth. “That time in the copy room, you looked so embarrassed I thought one of those two jerks had asked you out.”

Oh, this is hell. Shane feels his head spinning, his heart pounding in his ears, and his hands slightly trembling. This conversation is ridiculous. He doesn't understand why the hell they're talking about his love life, but it's irritating that Ilya seems so… unfazed.

Like he doesn't care.

In a fit of impulsiveness, Shane opens his mouth and says,

"I was embarrassed because the interns thought we were sleeping together."

Time seems to stop the exact moment Ilya appears to choke on his own saliva, and the office door swings wide open. Svetlana, in all her glory and with an angry expression, stands before them. Shane is grateful for her savior-like presence; he doesn't want to know what the hell his boss is going to say about what he just said.

"Hey."

"Hi, Svetlana, good morning," Shane smiles, standing up. It's strange to look at her face knowing she thinks he wants to seduce Rose, but the woman has never been mean to him. Shane appreciates every second of sanity she's given him in this place. Maybe he should tell her that he's gay, but given how gossip moves around the office, he prefers to keep his life private. "It's good to see you."

"Yeah. Anyway, who the hell is sitting at your desk, and why didn't he want to let me in?"

"It's Luca, Ilya's new assistant," Shane explains.

"Oh," Svetlana says, confused but not interested enough to ask. "And you, Ilya, what's your problem?"

Shane follows Svetlana's gaze to find Ilya, who looks like he's just sucked on a particularly bitter lemon. He seems shaken by the information Shane just gave him, but he couldn't care less.

Shane enjoys seeing Ilya affected by his comments, by his presence.

"Nothing," his boss snarls, standing up to sit on the desk. "You're coming to my house today. Shane and I will prepare something; you can arrive around eight. We're fed up with your victim attitude. Go back to being a bitch, or quit, or something."

Shane and I. Shane and I. Shane and I.

Fuck. He's sure the whole building can hear his heartbeat, which threatens to burst his eardrums.

“I didn’t say that, I would never disrespect you like that,” Shane murmurs weakly, “but we do want to help you. You don’t have to face this alone.” 

Svetlana glances at him briefly, as if she can perfectly read the speed at which his blood races unchecked through his veins. Then, her brown eyes fall on Ilya and she raises her eyebrows.

“I’ve never stopped being a bitch. I decided this morning that I’d dug myself a pit of self-pity deep enough, and honestly, I have better things to do. Rose is my friend above all else. She’ll still be my friend even if she and I go to hell; I need to act like it.” 

This is the most extensive thing Svetlana has said on the subject. She doesn’t look as downcast or broken as she usually does these days; Svetlana seems quite convinced of what she’s saying. 

Shane nods without adding a comment, not wanting to scare her off. 

Ilya clearly doesn’t care. 

“Good. Does that mean you’re coming to my apartment?”

“Yeah, idiot,” Svetlana says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll invite Troy, Harris, and Rose. Hayden too, I like him. We’ll play Find the Cloth, and everyone will love it. No excuses.”

“Oh, no,” Ilya grumbles. He throws his head back in exasperation, exposing his neck to them. Shane does his best not to notice his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “I hate Find the Cloth, it’s a stupid game.”

“It’s a stupid game for you, a fool and a loser.”

“I don’t want to see you in your underwear.”

“What the fuck?” Shane chokes, staring at them in disbelief. “What is ‘Find the Cloth’?”

“It’s a game I invented years ago,” Svetlana explains, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Random questions about general knowledge and, well, not-so-general knowledge. It also includes a poker deck, Spin the Bottle, and Seven Minutes in Heaven. When you lose, you have to take off an article of clothing. We turn off the lights, and it disappears. Then you find it, and… Well, we’ll explain it later. It’s pretty simple.”

“Ugh, after college I promised myself I’d never play again,” Ilya grumbles, sulking. “I’m thirty. I should be paying my taxes or planning a hiking trip.” 

Svetlana laughs nonchalantly and pats Shane on the shoulder.

“We’ll have a good time, ignore the ogre. I hope whatever you and Ilya make is delicious,” she says, beaming from ear to ear. “I’m officially happy again. See you later!”

Almost as quickly as she arrives, Svetlana leaves the office.

"Fuck," Ilya sighs, "I'm too old for this."

"You're an idiot," Shane replies, more out of habit than genuine feeling. He's flustered, nervous, and uncomfortable in equal measure; he needs to get some fresh air. Now. "I guess we'll sort this Svetlana thing out later. Where am I supposed to work now that your protégé is taking my place?"

Ilya's eyes scan him slowly, from head to toe. Shane does his best not to flinch under the pressure of his attention.

"You can share the office with me."

"Of course not."

"Huh?! Why not?"

Shane can think of at least twenty reasons why sharing space with Ilya is a bad idea. How is he going to work in the same space as the man, listening to his irritating breathing and enveloped in his cologne for eight hours a day? He's going to die. He's going to die, and his parents are going to kill him for the stupid reason he died.

"Because I hate you and I deserve my own space," Shane says. Ilya's expression is enough to know that his words aren't convincing. "I can go to another part of the floor, we'll communicate by phone, and there are offices that—"

"No."

"What?"

"No. Either you stay in my office or I tell Luca to go work for someone else." 

Shit.

Shane doesn't want to focus on the intensity of his boss's gaze or the tone he's using. It's not necessarily an order, but it carries an air of authority, something his idiotic brain associates with necessity. Suddenly, Shane feels the room heat up, suffocating him under the collar of his shirt.

"But Marlow will be furious if you break Luca's contract and—" Shane starts, but Ilya's commanding voice cuts him off before he can finish his thought.

"I don't give a damn what Marlow has to say about this. You work for me, don't you? Then you're staying with me."

Shane is having a psychotic break. That's for sure. He doesn't know what the hell Ilya ate that morning to sound so sexy and attractive and confident and all the crap that's making his pulse race, but Shane is convinced that if he stays in the same room with the man for one more second, he'll explode.

This is manipulation, isn't it? It's probably illegal. Ilya can't force him to share an office.

Fuck. Shane takes a deep breath, looks at his boss's attractive face, and nods.

"Okay."

"Aren't you going to argue? I thought you'd resist more."

Ilya probably thinks he'd rather drink lava than watch his expressions all day, but Shane's decision is selfish. He does want to breathe the same air as Ilya. He does want to know what he does all day within the four walls of the office, and pretend, to some degree, that they're friends.

God, he's really losing it.

"I'll train Luca on how we do things around here," Shane says, ignoring the comment to keep his dignity intact. Or what little remains of it. "That couch will be my designated space, and I want one of the bookcase drawers." 

It's an absurd situation because Ilya is the boss, the editor who manages almost four hundred employees, and here's Shane demanding things.

Ilya doesn't even blink.

"Sounds fair to me," the man agrees, and then his eyes shift to the computer screen. "That's all."

Shane nods on autopilot and leaves the office. 

Shane's perception of Luca Haas lasts approximately five minutes because, holy shit, the kid is brilliant. He doesn't remember exactly what he was like at eighteen—he'd have to ask his mother, and he doesn't want to look at his high school photos—but Shane doubts he was as sharp, proactive, and astute as the teenager in front of him. Luca not only memorizes information surprisingly quickly, but he also seems to know a little bit about absolutely everything.

Around noon, Luca is ready to take his place without leaving a trace that Shane ever existed.

"The schedule for the following week is finalized on Fridays, because Ilya likes to review it on Sunday afternoons. Don't worry about lunch on Mondays, as his menu is automatically reserved at his favorite restaurant. He's not very picky: rice, meat, vegetables. Something sweet for dessert." 

Luca nods after each word, absorbing all the information about Ilya. When Shane finishes speaking and hands him a list with all the phone numbers for the offices in the building, the boy smiles.

"You know Ilya very well."

A statement, not a question. Shane sighs.

"It's my job."

"I don't think it's your job to know what kind of toothpaste he uses."

Touché.

At some point since signing his contract, Shane has grown accustomed to spending his days thinking about Ilya, his needs, what he likes and what he hates. It's embarrassing.

Shane needs to work harder on being indifferent, casual, and detached if he wants to survive the months he has left.

“But it’s mutual,” Luca adds, that innocent glint in his big eyes. He’s so fucking adorable is unfair. “The first thing Ilya mentioned when I sat down at your desk was that you’d be upset. Then he explained that even though I’d be working for him, you were still in charge. So you’re doing a good job.”

“That’s what I’m doing, my job,” Shane says firmly, ignoring the mix of emotions rising in his throat. He doesn’t want to talk about his idiot boss anymore or he’ll do something stupid like confess his darkest secrets to a kid. “Don’t worry, it won’t be hard for you to fit in on the Centaurs. You’ll do fine.”

“Thanks for your help.”

“I’m here if you need me.”

The rest of the afternoon, as it passes with advice, paperwork, and the warm welcome from his colleagues towards Luca, Shane shakes off the bitter feeling of jealousy as he takes his things to Ilya's office.

Indifferent, casual, detached.

Under pleasant company, Ilya's apartment looks completely different.

"Three presidents of the United Kingdom!" yells Svetlana, who, barefoot and shirtless, is standing on his boss's sofa. "Alphabetical order."

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" squeals Rose, climbing onto the sofa with her. "Harry Potter, John Lennon, and Sherlock Holmes!"

After hearing the absurd shouts of people he considers brilliant, Shane shares Ilya's aversion: he's experienced the most confusing night of his life, and it's only getting worse. This is stupid. Incoherent.

Nothing happening around him makes sense, and yet, Hayden raises the damn red flag, which is actually Rose's handkerchief.

"Team Red wins again," says his friend, grinning from ear to ear. "New Count! The Red Team is in the lead, followed by the Blue Team, and in last place, crawling for crumbs, is the Green Team.”

Shane blinks, not even bothered by the insult. He's not sure he understands enough to be offended. Beside him, Ilya looks indifferent.

"Oh, come on, dude, it's not fair," Troy mutters, crossing his arms. "Harris and I are doing our best, but Rose and Svetlana have this thing about—" 

The man makes a strange gesture with his hands, as if trying to summon telepathy. Svetlana sticks her tongue out in response.

"That's called talent."

"It's called cheating," Ilya grumbles loudly enough for Shane to hear. "If there was still a 'Great War' category, we'd be number one."

“I don’t want to ask what that means,” Shane mutters back. In front of them, Harris takes off one of his socks while Troy downs three shots of tequila in a row. “I don’t think we’d win anyway.” 

It’s nearly eleven at night, and they’ve been playing for almost two hours, but it seems like Find the Cloth will never end. Svetlana had explained the rules as soon as all the guests arrived—more for Shane than for the others, who have played before—going over every exception, arrangement, or possible modification that would alter the natural order of the game.

If the fucking game even has an order, because Shane gets more confused with every passing second. Find the Cloth starts with a deck of poker cards, which is actually very far removed from poker. This first part consists of calling out random numbers and tapping the table each time it matches the card shown in the deck. If someone makes a mistake, they have to reveal someone else’s secret.

The only useful thing about that category is that Shane found out about the time Marlow and Connors had noisy sex in the cleaning closet next to Troy's office.

Then comes the strange dynamic of running in circles while a bottle spins on the floor among the participants. If it stops in someone's direction, they have to shout fun facts about animals, and if they fail, they have to take off an article of clothing, which the others hide somewhere while the person downs five shots of vodka in one gulp.

Shane doesn't know what Ilya's neighbors think, but that's the least of his worries when he hears the sound of Svetlana's laughter. At least his friend seems relaxed, smiling much more than she has in recent weeks.

And so, they find themselves in the third and penultimate part of the game. A head-to-head matchup: Rose and Svetlana; Troy and Harris; and, by process of elimination, Ilya and Shane. Hayden is in charge of asking general knowledge questions, and not-so-general ones, which are almost as stupid as the answers.

This leads to Shane sitting on one of the sofas next to Ilya, both wearing identical annoyed expressions after losing two rounds and coming in last place. At least Shane still has his pants on, unlike Ilya, whose shirt is open, legs bare, and a single sock covering his left foot.

Shane does his best to look at his colleagues and not the vast expanse of skin beside him. He uses his unyielding will; he is not going to lower his eyes to Ilya's southern flank. Not until Shane can do something about it, which is to say, never.

"Dear participants," Hayden exclaims in a grandiose voice. "We have reached the final stage of the competition. We will keep the teams, but fate chooses… who will go to Seven Minutes To Heaven!" 

Shane watches as his friends shout, but Ilya remains serious. Now he doesn't seem bored, but slightly tense. He doesn't have time to ask, because Svetlana stands up again and speaks at an exaggerated level.

"Rules, you losers. Heaven will be the library, a neutral place, large and nearby but at a reasonable distance. Absolutely everything is allowed except actions involving blood, hitting someone, or anything against the law."

"God," Ilya grunts, frowning.

“We won’t talk about what happens in the library if the participants don’t want to, but they must take a picture of themselves giving each other at least one kiss on the cheek. Otherwise, the forfeit is drinking a mug of beer without stopping.” 

Troy raises his hand, and Svetlana gives him the floor with an exaggerated gesture.

“Can we make some noise?”

“Oh, shit, don’t fuck in my library,” Ilya interrupts, intending to get up from the sofa, but Svetlana censures him with a look. “You know what? The next time you invite me to your house, I’m going to jerk off on your couch.”

“That’d be a decent threat if you were invited to my house, but you’re not. Yes, Troy, you can make noise. Now… everyone write a number from one to four on the palm of your hand. On the count of three, you turn around and go to Seven Minutes to Heaven with the person who has the same number as you.” 

Hayden hands out pencils with a solemn air. Shane has no idea when the hell his friend played this game, but he’s afraid to ask.

Even though Ilya has had an annoyed expression since the beginning of the night and it’s impossible to win a game as absurd as this, Shane can’t remember the last time he laughed so hard. Nothing his colleagues are saying makes any sense, and yet his cheeks are sore from smiling so much.

His imagination provides him fabricated memories of Ilya and Svetlana experiencing the same feeling back in college. Shane imagines his boss, younger and more carefree, following idiotic rules and pointless modifications that only provoke contagious, collective laughter.

It's impossible to believe that these amazing people would include him without anything in return. Shane doesn't want to dwell on that thought—partly because he's slightly drunk and a few tears are bound to escape—but as he writes the number three on his own hand, he silently thanks the group for their kindness, allowing him to participate and making him feel welcome.

At least that's how it is until Svetlana starts her countdown.

"Everyone in a circle… shut the fuck up, Ilya, don't make that face. Now, when I tell you, you'll show the number on your hand. One… two… Three!"

Six palms are exposed in the warm light of Ilya's living room. Hayden oversees the exchange, suppressing a laugh that dies as soon as his gaze falls on Shane.

What?

Troy has two, a number he shares with Svetlana. Rose has one, while Harris has four. And Ilya…

Oh, no.

His boss's palm displays a crude, cursive three.

Shit.

Shane feels like a bucket of cold water has been dumped on his shoulders, only worsened when Ilya's expression darkens and his pale eyes meet his.

"Good, dude!" Troy exclaims, clapping loudly on his boss's back. "It's fate that—"

"I bet Troy and Svetlana will beat them!" Hayden interrupts, his voice high-pitched and his laugh seemingly forced. What the hell is wrong with him? Shane doesn't have time to ask, because his friend continues, "Ilya, are you going first?" 

Shane tries not to hyperventilate when his boss nods once and walks in his direction. Oh no. He's not getting out of this alive. What if Ilya wants to kiss him? Shane will have to do it because he's not a coward and will never give in to the man, but it will be impossible to hide it.

He can't kiss Ilya without releasing all the energy he's been holding back for the past few months. Shane can't touch him without confessing what crawls across every surface of his skin.

His parents didn't raise a scaredy-cat, so Shane swallows hard and follows the man who walks past him toward the kitchen.

Despite the unspoken promise that they would both organize "something" for tonight, at the end of the workday Ilya had told Shane that he had zero ideas planned and that they should just go with "the vibes." Fuck the vibes, Shane needs concrete plans, organized from start to finish. He forced his boss to let him into his house an hour before the meeting, and Shane ordered takeout while the man played with Anya.

It was a harmless scene. Now, crossing the threshold of the library, Shane doesn't feel that their exchange is harmless.

“The clock’s ticking!” Svetlana shouts from behind them, gently pushing Shane toward the room to close the door. “Seven minutes, no more, no less.”

Shit.

When they’re alone, Shane takes a deep breath and looks at Ilya. The man, still with his shirt open and no pants, stares back at him with a serious expression. He seems worried about something, as if he can hear the erratic drumming in his chest.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Ilya says carefully, moving across the room to put some distance between them. “It’s a stupid game, you know that, right? It’s not a real obligation.”

Ouch.

Shane knows Ilya isn't the least bit attracted to him, but it's still unpleasant to hear. Of course, he's not going to force him—who the hell does Ilya think he is? It's not a real commitment, and even if it were, he wouldn't touch Ilya with a ten-foot pole.

He hates him deeply.

Indifferent, casual, detached.

"I know, asshole," Shane mutters, pacing the room in the opposite direction from Ilya. "I don't do what I don't want to do."

"It must be hell working for me, then," his boss says, a light laugh echoing in the library. Then he sighs. "What the fuck are we going to do for seven minutes?"

Shane comes up with at least fifty things; none of them appropriate to the situation. To his situation.

Libraries are one of his favorite places. When Shane looks around, he discovers a bookcase overflowing from floor to ceiling with titles he can't even dream of owning. He moves slowly through the shelving, identifying some famous names in the publishing world and others from the fashion world.

"How did you get your job?"

It's a question that's been bothering Shane lately. He knows Scott Hunter and his legacy in the fashion world, but he hadn't heard of Ilya Rozanov before getting this job, at least not in that area. He's not going to say it out loud; he knows how vain his boss can be.

"I'm good at what I do."

Shane snorts.

"Sure."

"It is true," Ilya insists, sitting down in an armchair by the window. "Hunter chose me personally. I wasn't anyone's first choice. Especially not my brother's."

His brother again. Shane leans against the bookcase and looks at Ilya, who has his eyes fixed on him. Under the room's light, he allows himself to imagine they're in different circumstances. Shane can pretend this has no time limit, that at some point Ilya will come closer and take him in his arms, kissing him until his breath catches in his throat.

Neither of them moves.

“Your brother.”

"Yes, my brother is the magazine's largest shareholder. He wants me out because he doesn't think I'm capable of handling it. To his unpleasant surprise, I've been named the best editor-in-chief Centaurs has had in years."

Ilya's smile is sardonic and vengeful, a side Shane doesn't often see. His fingers itch to slap himself, realizing how attractive it is in him.

"What are you doing here?" Ilya suddenly says, his face lighting up with curiosity. "First in your entire class, valedictorian. You speak four languages fluently, you won a university award that recognizes your achievements. You worked with Crowell for a year. What's your plan, to keep being my assistant until you die of old age?"

It's not pleasant to be reminded of his resume, not when Shane is desperate to climb the ladder of success. He needs to be better, to be an excellent writer, to have every experience possible. To feel fulfilled by what he does, to make his parents proud.

"You're my boss, I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but it's obvious I won't be working for you forever. I'm waiting a couple of months, and then I'll blackmail you into giving me a recommendation letter so I can go work somewhere else,” Shane says. Then, he crosses his arms and huffs, wanting to change the subject. "Also, Roger Crowell isn't the great writer you think he is."

Ilya tilts his head, confused for a second. Shane has checked his contacts and knows the man isn't directly related to one of his former bosses—thankfully.

"What do you mean?"

"He's a huge homophobe."

Shane feels proud that his voice doesn't tremble, and he raises his chin slightly in defiance. It's not something he shares with others; it was an unpleasant experience when he was barely twenty-three and happened to make an unfortunate comment in front of his then-boss. Shane doesn't dwell on it now; he's long since moved past it.

He isn't sure why he decides to share this information with Ilya. It's a fair exchange, in a way. The man allows him into his home, lets him spend time with his friends, and invites him into aspects of his life that go beyond work.

It's an exchange; nothing more. He still can't bear the thought that, subconsciously, he recognizes Ilya as someone close. A friend.

Ilya blinks, his face contorting into something fierce and unpleasant.

"He treated you badly?"

"Are you saying I'm gay?" Shane laughs, unable to help himself. It's an absurd situation; more because of how comfortable he feels than the intimacy of the conversation. "Yes, he did, but it was a long time ago. It doesn't matter anymore."

"It matters to me," Ilya says.

"Why?"

Shane looks at him. Ilya looks back. It's a common confrontation lately. That shirt color suits his boss. Great, actually. He likes seeing his frown, deep, halfway down his forehead. Shane wants Ilya to feel as disturbed as he does, even if there's no real gain. He wants Ilya to feel the echo of his voice haunting him in lonely and crowded places, in the office and at the damned end of the world.

Ilya seems about to answer something, Shane has no idea what, because three knocks on the door shatter the silence between them.

"Hey, fuckers! Time's up."

Svetlana.

Shane takes a deep breath and nods, even though the woman can't see him. He's not going to be angry with his friend; after all, the reason he's enjoying the sparkle in Ilya's eyes is thanks to her. Her dynamic with Rose seems to have survived what happened between them, so everything is back to normal.

Now all that's left is for Shane’s heart to remember that he and Ilya aren't friends, but boss and assistant. Indifferent, casual, detached.

"I'm not taking that picture," Shane threatens, walking toward the door. "I'll kick you if you come near me."

"You are a chicken," Ilya huffs, but joins him with a laugh. It's a deep, resonant sound, with a hypnotic way of curling his lips upward, an homage to everything pleasant on earth. Shane can't tear his gaze away even if he wants to. "Anyway, I've won more than I expected. I won't push my luck any further."

Shane smiles at him.

To no one's surprise, Luca quickly fits in the Centaurs. Soon, he joins their lunch group—now active after Svetlana and Rose's renewed friendship—meets with Wyatt to review Ilya's editorial schedule, and spends long afternoons with Shane in the office.

Shane does his best to make Luca feel included. This involves inviting him for coffee in the mornings with Hayden, who kindly includes him in their scheme to make fun of Ilya.

Well, actually, Shane makes fun of Ilya. Luca only feels admiration and appreciation for his boss.

"He's an idiot," Shane teases, sitting comfortably behind Ilya's desk. It's a… development he tries not to dwell on. His boss, in an unusual burst of kindness, tells him that, in his absence, he can sit in his chair to avoid back pain. Shane snarls in his face that he's not a whiny weakling, so now he has to pretend he's not using the man's space or he'll explode with embarrassment. "I gave him the hotel address at least twenty times and he still checked into a different one."

“Traveling to another city is confusing,” Luca says from the sofa. Beside him, Hayden snorts with amusement. “Even if it’s his third time there. The language is confusing.”

“The good thing is he’ll be back soon. I don’t need to solve another problem.”

“Mmh.” 

Hayden’s contemplative tone makes Shane look at him. His friend has a curious, funny expression, as if Hayden knows something he doesn’t. It’s irritating.

Shane raises an eyebrow defiantly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I swear to God, I’m going to hit you so hard you—”

“Looks like you enjoy solving his problems,” Hayden interrupts with that sly, wise tone he uses when he wants to advise others. Svetlana, who is getting closer and closer to the man, slips away every time she hears him, using some emergency as an excuse. Trapped behind his boss’s desk, Shane isn’t so lucky. "You know, you seem... enthusiastic every time something comes up that needs fixing."

“It’s my job,” Shane says, and when he hears his own defensive tone, he straightens his back in an attempt to maintain his composure. “I’m supposed to resolve the issues.”

“Of course.”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s not entirely true. Luca’s on the team now; he can resolve his problems. You could organize the schedule, review certain documents, and then focus on your work with Wyatt.”

“This is my job too,” Shane protests. Hayden’s voice isn’t critical, but it’s obvious he’s trying to say something else. Beside him, Luca conveniently stays silent. “What would you do if Rose asked you for help? You do it, period. It’s what’s expected.”

“Has Ilya ever asked you for help, Shane?”

This conversation is absurd. Innocently, Shane invited Hayden and Luca to the office he shares with Ilya for coffee, unaware that it would turn into a damn ambush.

Despite the irritating annoyance burning in his skin, Shane knows Hayden is right. His boss doesn't ask for help. Except for that one time with his pet, Ilya gives orders, instructions, and expects every word to be followed without excuses. As for his assistants, Luca is now in charge of the mundane tasks, like running around town for an order or chasing down a particular designer. Shane's job is more executive, personal, elevated.

So what if he also solves Ilya's problems? Shane's his assistant; he has to assist him. If that means talking for hours on the phone while the man travels, having lunch with him in his office, and managing his work and personal schedule, then Shane is guilty of doing a damn good job.

“Um,” Luca says after an awkward silence, “I think you’re a great assistant.”

“Oh, me too,” Hayden replies, “but I think you’re crossing a line that I don’t know if Ilya has approved of, man.”

With simplicity, Hayden’s subtext is revealed to him. He’s worried. Shane swallows, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze and the unease that pervades his friend’s expression.

Hayden knows. Hayden can feel the way his heart beats unevenly, the way his steps are stalked by Ilya’s soft voice, the way his head spins when his boss gets too close.

And, like Shane, Hayden knows it’s not a feeling reciprocated.

“I do my job,” he says weakly, mentally slapping himself for the insecurity that permeates his words. “If Ilya doesn’t like it, he can tell me and I’ll accept it.”

A soft, comforting smile appears on Hayden’s lips.

“Rose can always accept you in our Department."

“Oh, no!” Luca whines. “Shane, are you going to change positions?”

Hayden laughs, ruffling the boy’s hair familiarly.

“Of course not, man. In what world would Shane leave Ilya?”

The words are true, but they aren’t easy to hear. It’s humiliating to know that, after spending the first few months spitting on the ground where Ilya walked, Shane would now pave a path for him to walk without any problems.

In a final attempt at dignity, Shane drinks coffee to ignore the blush on his cheeks and pretends the hot liquid isn't burning his tongue.

The rest of the day passes quickly. Shane tries to ignore the lingering feeling Hayden's words have left in his chest, focusing on taking calls, reviewing and signing documents on Ilya's behalf, and organizing upcoming meetings. This is because his boss and Wyatt are away on a business trip promoting Scott Hunter's new work, who had been on the cover of Centaurs the past few weeks.

Around three in the afternoon, while Shane is reviewing a layout proposal for the next issue, the office phone rings loudly.

"Ilya Rozanov's office," Shane answers mechanically.

For a moment, all that can be heard on the other end of the line is a deafening sound. Then, a histrionic laugh.

"Hey, Shane!"

It's a female voice, childlike. It sounds vaguely familiar, but Shane doesn't know anyone who speaks with such energy and enthusiasm.

"Uh, good afternoon. Who's speaking?"

"Wow! You sound as polite as I imagined. Are you a prince or something? Anyway, I need to ask you a favor."

Shane blinks, puzzled. Who the hell is calling him? No introduction, just talking like they're old friends and asking for favors. Maybe it's a prank call. What a joke. He's had a shitty morning and his afternoon doesn't look any better; he doesn't have time for this nonsense. Shane bites his tongue to avoid cursing, remembering he's still on the clock and there's a good chance it's a kid, so he takes the professional route.

"Miss, I need to know your name before—"

"Oh! I forgot. This is Nadya."

Shit. That's enough to snap Shane out of it, straightening up even though the girl can't see him.

He recognizes that name; she's Ilya's niece. His boss has mentioned her a couple of times—like when Shane indifferently, casually, and detachedly asked him who the woman in the photograph in his department was. Nadya's voice is bubbly, cheerful, as if she's a second away from bursting into laughter.

From what little he's heard about her, it's clear Ilya adores her. He can't afford to make a bad impression.

"Shaneee. Are you still there?"

"Uh, yes, miss. What can I do for you?"

"Why are you talking like that?"

"What?"

"You talk like a robot," Nadya laughs, as if it's a great joke. Shane doesn't know what's so funny, but he feels the smile spread across his face. "Well, never mind. You know it's Ilya's birthday, right? I want to ask for your help. My uncle talks about you a lot, and I think you're the missing piece at his birthday party."

Shane slumps back in his chair in shock.

This job is going to kill him.

In a desperate attempt to maintain what little sanity he has left, he refuses to consider the idea that Ilya talks about him with his niece. He knows that while his boss and his brother don't get along, his niece is neutral territory; she has been for fifteen years, which has kept Ilya close to his family, according to the rumors Hayden told him when he asked.

Does anyone in this office actually work?

"Ilya's birthday?" Shane repeats, unable to say anything else.

"Yes, it's next week. We're throwing him a surprise party! Well, I'm throwing him a surprise party, and you all have to come. Especially you! Not just because I want to meet you, of course. You'll be Ilya's surprise! He'll be so happy. The party will be at Aunt Sveta's house, Friday night, like, um, around eight? I have to work out the details because I don't know if my plane will arrive earlier or later… Anyway, I should tell his other friends too… Do you know them? I think—" 

As Nadya rambles on with exclamations, Shane takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling.

He doesn't know what crime he committed in his past life, but this is a strange way to punish him. Nadya speaks to him familiarly, in jovial and enthusiastic tones, as if Shane were someone close to Ilya. She invites him to his boss’s birthday party, chats casually, and tells him that Ilya would be happy if he attends.

Shane stifles a groan. He's just a man, how can he bear the overwhelming wave of feelings?

It's not fair.

Despite that, Shane is true to his convictions. Fuck it.

In the privacy and chaos of his own mind, Shane can admit that he is attracted to Ilya. He likes his company, his idiotic attitudes, the way his hair smells, his kind eyes when he sees Luca getting excited about an office event. Despite his appearance, Ilya is a fucking jerk who cares about his friends, his employees, and him. Shane is sitting in his chair, behind his desk, only because he once mentioned that his back hurt when he spent too many hours sitting on the couch.

He wants to make sure Ilya is happy. Shane takes care of mundane problems, orders his favorite food from the best restaurants, chooses the brightest meeting room when it's Ilya's turn to present, hoping to inspire him. Shane is trying to hide it, but Hayden's warning makes it obvious that he's more transparent than he lets on.

Shane has never been able to hide when he's interested in someone. Even if it's mortifying now, he can't help it. He wants to see the way the sun reflects on Ilya's teeth every time he smiles, while at the same time he wants him to push him against the door and kiss him until he's breathless. All in perfect balance.

He can only do one, so Shane inhales and exhales. Then, he interrupts Nadya's monologue.

"I can help you arrange it."

"Huh?"

"I can organize Ilya's birthday," Shane repeats, more confidently. "As his assistant, I plan events all the time. If you need help, I can take care of inviting his friends, tidying up Svetlana's apartment before the surprise, and handling the rest." 

She's just a kid, after all. That'll be his excuse if anyone asks.

"Shaneee!" Nadya exclaims, and from the echo of her voice, it sounds like she's jumping for joy. "You're the best! Wow, no wonder everyone loves you. I'll send you my ideas in an email. Auntie Sveta can give you a check for whatever money you need. See you soon!"

When Nadya hangs up, Shane's ears ring like bells.

Once again, he finds himself wondering what crime he committed in his past life, but this time, deep down, Shane is grateful for the punishment.

After a few minutes, an email appears on his computer screen.

From: Nadya <nrozanova02@mail.ru>

To: Shane Hollander <shane.hollander@centaurs.ca>

Subject: ILYA'S BIRTHDAY!!!

Ideas:

• Party at Auntie Sveta's house
• CAKE
• Guests: Svetlana, Anya (she could get scared), Shane, Sasha (is out of town), Ilya (duh) + friends
• FOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

• Decorations? Balloons!!

Shane closes his email and reopens it, hoping to find more information, but Nadya's thoughts remain unchanged, summarized in five terse points.

Fuck. Ilya is lucky Shane feels even a modicum of affection for him. He'll have a lot of work to do before next Friday, but seeing his idiot boss smile would be enough.

God, what has his life become? Shane will jump out the window as soon as he gets the chance.

Ilya arrives at the office at 4:30 in the afternoon, complaining about the weather in the other city and the organizers' inefficiency.

“I don’t understand why they have such a hard time doing a good job,” Ilya grumbles from the sofa. His shirt is unbuttoned, and he ruffles his hair with one hand, as he always does when he’s annoyed. “They had hours to prepare. I arrived, and the rehearsal was barely getting started. I had fucking Hunter complaining that his clothes were mixed in with another brand.”

“You should have killed them or something,” Shane suggests sarcastically from the desk, “that way you would have proven your point.”

Ilya laughs lightly, replacing his frown with a smile. It’s only been three days, but it’s nice to hear that trill filling the space they now share.

“Damn right. Someone should give me an award every time I choose peace over violence.”

"Or money."

"That would get me in trouble."

"Possibly, if killing them wasn't enough," Shane says. Ilya looks at him amused, and they hold eye contact for a few moments. He looks handsome today. The plane trip doesn't seem to have affected him; he's wearing black pants, a white tank top under his shirt, and a bright expression despite his complaints. Shane clears his throat. "Did you have a good time with Wyatt?"

Ilya shrugs.

"We just worked. I had to endure two video calls from his wife, it doesn't get any worse than that," his boss mutters, opening his mouth as if he wants to add something else about it, but settles for making a face that Shane will never admit is adorable. "How's the office? Anything interesting happening?"

Shane's pocket burns with the slip of paper bearing Svetlana's address. He doesn't usually withhold information from Ilya—besides his burning, unspoken love, ew—so he tries hard to maintain a disinterested expression.

"Nothing, really. I argued with Hayden in my free time, had lunch with Svetlana and Luca, and reviewed a couple of documents you can verify tomorrow."

"Ah, another successful day," Ilya sighs with an amused smirk. Lately, Shane can't help but notice the man smiling more than usual. "Why did you argue with Hayden?"

Because I like you and it's getting out of hand.

"Because he's an idiot."

Ilya raises his eyebrows in a clear invitation to continue, but Shane remains silent. Any other word will give him away, and if admitting that he doesn't find his boss repulsive is already embarrassing, he doesn't want to be on planet Earth when Ilya finds out that his attraction to him is much more serious than Hayden thinks.

As hell doesn't strike twice, Shane is saved by the presence of Troy, who enters the office without knocking.

"Hey, Shane, I just saw your messag—uh. Hi, Ilya."

Shane stands up as he sees him enter, surprised and nervous in equal measure. Shit. He's not expecting Troy at the office yet; he had recently sent him a message asking for help organizing Ilya's surprise birthday party, because Svetlana is busy with work until next Friday. Emphasis on "surprise birthday." Shane clears his throat, and an exchange of glances is enough for Troy to understand that he must keep his mouth shut.

“Ilya, I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Troy says, scratching the back of his neck.

“In my office? That must be a surprise.” 

Ilya’s hostile tone makes him look at him in surprise.

“Hey, what’s your problem? I asked him to come,” Shane says. Ignoring his boss’s annoyed expression, he approaches Troy, who is still standing in the doorway. “I apologize for him; he just got here from the airport. Did you see my message?”

“Yes,” Troy smiles. “I’m absolutely available.”

“I’ll need help with the… logistics of this.”

“Do you think there’s going to be a rabid dog or something?”

“If you come with me, at least I can use you as bait and escape,” Shane mutters, crossing his arms. Despite the trust Svetlana had shown him by giving her address without hesitation when Shane talked to her about the party, he doesn't feel comfortable invading her space without an ally. He and Troy have been talking more lately, and Shane feels comfortable around him. He's not sure if he’s dating Harris or not, but he can try to ask him later while they're visiting Svetlana's house. “Please.”

“Don't worry. We'll go tonight, okay?” 

Troy gives a reassuring, friendly smile, which Shane returns with relief. He needs this to go well. It's the first time he'll see Nadya; he has to make a good first impression. Besides, it's the surest way to get a letter of recommendation. Probably. And it'll make Ilya happy too, though that's the least important part, duh.

A raspy cough breaks the silence. Exasperated, Shane stifles a sigh and turns his head to look at his boss, who now is standing with his arms crossed, glaring at them. He doesn't seem to be trying to hide how much Troy's presence bothers him.

"What?" Shane says through gritted teeth.

"We're working. I need you to review the documents we talked about by tomorrow." 

Ilya's tone is cold. Because of his distant expression, it's hard to tell if he's joking, but when Shane waits a few seconds and his boss doesn't break his unrelenting gaze, he decides he's serious. What the fuck? They weren't talking about any documents.

Before he can confront him, Troy's laughter fills the room.

"Of course, man, I apologize. Goodbye, Ilya. Oh, and Shane, I'll come pick you up at your place, okay? See you later." 

Troy, always so charismatic, winks at him and leaves the office. Shane makes a mental note to send Troy his address and walks over to Ilya to kick him in the calf with a force he hopes will hurt. The man doesn't blink.

"You were really rude, this is my office too now. Since when do you dislike Troy?"

Ilya doesn't show much enthusiasm for anyone else in the office besides his inner circle, but he doesn't seem to dislike them either. He knows Troy and Ilya are friends, so what the hell is wrong with him now? If his boss's dislike for the man is genuine, Nadya's surprise party is going to be a disaster.

"Since when do you like Troy?" Ilya says, echoing his words. "I didn't know you were friends."

"Don't be an idiot, we're not friends."

"Then why are you going out with him tonight? He’s with Harris, I told you this before."

"What's it to you?" Shane snarls, starting to get angry at the man's hostile expression. "Does it bother you that I'm going out with him or something?"

Ilya snorts spitefully and crosses his shoulders. He maintains his dismissive expression, but in a completely unpredictable movement, Ilya's cheeks flush a soft pink.

It's an invisible, ghostly blush, for someone who doesn't usually pay much attention to his face. For Shane, who obsessively watches Ilya's expressions for at least three-quarters of the day, the blush on his cheeks is as obvious as the light streaming through the windows.

Oh.

Oh.

A pleasant, delicious bubbling rises in Shane's throat and, without permission, escapes his lips in playful puffs. It can't be. This is the best moment of his day. No, it's the best day of his life. His entire life.

Shane gasps with laughter and looks at Ilya.

"Are you jealous of Troy?"

It's an absurd question. Ridiculous. Completely pointless, and yet Ilya's cheeks flush a deep red again, an implicit confirmation of his words. Jealous of Troy? Please. Shane is sure Ilya couldn't care less who he spends his time with, but he still enjoys the sensation of his own laughter turning into guffaws.

Ah, this is definitely the best day of his life.

"Shut up," Ilya snarls, but this only makes Shane laugh harder. The man gets close, stopping in front of him. "Shut your face, Shane. Why the hell are you laughing?"

At some point, between the cheerful sounds escaping his lips, Ilya's hands travel to his shoulders. Always warm, they shake him back and forth, jolting him in a futile attempt to silence him. Once he manages to calm down, Shane gently pushes him away, but the movement brings them both closer, stopping face to face just inches apart.

Ilya's clear, deep eyes watch him intently. Up close, Shane can see that he doesn't seem genuinely annoyed, and although his cheekbones have lost their rosy hue, the man still wears an embarrassed expression. Because of the distance between them, Shane notices his dry lips and slightly greasy hair, probably the only evidence of the long plane ride. He feels an overwhelming urge to raise his hand and delicately trace his features, trying to memorize every contour.

Shane doubts that anyone as attractive as Ilya exists.

It would be easy to close the distance between them. Shane can imagine it: him approaching, Ilya retreating in obvious rejection. And what for? There's no need for self-flagellation. Things are as they are, they get along well. That's enough for Shane. He can survive the rest of his days on the Centaurs gazing into Ilya's endless eyes, inhaling the scent of sandalwood and tobacco that lingers relentlessly.

Ilya blinks, and as if his thoughts were traveling on the same train as Shane's, his gaze moves to his lips. Instinctively, Shane returns the look and sees Ilya's tongue, red and alive, moistening his own mouth.

Damn. Shit, fuck. Ilya's going to kiss him. The explosive little bird in his chest starts racing, and Shane's mind dances with a thousand questions that proliferate as his boss leans in almost imperceptibly. It's the best and worst day of his life. Shane can bet all the money he has and all his organs that—

"Ilya, Scott's on the line asking for—oh, sorry."

For the first time since he met him, Luca's kind voice sounds like a curse.

"Tell him to wait five fucking minutes," Ilya exhales sharply, removing his hands from Shane's shoulders. Shane feels the loss of warmth like a punch to the gut. "I don't want to talk to him."

"It's urgent," Luca whines, "he says it's about Andrei."

"Damn it."

In an effort that feels like torture, Shane takes a step back. His body feels heavy as if he's run a marathon, and he's probably the one blushing now, his cheeks burning. There must have been a glitch in spacetime, because he's one hundred and fifty percent sure Ilya was going to kiss him. Why, he hasn't a damn clue, but he'd bet the trembling of his fingers that it almost happened.

"I have to go get Hayden," Shane lies, backing away to the doorway where Luca is standing. "Excuse me."

Without giving Ilya time to stop him, Shane leaves the office. His heart is still stuck in his throat, galloping so hard he can barely hear the murmur of the office.

He needs a drink. Or to shoot himself. Or to kiss Ilya.

Shane doesn't know which option is the least harmful. Damn it.

Indifferent, casual, detached. Indifferent, casual, detached. Indifferent, casual, detached. Indifferent, casual, detached. Indifferent, casual, det—

Fuck. 

During the week leading up to Ilya's birthday, Shane's inbox is flooded with messages from Nadya. She's an energetic, outgoing teenager. To be honest, Shane feels a little uneasy about the familiarity she displays without even knowing him.

"Nadya is like that. She was estranged from Ilya for a couple of years because of her father, but when they reunited, Ilya made sure she felt comfortable enough to integrate into his life," Svetlana explains when Shane asks about it. "She talks to you like she knows you because she probably does. Ilya must have told her about you."

Svetlana's words keep swirling in Shane's mind because he can't shake the thought that Ilya is talking about him with someone else. What is he saying? Why? Does he even have the slightest interest in him? Shane denies it so vehemently he feels dizzy.

When the day of the surprise party arrives, Shane is calm and mentally prepared to face the situation. He won't voice any of the questions gnawing at his mind.

"I'm going to die," Hayden whines, clinging to the top rung of a stepladder, trying to stick colorful streamers to the ceiling. "I'm going to die for something pointless because Ilya doesn't even like this tone."

"Stop crying, Ilya will like whatever we say," Svetlana says, smiling calmly from the sofa. She has gladly taken on the role of fulfilling Nadya's wishes after Shane resigned himself to not understanding a word the teenager says. "Rose, how are the balloons?"

"Fantastic! Harris has impressive lung capacity."

"What about you, Shane?"

"Uh, the food's served and we just need to get the cake out, but everything's ready." 

Svetlana smiles. Power looks attractive on her, and judging by Rose's flushed expression, it seems to be a given. Shane smiles back.

The setup for Ilya's birthday party is almost finished, thanks to the help of the guests who have been divided into sections at Svetlana's direction. Her house is buzzing with colors, balloons, and fun decorations.

Everyone seems excited at the prospect of surprising such a ridiculous man as Ilya.

Ilya has a busy morning at the office. The bravest employees stop him to wish him a happy birthday, while the more timid ones give him a nod of recognition, which he returns with a simple nod. God, he's such a dork. Shane knows the man is excited about his birthday because he loves attention, but he also knows that it bothers him when people get distracted and don't do their jobs. It's funny, really. Shane just teases him for a few minutes at his expression and carries on with the day as usual so as not to spoil the afternoon's surprise.

When his phone alarm tells him it's time to decorate the cake, Shane leaves his colleagues arguing about where to arrange the chairs and heads to the kitchen.

The room is smaller than Ilya's kitchen, but it has similar appliances and electronics. Svetlana likes to cook, clearly evidenced by the cake she's made with all the ingredients Ilya loves from his childhood. Shane's task is simply to decorate it.

Shane takes the cake out of the freezer and places it on the kitchen counter. It's two tiers, with pink frosting—at Nadya's request—and a honey filling. It was Shane's idea to add chocolate, an obsession his boss has expressed every time he has dessert at lunch. This prompted Svetlana to look at him silently and then utter an enigmatic "I see." What the hell that means, Shane doesn't want to know, but it leaves a nagging feeling under his skin nonetheless.

It's bad enough that Hayden knows all his secrets; he doesn't need Svetlana's prying eyes counting his heartbeats.

"Wow," Troy's whistle fills the kitchen, "the cake looks amazing." 

Shane smiles as he starts following the design Nadya requested.

“Svetlana made it.”

“Still, you’re pretty nice for offering to decorate it,” Troy says, leaning back against the counter in front of him. “You’ve made quite an impression on us, haven’t you? Nadya talked to me the other day; she’s excited to meet you.”

“Ilya probably exaggerated my personality. I’m going to be a disappointment,” Shane scoffs, concentrating on a particularly difficult ending. “There’s nothing impressive about me.”

He hears Troy snort with amusement, but when the silence between them stretches on longer than necessary, Shane raises his head and arches his eyebrows.

“What?”

“I’m intrigued by all this,” Troy admits, resting his chin on his palm. “You, in particular. A few months ago, you used to call Ilya a son of a bitch, and now you’re decorating a cake for his birthday party.”

Shane isn't an egocentric person, but why the hell does everyone seem obsessed with his behavior lately? Haven't they ever seen someone change their mind? Yes, Ilya is a son of a bitch, but he also has the warmest hands he's ever felt and a laugh that sounds like paradise on earth.

Suppressing a snort, Shane replies,

"Ilya is still an asshole, but the difference is that now I like him."

Isn't that the understatement of the century?

"Good for you, then. Ilya's a great guy. I've known him for a couple of years. He deserves good things to happen to him, good people. Nadya loves him, Svetlana does too. Even though he's a jerk sometimes, we want him to be happy, you know?"

Shane nods, though deep down he has no idea why Troy is saying this. They do have something in common, at least. He wants Ilya to be happy too; that's why he's decorating the damn cake with such delicacy so the frosting resembles hearts.

"Troy!" 

An unfamiliar female voice, a bit high-pitched and shrill, calls out through the house to the kitchen. Troy's exasperated sigh is all Shane needs to know who it is.

"Hey, Nadya, you can't yell like t—oof!"

A gust of wind rushes into the kitchen as a body bursting with energy and speed crashes into Troy. Swiftly, two arms wrap around his waist, lifting him slightly off the ground.

"Troy!" the teenager calls again, tilting her head back to reveal a dazzling smile. "It's so good to see you. I thought you were coming to pick me up at the airport, though Wyatt was a nice surprise. Did you see all the food?" 

Shane blinks as two large, bright eyes focus on him.

Although he's seen Nadya's face in photographs, seeing her in person is a completely different experience. Her very light hair is wildly tousled on her head, with strands falling haphazardly across her forehead. She resembles her father, but it's also impossible not to notice the resemblance she shares with her uncle. Especially her eyes, which are large and clear, radiating a vigor fueled by a natural, energetic force.

Shane swallows hard.

"You're Shane," Nadya says, letting go of Troy, her bubbly voice sounding even more cheerful than that time they chatted on the phone. "Ilya talks about you all the time. You're amazing."

Shane opens his mouth to greet her, but his voice catches in his throat before he can make a sound. There's something about Nadya's words—confident and truthful, affectionate and warm—that reminds him of a place he doesn't belong but secretly longs for. Which is stupid. Shane is just another employee; he's there because he works for the magazine, that's all.

It's impossible for Ilya to talk about him. Not genuinely. Just out of politeness, maybe.

"Be careful, kid, Shane's decorating the cake," Troy chides, but immediately wraps an arm around Nadya's shoulders and gives her a loving squeeze. "Did you have a good flight?"

Nadya nods and turns to the man with a smile.

"Yep. I'll miss the weather. Bern has beautiful landscapes."

"Luca said something about it. Did you tell your mom you were leaving?"

"She'll find out when she doesn't see me—ouch! Don't worry, I'll call her later. What time does Ilya arrive? I'm starving."

"Travel can be tiring," Shane interrupts, making them both look at him, "so I set aside a plate of food for you. It's in the oven."

Nadya's eyes widen comically, and without warning, she turns away from Troy and moves swiftly toward the oven. Amid shouts of thanks, she retrieves the plate of meat and vegetables Shane prepared when he arrived. Ilya is always grumpy after a long flight, so Shane assumes his niece can't be much different.

"I hope you realize you've just signed your own death warrant," Troy warns with an amused expression. "Nadya isn't going to let you go."

Shane laughs.

"I don't see a problem."

When they both leave the kitchen amidst conversations that are difficult to follow, Shane finishes decorating the cake. At the very top, he places the bottle-shaped candle that says “you’re like fine wine,” specially bought by Svetlana in an attempt to tease her friend. Shane thinks it’s only funny if it’s observational humor, because it’s ridiculous how attractive Ilya looks with each passing day.

Around eight o’clock, Svetlana calls all the guests to the main room.

“Ilya’s on his way; Nadya told him she was in town,” Svetlana says with an excited smile. “Before he arrives, we’ll turn off the lights and hide. When he opens the door, someone will appear from the kitchen with the cake, and we’ll all come out singing ‘Happy Birthday.’ He’s going to hate it. This is going to be great.”

“I propose Shane carry the cake!” Nadya says before anyone else can interrupt. “He decorated it, didn’t he? It’s only fair.”

Shane shrinks imperceptibly. If that were the case, Svetlana, who made it from scratch, should carry the cake. Shane is surrounded by people who have known Ilya much longer and more deeply than he has, people who have a more intense and meaningful connection with his boss. Shane is there for a technicality; he doesn’t intend to overstep any personal boundaries. Still—

“I agree,” Svetlana says, her tone leaving no room for doubt. Troy nods beside her. “We don’t have much time left. Everyone to your places.”

The living room erupts in laughter and excited squeals, vibrating with a buzzing energy. Shane takes a deep breath and exchanges a brief glance with Hayden, who raises his eyebrows, trying to ask if he's okay. The response is a nod; Shane hopes his expression is less honest than the slight trembling of his hands.

Although he doesn't know the creaks that betray Svetlana's house, Shane knows the exact moment Ilya's shoes approach the door and open it with a squeak. In the darkness, he can barely make out his silhouette, but Shane lights the candle with practiced speed and waits.

Ilya enters the room, shouting something in Russian where Shane can make out the names Nadya and Svetlana.

Inhale, exhale.

Shane isn't necessarily a romantic person. He treats women and men the same, without ulterior motives, because no one interests him enough. Sometimes he sleeps with men he finds attractive just for the pleasure of releasing tension. It's entertaining, superficial, harmless.

There's nothing harmless about this.

The faint candlelight flickers alongside his pulse as Shane moves toward the living room, the cake in his hands. The moment Ilya's confused face comes into view, Shane feels like running.

"What…?"

Ilya's voice trails off as their eyes meet.

He's wearing the same clothes he wore to the office: a black t-shirt and dark red pants. Ilya looks attractive in the soft candlelight, almost ethereal, like those dreams Shane's been having lately, no longer frightening, but full of warmth. His mouth is slightly open, with a genuine expression of surprise.

He looks fucking adorable. Shane appreciates the weight of the cake in his hands, a reminder that he's not floating in outer space. It's hard to focus on the outside world when Ilya's hypnotic gaze is on his, even as they're enveloped by the resounding, off-key chorus of their friends starting to sing "Happy Birthday."

Ilya's eyes, always familiar, now hold a strange expression. They are fixed on him, but seem to observe him with reverence. Shane? Me? Slowly, Shane blinks, trying to break free from the man's oppressive attention, yet Ilya continues to gaze at him as if he possessed a divine touch, as if there were no answers other than those hidden in his pupils.

Who the fuck does he think he is, looking at him like that? Shane can't remember the last time he felt this way. Or if he ever has. The blood in his veins feels thin, impossibly unreal, similar to the soothing sensation that washes over every inch of his skin.

Shane has the urge to throw the cake across the room to get closer to Ilya, grab him by the lapels of his shirt, and shake him until he spills the deepest secrets hidden in his mind. It's infuriating to know they're so close and yet so far away, enveloped in a transparent bubble that forces them to breathe the same air. 

It feels as if someone has pulled the rug out from under them, sending them plummeting from a height of three thousand meters. Shane feels the tightness in his chest with the same intensity as the bubbling of laughter in his throat, both suffocating him equally. He wants to take Ilya's face in his hands and kiss him until everything around them becomes invisible, until Shane can breathe again.

The spell is broken when his friends stop singing and start shouting around him, “Make a wish! Make a wish!” Ilya blinks as if waking from a long sleep and, without breaking eye contact, leans over the cake. Shane swallows hard when he recognizes, distinctly, his familiar scent amidst the overwhelming presence of his friends.

Once Ilya blows out the candle, the lights turn on and his friends erupt in celebratory cheers.

“Ilya!” Nadya shouts, and runs to her uncle to envelop him in a devastating hug.

The birthday party smoothly transitions into the celebration Shane and Svetlana have planned. More Svetlana than Shane, if he's honest with himself. After the hugs—which Ilya receives with gusto and a huge grin—the guests settle into the living room to eat and drink amidst laughter, comments, and anecdotes.

"He was so ferocious he almost ate me alive," Troy says in an exaggerated voice, "but I managed to get away from him gracefully and quickly."

"You're unbelievable!" Nadya squeals, jumping up in her seat. "I didn't know he was really like that."

"He's not that terrible," Wyatt laughs. "He's a good guy. Scott is just particular about certain things. And a damn legend."

"He's still an asshole," Ilya grumbles, taking a swig of beer. He's sitting between Svetlana and Rose, who are chatting animatedly amongst themselves. "I hope he doesn't decide to launch anything next year."

“You’re bitter. Scott is an excellent designer. I ran into him in the last city I was in and invited him to participate in next year’s fashion show,” Svetlana says, earning a disapproving look from her friend. “Oh, I know, we should play Find the—”

“Absolutely not. It’s my birthday, and I choose to be happy.” 

Shane suppresses a smile and takes a sip of his drink. It’s interesting to see Ilya interacting with his friends, in a relaxed and familiar manner that contrasts sharply with his domineering attitude toward the Centaurs employees. Here, he’s just an ordinary man.

He's not scary or unapproachable. Ilya looks like the man who watches him with amusement from his desk, who makes jokes about his boring attitude and offers him provocative smiles. It's normal behavior, then. Shane is no exception.

That's good.

Fuck.

"What's wrong with the best game ever?"

"It's a rip-off."

"What's the best game ever?" Nadya asks innocently. 

Ilya whimpers in disappointment as Svetlana's eyes widen, sparkling with excitement.

“Ah, Nadya! I’ll tell you the story. It all started one night at university. Ilya had failed the same class for the second time, and I’d won three poker games in a row that promised—” 

Shane shakes his head, pleased, when he notices his friend’s voice commanding everyone’s attention. While his colleagues are engrossed in her story, he takes the opportunity to serve more appetizers and drinks. Shane likes these specific, concrete tasks that allow him to slip away from the crowd without anyone questioning his presence.

When it's time to cut the cake, Shane distributes the pieces under the birthday boy's watchful eye. He doesn't let the knife tremble in his nervous hands while Svetlana effortlessly accepts the compliments from those present. The way his eyes obsessively follow Ilya's movements as he happily eats the cake is striking.

He seems happy, and that's what matters.

Eventually, the party's energy begins to wane. Around eleven o'clock at night, Wyatt and Hayden say his goodbyes, followed by Troy and Harris. Shane lets the soft voices of his friends relax him as he clears the table to wash the dishes, a familiar motion.

When he went to college parties, he always took that opportunity as a way to escape the crowd. Now, he feels a little overwhelmed after the busy afternoon, but even more so by the unfamiliar emotions that flood him.

From the kitchen, he can hear his friends' laughter, their excited shouts and squeals. Nadya is the loudest of them all, but Ilya's raspy interjections and Svetlana's joyful yells fall into a conversational frequency they're all clearly used to.

It's pleasant. The sound becomes a lullaby for his racing heart, which hasn't stopped thinking about his true place in all of this. The water runs relentlessly between his mechanized fingers as he carries the dishes from the sink to the drying racks.

He's so engrossed in the sensation of the cold water on his hands that Shane doesn't notice Ilya's presence until the man stops beside him.

His boss looks tired, but the relaxed expression on his face brightens his features slightly. Ilya looks jovial, like the photographs Shane had seen from his college days. It's the opposite of the image the rest of the world has of Ilya, a ruthless, inhuman demon, a despotic boss like the one he had once hated so much.

Now he can't find a single shred of repulsion toward him.

When Ilya stares at him silently for more seconds than he can bear, Shane cuts the tap and meets his eyes.

He's never liked eye contact before. It seems to be all Shane can do now.

"What's wrong?"

"Why aren't you in the living room?"

Shane blinks at his tone. In the recesses of his wayward mind, he interprets it as sadness. Disappointment. Shane isn't good at reading subtext, so he shrugs.

"I'm busy, but I'll be done soon," he replies. When the man doesn't respond, Shane feels the need to fill the silence again. "Nadya was really excited about your surprise party. I hope you're enjoying her effort." 

Ilya nods, but adds nothing more. What's wrong with him? Suddenly, the same expression from before returns to his face, the one he shared with Shane when they were singing "Happy Birthday." In the kitchen light, Shane appreciates how good the t-shirt looks on him. The black fabric hugs his large arms, his broad back, and his impeccable physique.

Up close, Ilya seems more human than ever. Intimate. Approachable. Shane allows himself, for a moment, to fantasize about a different scenario than the one they're in. He imagines how easy it would be to see him across a bar and feel the urge to sleep with him. Shane would dismiss him because of his arrogant demeanor, but he'd think about him every day for the rest of the week. Maybe he'd buy him a drink if he felt brave that night.

Shane can't remember the last time he felt brave.

He feels the air shifting, and that same strange sensation he experienced at the beginning of the celebration fills his gut. Shane lets a static vivacity wash over him from head to toe as he notices how close they are, and his mind recalls that afternoon in his office a week ago, before Luca interrupted them.

“I was wondering,” Ilya interjects softly, almost a whisper, “do you have a present for me?” 

Shane blinks.

“Not really. I spent all week planning today, I didn’t have time to look for a gift.”

In his statement, Shane omits the fact that he spent hours obsessively thinking about a present that reflected his deepest feelings. When it proved impossible to find one, he gave up and poured his efforts into Nadya’s surprise party.

Facing him, in a movement seemingly unnatural, Ilya takes a deep breath before speaking. His eyebrow trembles slightly. He seems nervous.

"Can I ask you for one?" 

Ilya doesn't ask for things. He demands them, asserting his wishes with an authoritarian voice and a rigid posture. Hayden has reminded him of this because Shane forgets, when Ilya looks at him like this, who his boss really is.

A man who has everything in life, who doesn't need anything at all.

Shane nods.

Ilya's nervousness becomes evident when he inhales again, this time shakily, almost as if he's choking. Shane's hands itch to touch some part of his body, to give him the reassurance he seems to lack, but he remains still. Ilya isn't a fearful person. What could affect him enough to break his impeccable demeanor?

Ilya takes a step forward, invading his personal space and entering a dangerously vulnerable zone. His breath smells faintly of alcohol, and his cologne carries a trace of each of the guests. His expression is conflicted, insecure in a way Shane has never seen it before, but it also carries a yearning feeling that is disturbingly familiar.

Shane listens to his breathing, feels the man's warm fingers on his back. Ilya closes his eyes.

He's going to kiss me, he's going to kiss me, he's going to kiss me, he's going to—

"Ilya!"

Fucker. Damn Shane and the damn birthday party he threw. Damn the day Shane set foot on the Centaurs, because he's never felt anger bubble up like this, as Ilya freezes at his niece's voice and lets his arm fall to his side.

The expression on his boss's face is devastating. Shane wonders if his own is similar, but he doesn't have time to voice his frustration because the kitchen door bursts open and Nadya pokes her head in, grinning from ear to ear.

“Guys, we are going to play Find the Cloth!”

Damn the day Shane was born, definitely.

Chapter End Notes

ah, freak shane is coming soon. literally lol

Chapter 4: Surrender is more satisfying than fighting; an article by Shane Hollander

Shane can't keep doing this. 

After a night of reflection that consists of sitting with himself in the dark to confront every thought he hides beneath a flimsy facade of disinterest, Shane has come to a decision. He's reached his limit. Enough is enough. Shane has a resilience to most things in the universe because he needs to in order to survive, but he doesn't have to subject himself to the torture of being in love with Ilya.

Yes, he's accepted it. Shane has put himself between the devil and the deep blue sea, the gun to his head, and all those metaphors that have haunted him since he first saw Ilya's eyes, and the conclusion is devastating: Shane is impossibly in love with his boss.

So there's only one logical solution left.

He's going to quit.

How can Shane continue to let his heart exist faster than his feet and thoughts? It's going to get him into trouble, if it hasn't already. Shane doesn't allow himself to be lenient with his strict life policies. Unfortunately for him, he's unable to have a relationship with Ilya because he's his boss. He can't have it because it's the right thing to do, because it's stipulated in his contract.

He's going to quit.

It's the obvious solution, so why does he feel like he's going to die?

Shane drops his head into his hands and takes a deep breath for the tenth time, letting the fresh rooftop air clear his mind.

It's been a week since Ilya's birthday. Shane can feign normalcy among his colleagues; Svetlana lunches with him and asks how he's doing. Troy greets him with a pat on the back. Rose, who has been talking to him more these days, invites him to her office for coffee with Hayden. Everything between them is normal, easygoing.

Ilya, once again, is the problem.

The man hasn't mentioned, or even hinted at, the near-kiss in the kitchen. In everyday life, this is obviously beneficial because Shane doesn't want to have a panic attack in the office. They both work together on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday without incident; Shane on the sofa, Ilya at his desk. The distance is unnerving, but his boss doesn't seem bothered by it. Thursday and Friday, while working as an editor, Shane doesn't see Ilya at all.

Everything seems normal on the surface, but Shane isn't stupid. He knows Ilya well enough to notice the change in his attitude: the hesitant tone when he gives an order, the way he moves away when Shane walks by, or his eyes, always focused on him, suddenly lost in a universe Shane can't reach.

So he's fucked. It's over. Shane has to quit, move on with his life, and go back to working with unpleasant idiots who don't care about their jobs.

Ilya is two out of three. Unfortunately for Shane, the man has never lacked passion or rigor in his work, which has proven to be a major turn on. He doesn't know if this is a normal reaction, but there's no point in theorizing now, because Shane will quit as soon as he can breathe properly again.

The view from the rooftop is as beautiful as all the times he comes to escape his problems. It's three in the afternoon and the sun shines softly overhead; summer will be here soon. Shane needs to finalize the next planning for Ilya: who to call to arrange the summer edition, what the best options are, what's been popular in previous years. He knows Luca could do it, but Shane will see it as a final gesture.

Of recognition, for giving him the opportunity to work with Wyatt. Of gratitude, because Ilya opened up a world that Shane didn't know he could access, and even though he's not going to do anything about it, he's grateful for the reminder that he's not dead.

Just as Shane feels tears stinging his eyes, he hears the heavy rooftop door opening and the familiar sound of heels walking toward him.

“Hayden said this was your favorite place to panic, but I didn’t think he was serious,” Svetlana laughs, leaning against the railing beside him. “I thought I might have some solitude to panic on my own, but I see you’ve beaten me to it.”

Shane looks at her curiously. She's staring at the scenery, her shoulders relaxed. His friend seems different, lighter, happier. Svetlana doesn't seem to be feeling bad at all.

"Why are you panicking?"

"I'm going to propose to Rose."

Ah. It's hard to imagine that a woman as fearless as Svetlana would be afraid of a love as reciprocated as the one she has with Rose, but Shane is never going to judge anyone when it comes to love again. He's learned his lesson, unfortunately.

Perhaps that's why Svetlana looks happy, hopeful for a resolution that will soon be reached. It's something everyone in the office is waiting for—Hayden started a bet with Troy about when they'll officially announce their romance—but Shane was there when Svetlana lost hope. He's also been there these last few days, when Rose seems positively in love and excited.

Shane has no way of knowing what goes on behind closed doors. The surprise must be obvious on his face, because Svetlana starts laughing.

“I know. I haven't told anyone else. Well, Ilya helped me get here.”

At the mention of the man who haunts his every breath, Shane straightens up.

“Ilya?”

“Yes, we've had a lot of conversations since the gala. I apologize for that, by the way. I was out of line and—well, anyway. Ilya helped me understand that I can't lose Rose just because I'm afraid of losing my family. I love my father, yes, but I have my own life too. I owe it to myself. I can't be a coward.”

Coward. 

That's what Shane is being, isn't he? It's not something he practices. All his life, Shane has pursued and attempted things that are different because that's what he wants, not by chance. He likes playing hockey, and even at six years old, when he was afraid of falling flat on his face and breaking his teeth, he did it. He likes reading and writing, and even when his teachers suggested a more prolific career, he did it. He likes hard work and the excitement of committed colleagues, and even when he was told that working at a fashion magazine wouldn't lead to anything, he did it. 

He likes Ilya, even if the idea of the world collapsing around him scares him. Is he going to do anything about it?

Inhale, exhale.

Shane can't not try, at least. It's not in his nature to give up or surrender. He imagines walking away from the man's hazel eyes, from his laughter that echoes his every deepest desire, from the way it seems to follow him with every step he takes. Shane can't let him go.

He just can’t. 

At that moment, Shane decides he's going to face his damn feelings, even if it's the last thing he ever does. So what if everything goes wrong?

And what if everything goes well?

God, Shane hopes it goes well.

“I think she’ll be thrilled,” Svetlana murmurs, a small smile playing on her lips as she gazes at the clouds. “I hope she says yes. I’ll buy her a bigger apartment, you know? For us and her cat.”

“I don’t think the word ‘no’ is in Rose’s vocabulary, at least not with you, so you can invite me to your new place whenever you want.”

Shane smiles, and his friend smiles back, her eyes shining with hope. Hope.

Fuck it.

Now that he's scrapped his initial idea, Shane doesn't have a plan, but his feet have a mind of their own. They pull him off the rooftop and drag him to Ilya's favorite conference room, the one Shane has reserved for the meeting scheduled for five o'clock.

Because Shane is an excellent assistant and is irrevocably in love with him. Whatever.

It's spine-chilling to know someone like the back of your hand, because even though Ilya should be having lunch, Shane is sure he rushed his break to focus on ironing out the final details.

Ilya is meticulous about so many things. His mind thrives on efficiency, perfection, and precision, which he relentlessly seeks in every detail. Shane’s aware that Ilya has eyes in every corner of the Centaurs because he's a control freak in his own way. They both are. That's what Shane likes about Ilya, what obsesses him and doesn't allow him to get away from this throbbing throughout his body that consumes his life.

Shane tugs at the collar of his shirt. He hopes the heat burning in his thoughts won't leave marks on his skin.

Predictably, Ilya is already sitting in the conference room. He's frowning and speaking silently, his mouth moving in a hypnotic sequence of unspoken words, oblivious to Shane. Ilya’s wearing a navy suit, which accentuates his sharp features and pale eyes. For once, a tie is around his neck, a delicate piece of fabric that falls against his chest.

Shane cautiously enters the room, lets the door close behind him, and swallows hard. He doesn't know if he'll survive, but he has to try. 

Inhale, exhale.

He thinks carefully about the words he'll say. He imagines himself calmly, sitting next to Ilya, speaking slowly and deliberately. Shane will express each idea clearly, making sure his boss understands perfectly what he means. It's just a crush, a mild attraction. Yes, he is in love, but he doesn't expect anything. Shane is going to confess that he only wants to tell him because he is not a coward and he has an impeccable record of facing what destabilizes him. They don't have to do anything about it. They're adults; Shane will get over it. He'll formally apologize for taking advantage of his kindness and announce his resignation without hesitation, without complications.

Smooth, easy, quick.

However, when Ilya raises his head and looks at him, Shane's heart stops. As does his logic and rationality.

"Why the fuck haven't you done anything about it?"

The room is empty except for the two of them. Shane's voice echoes, uncertain and nervous, in the space, but he doesn't let the anxiety gnaw at him. He's doubted his words before, worried they'll fail him when he wants to express something important, making him look foolish, but Shane trusts Ilya.

Trust.

What a messed-up world he lives in.

Ilya raises his eyebrows in surprise. Shane doesn't know if it's because of his presence or his words. He's afraid to open his mouth again.

"There are at least twenty things I haven't done lately," Ilya says, and that stupid, sensual, fiery accent hammers in his head. Shane stands still by the door, at the other end of the conference table, his heart in his hands. "Which one are you referring to?"

Inhale, exhale.

"Me."

Shane wants to hit himself for being so vague about his true desires, but before he can correct himself, Ilya's face lights up.

“Yes, I’m sorry. The shipment was delayed. I had Luca yell at the manager, but it wasn’t enough. I had to go to the store myself,” his boss says, waving his hand nonchalantly. “The chair will arrive tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

“What?” Shane replies, confused by the change of subject. “What chair?”

“Your chair, the one you’re going to use at my desk. Do you think I’m going to have you sitting on the couch all year? I know you’re aware of how bad it is for your back, so you don’t have to torture yourself anymore. I fixed it. You’re welcome.”

Shane is frozen, staring at Ilya's expression, which can only be described as adorable. It's honest, positively happy, and open, as if he were hoping Shane would be just as enthusiastic about the fact that the man had taken the time to care about him. 

He is. That's the fucking problem.

Shane collapses into the nearest chair and hides his face in his hands to stifle a scream.

He can't even remember what shitty excuse he was going to use to get away from Ilya. Fuck. This is absolute torture, designed specifically to drive him crazy. He's running out of options; maybe Shane should become religious and start atoning for his sins, because his reaction to a simple sentence is beyond normal.

Because it's not just the damn chair. This isn't an isolated incident, a simple everyday act Ilya performs to be a good boss. Shane knows what courtesy is, what indifference is, and what it's like to be scorned. Ilya is a different reality. Ilya is a new, unknown world that terrifies and paralyzes him. The man notices him, cares for him, and looks after him in his own way. Not with the same intentions as Shane, but he does.

Can he even allow himself to think of Ilya that way, when the man does nothing but be kind to him?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fu—

“Hey, what is it? I got one of the chairs you like, don’t worry,” Ilya says, and after a moment and some noise, two warm hands are placed on his shoulders. Shane makes another muffled sound. “What is wrong?”

This is the perfect moment to tell him, there is no other, Shane convinces himself between ragged breaths. He has to tell him about the new feeling that fills his life every time he sees him or he's going to die. Shane has to touch Ilya somehow before the instant passes, before he can never see him again, he has to—

Shane slowly takes his hands away from his face and meets Ilya's worried expression. He looks genuinely distressed, as if the thought of Shane feeling bad disturbs him greatly.

It's not real, he reminds himself, it's just a reflection of his own feelings. Shane can't let his own emotions get in the way of what is a detached and casual declaration of love or he will leave the conference room in pieces. Shane is not going to cry, he is a grown man.

Shane takes a deep breath. Ilya smells of soap and tobacco, but also of familiarity and trust, something he can never feel for others.

Inhale, exhale.

“We almost kissed on your birthday,” Shane whispers, swallowing hard when Ilya’s expression doesn’t change. He listens quietly, as he has been doing for the past few months. “Or I almost kissed you, at least. I don’t understand why—I don’t know.”

“Do you think I don’t want to kiss you?”

Ilya’s voice is a little quieter than Shane’s, but he can hear him clearly. Shane watches as his lips move, caressing the words, and though his pulse quickens, he doesn’t look away. Do you think I don’t want to kiss you? It sounds like a direct threat to everything that’s right and allowed between them.

It is.

A piece of heaven on earth. His freedom. His whole world for a kiss—is it worth it? Shane doesn't want to be a coward; he can't afford to be.

"It seems like you don't want to."

Shane doesn't spit out the words, but he's close. Ilya kneels in front of him, getting down to his level, and flashes an arrogant smile, the kind that makes him want to slap it away. Ilya's still a son of a bitch. Shane wants to throw himself at him and have them both roll on the floor until they disappear, fused into the idea that has haunted him for months.

“I could say the same to you,” Ilya laughs, bold and cheeky. Shane wants him, always, all the time. “But I don’t hold a grudge. Do you want me to kiss you?”

“No,” Shane’s mouth says faster than his heart. His brain immediately goes into alarm at the idea of them being so close in the workplace, where anyone could walk in. At the same time, a burning desire for Ilya to grab him and fuck him against the conference table is brewing in his gut. He swallows again. “Yes. I don’t know. Not here.”

Ilya hums and slowly slides his touch from Shane's shoulder to his hands. It's a winding but exciting tactile journey. Shane is so disoriented he feels a little dizzy; that lasts until Ilya's fingers find his and take his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Trust. 

“Okay. I knew that, actually. Shane Hollander would freak out if he had an office romance. You are easy to read, especially when it’s obvious that—”

Shane has no idea how that sentence ends because he silences Ilya with an awkward, rushed, and feverish kiss.

People don't really know him. Others often misinterpret his serious demeanor and discipline, easily dismissing him for his perceived lack of flexibility. Those who know him wouldn't say he's easy to read beyond his predictability, but Ilya makes it simple to see through his words. Ilya laughs at his jokes, challenges Shane with playful banter, and points out his weaknesses with the sole purpose of unlocking his potential. Ilya says he would choose him, and he does. Ilya defends his position in the office. Ilya listens to his comments, criticisms, and ideas with wide, attentive eyes.

Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.

How the fuck is Shane not going to kiss him?

It's an idea that's been swirling in his head since long before Ilya’s birthday. Since before he went to pet-sit Anya, maybe even before confronting him in the elevator. Shane wants to kiss him because he wants to be close to Ilya, because he needs to express that beautiful explosiveness that blossoms every time the man smiles.

His trembling hands travel at the speed of light to Ilya's hair and he grips tightly, without breaking the kiss. At the same frequency, Shane feels his boss's large hands gripping his waist firmly, holding him in place. Ilya's lips are soft, pressed against his, and when the man pulls his body closer to him, Shane gasps into his mouth and feels Ilya’s hot tongue caressing his own.

It's a wet, clumsy, desperate kiss. Shane can't remember if anyone has ever kissed him like this, so full of life. The heat of Ilya's body drives him wild and overwhelms him, propelling him to pursue the impossible. Shane shifts restlessly, and Ilya grunts between kisses, sliding his tongue from Shane's lips to his neck, lightly sucking at his skin.

Immediately, Shane freezes, and Ilya stops.

They both pant in the deserted conference room, still holding each other. Ilya's curly hair is as soft as he imagined, fine silk between his fingers. His face so close to his doesn't betray a thought of displeasure or rejection, so Shane inhales and tries to calm his racing heart.

"We're in the office," Shane murmurs.

A fact. Ilya nods.

“You’re my boss,” Shane says again, and feels a punch to the chest that chills his entire body. “Shit. This isn’t right, you know? It’s not legal. I know everyone here sleeps with each other and all that, but I-I can’t do it. Ilya, fuck, this can’t happen.”

Ilya nods again. Despite the fingers gripping his waist, Ilya looks at him with open, honest eyes.

“Hey, I understand. You’re panicking. If you don’t want to do it, that’s fine, but nothing bad will happen to you. Fuck the legality, I make the contract and I can undo it. I’ve got it under control. Everything’s fine.”

He's definitely losing it, because his assertive, commanding tone is doing wonders for Shane's gut. He feels possessed as he lunges at Ilya again, trapping him in a breathless, open kiss that seems to consume every cell in his body.

This time, the force of his movement sends Ilya sprawling backward, with Shane straddling him. He can feel his own cock hardening as his knees touch the carpet and the man's leg spreads his own, the delicious pressure making him groan. He feels hot all over, burning flames beneath Ilya's hands as they explore his ass.

When the man squeezes it, Shane lets out an embarrassingly loud sound. Ilya freezes, but Shane just rubs his hips against his.

“Harder,” Shame murmurs against his mouth, biting his boss’s lip. “Come on, fuck.”

Ilya says something quickly in Russian and suddenly the world spins. Shane finds himself flat on his back, the man's heavy body on top of him. Shit. He needs Ilya to crush him, to take his breath away and give it back with a kiss. Shane needs Ilya's hands to grip every one of his limbs, to devour him with that fucking mouth that never stops ordering him around.

“Harder?” Ilya repeats, and it sounds like a provocation. It is, because the man’s hands continue the action until Shane opens his mouth so wide it hurts. “Like this, or even harder, boss?”

Oh, fuck. Shane is going to die here, in the hands of the man to whom he would give everything, down to his last heartbeat. He feels so aroused that he is disoriented; Shane can't even begin to understand how much time he has passed. Suddenly, everything around him slips out of his grasp, and far from feeling anxious or distressed, a strange tranquility washes over him. Ilya is on top of him, holding him tight, firmly. Nothing bad is going to happen to him.

Not while Ilya's in control.

"Since when do you call the shots, huh?" Ilya whispers, his mouth moving from Shane's lips to his ear. The warm breath leaves a trail Shane will desperately seek when he's alone, a trail he'll relive again and again in the absence of real heat. "You like fucking like that, Shane?"

Shit, shit, shit. His moan is answer enough as Ilya's burning mouth closes in a wet kiss next to his ear. Ilya chuckles softly, but he's not mocking him; he sounds happy, intrigued.

"Shut the fuck up," Shane says weakly, and the tug he gives Ilya's hair makes the man look at him with a strange gleam. "Think you can live up to the way I like to be fucked?"

It's not a rhetorical question. Shane doesn't usually feel this way, and he fears being disappointed in the near future. The men he's been with rarely satisfy him; Shane ends up frustrated and regretting sleeping with strangers. It's not that he's particularly demanding, but Shane never manages to get more worked up than necessary. He's easily distracted, quickly overwhelmed, and sometimes he just wants to be done with it so he can be alone.

Ilya is a revelation in many ways. Now, Shane is so hard it hurts, and it doesn't seem to be subsiding with each passing second, but he dreads it's just because of the circumstances.

His boss's response is the same as always. Ilya's laughter echoes in his ears and shatters every belief system Shane holds, demolishing any notion that promises the same experience as previous disappointments.

"Please," Ilya says in that tone that seems to assure him he's the best thing that's ever happened to him. Shane is starting to believe it's true. "I'm a grown man. I'm up to whatever you want, baby."

Baby. Baby. Baby. Baby. 

Shane can't stop his jaw from dropping in shock, both because it's a terrible line and because it's so horrifying that it works. A shiver runs down his spine and Shane needs to kiss him again to forget the pet name that ignites what he desires most.

Shane believes him. Ilya caresses his ass, his thighs, and his waist with confident, strong hands. Shane doesn't doubt for a moment that Ilya is his equal. He's never been disappointed by him; Ilya is a son of a bitch, a tyrant, and a despot, but he's also the most dedicated person Shane knows.

“Okay,” Shane gasps after a long, fierce kiss. “We’ll do it. But—but no, I need a plan.”

“A plan? You want to do this more than once?”

Ilya doesn't sound dismissive, but rather enthusiastic. He must be making fun of him, the damn bastard. Shane tugs his hair once more, making him laugh.

“I don’t believe in fucking vibes,” Shane says, alluding to the same argument they’ve had before. Ilya acts first and thinks later, relying on his experience and instincts. Shane needs all the cards on the table before making a move; he needs to know the step he's about to take to avoid falling into the abyss. This part of him doesn't embarrass him; it must be because Ilya's discerning eyes know more than he'd like. “I need to control this somehow or I’ll go crazy.”

“I think you already are,” Ilya replies, but he seems amused. As if Shane were fascinating and not a burden. “Don’t worry, we’ll work out a schedule. Calendar and all. How about tomorrow, at 9:20, in this same room?”

Shane tries to put on his best annoyed face as his cock twitches with interest.

“No, we’re not going to fuck in the office. The fact that we’re already doing this now is bad enough.”

His words are immediately contradicted when Ilya kisses him slowly and softly, barely a touch. Shane surprises himself by melting at the contact, lowering all his defenses when he allows his boss to wrap his arms around his waist in a semi-embrace. Shane returns the gesture, trapping Ilya's hips with his thighs. It feels like a natural movement between them, desired and mutual. Ilya effortlessly lifts him off the floor and gently places him on the table.

“Oh, but I do not have bad ideas,” Ilya whispers, his voice heavy with the conviction he always seems to carry on his shoulders. “I’ve been voted best editor-in-chief for the third year in a row.”

Shane must be out of his mind, because those words send a satisfying shiver through him, culminating in a gasp. It's a fact at this point that his boss's success turns him on as much as it irritates him. He really hates Ilya for that, but Shane also knows that if history had turned out differently, maybe the man wouldn't be as attractive to him as he is now.

Maybe Shane is just a bad person. And if he is, he definitely needs to sleep with Ilya before he's condemned by himself.

Ilya’s hand travels to his crotch and applies a light pressure that feels heavenly. Shane moves against him, but Ilya stops, his eyebrows arched, delight.

Son of a bitch.

“But you said we weren’t going to fuck here.”

“Masturbating isn’t fucking. It’s just… foreplay.”

Ilya's laugh is a wonderful trill accompanied by the most fascinated expression Shane has ever seen on his face. Now the man laughs constantly; it's a fact that both Svetlana and Hayden have pointed out. Fuck that. Ilya can be happy any other day, now he has to touch Shane before he passes out. Either that or he stops rubbing his hard dick against Shane's ass.

"Or I can suck you off," Shane suggests, a little more insane than yesterday, a little less insane than tomorrow. He needs to feel Ilya close somehow, now. "Or I can—"

"Why don't we make a deal, huh?" Ilya says, and his hips move gently against him, barely a touch. Primal, taunting. "I'm going to taste you now because I need to. Later, I'll come over to your place and we'll explore all the ideas in your crazy head, huh?"

Shane nods so hard he's afraid he's hurt his neck.

Ilya's smile is satisfied, predatory, and familiar. I need to. Well, fuck. Shane has never felt this desired before, not even in dreams. It's almost a ritual of worship, the way Ilya's hands slide over his body. Slowly, the heat moves away from his face and chest and concentrates on his stomach and groin.

In one swift motion, his pants open, and the cold air of the conference room prickles his skin. Shane gasps hysterically and stares at the ceiling, the familiar pattern on it reminds him he's still in the office. That he's lying with his back against the table where his colleagues usually take notes, that he's in direct view of anyone who opens the door and discovers Ilya Rozanov, the proudest son of a bitch he knows, forcing his way between his legs.

Shane can't miss this moment. His eyes travel, against his will or perhaps following every desire that chokes in his blood, to Ilya, who moves his boxers to free his cock. Shane helps him by lifting his hips slightly, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his ass touches the cold table.

He mentally apologizes to the janitor. Tomorrow, Shane will bring fucking industrial bleach to clean the mahogany table himself.

“Look at that,” Ilya says, and Shane can’t make out the tone in his voice. He doesn’t care, because his warm breath brushes against his sensitive skin and challenges his self-control. “What are you fighting against?”

“What—?”

Shane doesn’t finish his question because Ilya’s mouth closes on his happy trail, right on his belly. He hears Ilya sniff, sharply, as if he wants to suck him in.

It's funny, really. Shane knows Ilya doesn't feel the same way, but he recognizes in his boss the same physical attraction that burns inside him. It becomes obvious when one of Ilya's hands grips his hip as soon as Ilya's mouth slides down to his cock, guided by his wet tongue.

It's slow, tortuous. Shane has been bored before when men take too long, uncomfortable under the attention, but Ilya makes him feel like he's someone important. He isn't, not really. Shane is just an assistant, a nobody who longs to be somebody through his sharp pen, a man who discovered his sexuality too late because he's never allowed himself to enjoy what makes him feel out of control.

What are you fighting against?

Here, subjected to Ilya's mouth that takes him like his cock is the best thing he's ever experienced, Shane doesn't feel out of control. He feels engulfed in flames, lost in the damned ocean five hundred kilometers away from the very real possibility of being discovered, and he doesn't recognize the usual anxious throbbing in his chest.

Only desire, burning and hungry.

Shane tries not to move too much so as not to disrupt the rhythm Ilya sets as he pumps his head to suck his cock, but the man reads his mind. He always does, in fact, walking side by side even when Shane is five steps ahead of everyone. Ilya squeezes his ass and thrusts him upward, making Shane slam inside his tight mouth.

It's a wonderful feeling. The man has clearly had practice, and Shane wants to ask when, where, with whom, and how much, just for the sheer pleasure of hearing him talk. Only because, suddenly, the idea that this sensation exploding in his ears when Ilya pulls off with a particularly filthy suck might never happen again terrifies him.

Shane will let Ilya fuck him in an office full of his colleagues if that's what he wants, if that's what he needs to get his hands on him again.

That thought makes his gut clench, his balls tighten slightly before releasing in the best orgasm of his life. Shane doesn't even care if it's been two or twenty minutes; he's spent his whole life on the edge, falling short, never quite reaching the pleasure everyone talks about. 

Ilya sucks his cock without breaking eye contact even after swallowing his load, his eyes half-closed and a drunken expression on his face. Shane can't remember why the hell he didn't do this sooner, why he doesn't keep doing it for the rest of his life. 

All the fearful thoughts that keep him away from Ilya can go to hell. Screw heartbreak. Shane won't be the first or the last to not be loved in return, but it will be the first time in his life that a man knows how to handle him.

Shane isn't stupid enough to let Ilya go.

With trembling hands, Shane pulls him closer and the weight of Ilya's body feels like heaven. He kisses him hard, savoring his own climax between sensitive gasps that involuntarily escape his lips. Shane kisses Ilya for the promise of doing it again, for the idea that he's the perfect man for him, for everything he has missed until now.

What are you fighting against?

A loud sound makes Shane break the kiss as his heart race. It's Ilya's phone.

"Shit, five minutes until the meeting," Ilya says, resting his forehead against Shane’s chin with a sigh. "Maybe I should quit the magazine. Shut it down or something."

Hysterical laughter bubbles up in Shane's chest because this is stupid. He's hooking up with his boss. The Shane Hollander who won't cross the street unless the light it's green, who respects every damn rule, self-imposed or not. 

Fuck. 

He never imagined himself in this situation, but Shane decides that being close to thirty is a good time to go insane. His father bought a motorcycle at that age, he can fuck the love of his life without any strings attached. Besides, it's not something he'll do again with anyone else. There's only one Ilya Rozanov in the world, after all.

Shane places a kiss on Ilya’s forehead and gently pushes him away, sitting on the table.

"Move before Hayden comes in and dies of shock," Shane says. He's surprised by how naturally his voice comes out. His body feels light, unfamiliar beneath his own movements, weightless. Ilya moves away and looks at him with inscrutable eyes. "You'll come to my house today at six. No excuses."

Without waiting for a response, Shane kisses him again. Because he wants to, because now he can. Ilya tastes like himself, like an idea Shane hasn't yet discovered but needs to decipher as soon as possible. Ilya's hands travel to his face and caress his cheek with his fingertips, as if he feels the same thing.

Fuck logic. Shane has spent his whole life on the line, following what's expected, what he believes is right. How could Ilya's breath against his be wrong? It's electric and heated, but also concrete, real.

Shane needs to touch him again, soon, today, tomorrow, every day.

He gets up because he still has a shred of common sense and awkwardly pulls up his pants. Ilya gives a smile that seems delighted and about to make some teasing remark, but Shane interrupts him with a light shove.

“Go do your job. I’m not attracted to you because you’re lazy or irresponsible.”

Ilya laughs openly.

“Lazy? I’m not the one who hasn’t reviewed the documents Troy left this morning.”

Shane snorts and runs a hand through his hair, trying to feign normalcy. His boss didn’t suck his dick seconds ago, and he’s not irrevocably in love with him. Normal.

"Don't be ridiculous, Troy’s documents have been ready since noon,” Shane says, giving Ilya’s tie a light tug. The man’s expression immediately changes, shedding any amused feelings from before. It’s a soft fabric, navy blue like the rest of his suit, which contrasts with his skin tone when Shane wraps a finger around the tie. “I’ll see you later.”

Shane gives it the final tug and leaves Ilya in the conference room. When he opens the door, there's no one in the hallway or nearby; it's not like he wants someone to listen to them, but Shane starts to have his doubts when the empty place clashes with the disappointment he feels on his skin. 

He quickly dismisses the idea because he decided to go insane, but never that insane.

Shane takes a deep breath and, with light shoulders, walks to his office to begin putting together a plan that involves Ilya fucking him with the same dedication he devotes to his work, because he isn't himself unless Shane gives everything, always.

Shane knows all too well how quickly time flies when anticipation is eating you up inside. Before he can even take a deep breath, the meeting is over, and he and his boss are on the most awkward car ride of his life, traveling to a destination that will forever seal their fate.

Having Ilya Rozanov in his small apartment is like witnessing an alien invasion. The man crosses the threshold with a hesitant expression, as if someone were about to kick him out without explanation. Shane feels the same way, if he's honest, because even though he's been around Ilya in other informal situations, this is different. 

Ilya is here to fuck him. Shane agreed to that when he let him suck his dick earlier.

Now, Ilya stands in the center of his apartment, looking at him expectantly. Shane has no idea what to do, so his mouth moves faster in an attempt to fill the suffocating silence that has stretched longer than humanly possible. 

Ilya never misses an opportunity to tease him, so why has he suddenly decided to be a decent person?

“I have lots of different kinds of tea,” Shane announces, striding into the kitchen. He’s been trying to organize his thoughts ever since he got in the car, but they’re flying wildly in opposite directions. “There’s chamomile, jasmine, hojicha, green tea… Well, it depends on what you want to drink.”

Ilya nods but doesn't speak. What a jerk. Then, Shane sees him raise a hand toward a photograph hanging by the door.

"You were a cute kid," Ilya says, and the mocking smile on his face allows Shane to breathe normally again. "Do you still play hockey?"

Okay, he can do this. Shane is a normal person. He walks over to Ilya and they both look at the photograph his mother took of him when Shane was ten years old, dressed in his hockey uniform at the lake near their house. He looks serious, but he remembers that day fondly. His father had taught him how to do one of his favorite tricks.

"Sometimes. My dad plays with me every other weekend. He got injured a couple of years ago, but he can still beat me. It's my favorite sport." 

Ilya watches him intently, as if Shane's vulnerability were infinitely interesting. It isn't, he's sure of that, but under Ilya's clear, watchful eyes, he's learned to pretend it is.

The space between them is small, as it was this afternoon in the conference room, so Shane allows himself to observe every detail of Ilya's face and briefly inhale the fragrance of his cologne without the fear of the desire to kiss him that always possesses him. Shane leans in slightly, and, like a mirror, Ilya meets him midway.

The kiss is a ghostly touch, a soft brush of skin, a light caress that Shane isn't sure he can afford.

When the tension becomes unbearable, Shane pulls away and clears his throat.

"We need to talk about this."

"Let's talk, then." 

Ilya has those honest eyes he adores, so Shane gathers his courage and takes his hand, guiding him until they're sitting on the couch at a distance that allows him to remain calm. Ilya looks handsome. Breathtaking. He looks even more irresistible now that Shane knows what he looks like between his legs, but he's not going to lose control. Not yet.

“Okay, so,” Ilya says when the silence between them stretches on long enough again. “I imagine you've planned this enough, but I have to ask anyway. What's with this ‘we can't fuck in the office’ and then ‘we can’ thing?”

Shane takes a deep breath.

“You’re the boss, you should know it’s not allowed. But that didn’t stop us, so I guess it’s not the end of the world.”

Shane spent the entire meeting freaking out in his office, but he finally decided to approach the matter with a level head. He's not fifteen. Shane can handle whatever happens with composure, calmness, and a broad perspective. His brain has concluded that Ilya is a safe person, someone he knows and trusts, so he'll let his irrational side take over and try to win him a good fuck. Shane can allow himself this slip-up. When else could he be this happy, feel this awake and free? It’s not an everyday occurrence. Never, really.

Ilya's curious eyes glance at him.

"It's definitely not the end of the world. So we'll do this."

“We’ll do this,” Shane repeats, nodding. “I’m not seeing anyone else, but we should get tested soon anyway and exchange our STI screening results. We’ll meet depending on both of our schedules, preferably Thursdays or Fridays when I get off work earlier. We won’t have sex before an important meeting or let this interfere with our work. You can stay over if you want, but you should bring your own clothes because I doubt mine will fit.”

Shane says it all in an even tone of voice, hoping not to sound as desperate as he feels. The setting he can offer isn't ideal; the apartment Shane has been renting since he started working at the Centaurs is small and cheap, so the walls are thin. He's had some frustrating and uncomfortable nights listening to his neighbors having sex, so it's likely now they will hear him too.

Where else is Shane going to let Ilya touch him? Not in the car, definitely. Shane can't just unbutton his pants and expect Ilya to jerk him off at a red light. Or maybe he can. After getting a blowjob in the conference room—a situation that makes him blush but doesn't embarrass him as much as it should—maybe Shane isn't as squeamish as he thinks.

Ilya snorts in an amused tone.

"Are you always this honest?"

"Honest?" Shane repeats, confused.

"Are you going to pretend you're not about to tell me you like rough sex?"

"I do like it, yeah," Shane says slowly, not quite understanding where the conversation is going. "I like a lot of things, actually. Do you want a list of—"

Ilya throws his head back, laughing raucously, and Shane wants to bite his neck to shut him up. Between the tingling that frays his nerves and the urge to suck his cock, Shane struggles to tell if Ilya is mocking him or not. He doesn't want to risk it now; this is embarrassing enough.

“Shut the fuck up.”

"Hey, I'm not complaining. You're just adorable."

"I'm not adorable," Shane snaps, crossing his arms. "I've just never enjoyed this before, and it's new to me. Excuse my enthusiasm."

He's not fifteen nor twenty, Shane doesn't have to feign disinterest in a man who swallowed his come without hesitation. He'll fervently pretend he's not romantically interested, but that's another matter entirely. Ilya wants to fuck him, if his attitude in the conference room is any indication, and Shane wants the same.

A simple, straightforward transaction.

“Are you a virgin?” Ilya asks in a surprised tone.

Shane rolls his eyes.

“I’m not a virgin. I've just never found someone I like,” he says quietly. Shane is surprised by how easily the words flow now that he’s opened his mouth.The honesty these reflect doesn't even cross his mind. Ah, he's really gone mad. “And even though I'm fucking terrified, I think this could be something good.”

Ilya's eyes burn his face, so Shane has to look at him. Always. It's a need he's tried to fight, but what does it matter now? Surrender is delicious under Ilya's gaze.

"Well," Ilya says, and Shane can see him swallow. "I agree. How do you want me?"

In every aspect of my life.

“We won’t get close again at the office, I mean it.” Shane’s breathing is heavy, punctuated by nervous words. “We’ll meet here. Or somewhere private. Nobody at work can know about this. The mere thought of sleeping with my boss gives me the creeps.”

Ilya’s hand moves slowly until it stops at his thigh. He gently strokes it with his thumb through the fabric of his pants, not a proposition, but a mere grounding force that calms him. Even so, possessed by everything he hides and dreams about, Shane’s legs part in a silent invitation.

“I’ll be someone else, then,” Ilya says, his expression turning thoughtful. “I can be someone at the bar. At the gym. On the subway.”

“On the subway?” Shane repeats, immediately picturing the scene. He, busy trying to get to work on time, squeezed between the mass of bodies all headed to the same destination. Out of a sea of strangers, the light eyes that haunt his dreams, his fantasies, from another life, stand out. Shane would be drawn to the man who owned those eyes, would search for him relentlessly, perhaps fantasizing about a life where they could spend time together. “It could work.”

Ilya's breath is warm as he approaches Shane's mouth. He smells of the cigarette he smoked before getting in the car, of a new experience Shane will memorize with his fingertips, with all the strength he can muster.

"Hey, stranger," Ilya murmurs. A smirk flickers across his lips. "Want me to fuck you?"

Shane doesn't have time to nod before the man kisses him.

It's a different kiss than the first they shared. In the privacy of his home, Shane is relaxed and can feel every friction between their bodies. Ilya's nose pressed against his face, his lips wet and warm, his heavy tongue invading his mouth. Shane wants to crawl onto his lap, and it suddenly occurs to him that he can. Without waiting for an invitation, he straddles Ilya and deepens the kiss, wanting to melt into him.

“Shit,” the man huffs as Shane sits directly on his half-hard cock. “Where have you been?”

It reminds him of the conversation they had months ago, in another life. The context is completely different, and Shane can’t believe he can now lower his head and kiss him again. He moves his lips slowly, following the same rhythm with his hips. Ilya’s hands find his ass and squeeze it, harder than before.

Shane grins.

“I’m not going to do this on the couch,” Ilya breathes, and stands up easily, lifting him up in the process. Shane’s stomach twists with exhilaration. “Bedroom, now.”

“First door by the window.”

It’s a supernatural experience to enter his room carried in Ilya’s strong arms, but Shane quickly loses that feeling when he’s roughly placed on the bed. Asshole. The movement sends him reeling between Ilya’s legs, who’s still irritatingly dressed. Shane doesn’t forget he owes him an orgasm, so he moves to his feet and pushes Ilya down onto the bed, mimicking his action.

“Asshole,” Ilya says, verbalizing his earlier thoughts with a grin so wide Shane can see all his teeth. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Returning the favor.”

Before kneeling between his legs, Shane carefully removes his clothes. He doesn't want to get his work clothes covered in come when his skin is the only acceptable place. Then, Shane settles into the space Ilya gives him and brings his face close to his crotch, all under his watchful, clear eyes.

Shane slowly nuzzles his face against Ilya’s erection before he unbuttons his pants. He hears Ilya say unintelligible words, but Shane needs to feel his cock in his mouth now. Without further ado, he pulls down his pants along with the rest of the fabric and comes face to face with Ilya's dick.

He feels overwhelmed, suffocated by the carnal need to be closer. Shane isn't exactly an expert at giving blowjobs; he's done it a couple of times, but always with idiots who think he's just an empty hole. Now, Shane studies those experiences with more perspective, with a different erotic perception. Ilya doesn't move when he gives his hard cock an experimental lick, but maybe Shane wishes he would.

Shane drags one of Ilya's legs over his shoulder, using the nonverbal excuse of a better position, but he takes advantage of the proximity to caress his thighs. They're big and thick; from his schedule, Shane knows the man spends a lot of time at the gym. It's obvious that this extends to working his legs, but he hadn't thought about it until now. A fleeting image of them tightening around his head does wonders for his dick.

Shane spits for extra moisture and takes Ilya in his mouth, sucking while simultaneously analyzing his boss's reaction. The man stares at him, wide-eyed, in a bewildered expression that Shane can't quite decipher, but he interprets it as pleasure when Ilya frowns and his hips jerk, moaning softly. It's a mesmerizing sound that Shane wants to hear again and again, until it permeates his every thought.

“What the fuck,” Ilya whispers, sounding like he’s in a trance. Shane uses his hands to apply light pressure to his balls, and the man thrusts his hips again, choking him slightly. “What the fuck, Shane, I—”

His words are lost in wet sounds and muffled grunts. Shane moves slowly, carefully, tilting his head until Ilya's cock touches his palate, making him strangled at the sensation. He likes feeling a little choked, feeling like Ilya is bigger than he can take. As Shane swirls his tongue and sucks the tip, savoring the precum spilling onto his tongue, Ilya's hands find his shoulders and pull him up abruptly.

Ilya's eyes are still wide open and his face is flushed, a delicious color spreading down his neck. He's never seen him like this. Ilya is a unique beauty who makes Shane dizzy, who haunts him without rest. Fuck, he's going to have that image in his mind every time he sees him. 

Shane tastes the wetness of the blowjob on his own lips and looks back at him.

"What?"

"I want to fuck you before I come."

Shane has no objection to that, so he lets Ilya push him down onto the bed again, this time face down. He can't see what he's doing or the expression on Ilya’s face, only feel his warm, rough hands caressing every part of his body. Shane bruises easily, so the thought of waking up tomorrow covered in marks makes him shudder. Fuck.

This is the best experience of his life. How is he supposed to be a normal person after this? How is Shane going to work in Ilya's office knowing now he can sit on his cock for an hour and not get rejected?

It's a new and unknown paradise he doesn't know if he can enter, because he's sure there's no turning back.

“Ilya,” Shane pleads, not quite knowing what he’s asking. “Ilya, I need—”

For this not to end. For you to do this again and again.

The man’s mouth makes a questioning sound that vibrates on his spine, his skin.

“What do you want?”

It's that detached tone Ilya uses when someone interrupts him while he's busy. Discordant images flash through his mind, making Shane light-headed and causing him to whimper.

"Oh, look at that," Ilya teases, using his hands to part Shane's cheeks in a less-than-gentle motion. Shane positively arches his back in his direction. "You have a very nice ass."

"Wha—? Don't say my ass is nice."

"But it is," Ilya says, leaning in to taste it.

Goddammit. Shane is acutely aware that Ilya is still clothed, feeling the fabric against his skin as the man practically burrows into his ass, his burning tongue sliding against his hole. Everything around them melts, and all Shane can do is gasp, his eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar sensations that compel him to move against Ilya's face.

Two hands abruptly halt his movements, making his breath hitch.

When Ilya spits directly into his hole, Shane considers himself officially lost. There's no turning back. He has to do everything he can to convince Ilya to do this forever.

"Where's the lube and condoms?" Ilya says in a normal voice, as if he hadn't just nearly killed him. "I need to fuck you now."

"I feel the same way," Shane grunts, sitting up weakly. Ilya helps him to his feet with a half-smile that Shane wipes off by throwing the condoms in his face after he takes them out of the nightstand. "Don't get too cocky."

"Oh, I'm just a normal amount," Ilya says, his smile now wider, lighting up his eyes and face. Shane winces as he throws himself face down on the bed again, but Ilya's hands turn him onto his back. "I want to see your expression when I'm inside you."

"Are you always so vain?"

"You already know the answer."

Yes, Shane knows because he knows Ilya better than the back of his own hand. It must be a curse. Bad karma, probably. All his sins are exposed in code tracing the path between Ilya's moles. Under the shadow of his penance, Shane hopes it's fate because he fears he'll never experience this again, that burning, fierce need that engulfs him when Ilya quickly undresses and picks up the lubricant he left beside him moments ago.

Ilya's body is the finished sketch of his imagination, only extrapolated by the best painter of his generation. Shane spent the week pretending he didn't want this, that he desired nothing more from life than to have Ilya between his legs. Now, his skin prickles as the man pours a generous amount of lube into his palm and rubs it between his fingers, warming it up.

Of course he's considerate. Of course Ilya, the man who makes sure everyone in the office has what they need to perform at their best, warms the lubricant before carefully sliding his fingers into his ass. Shane inhales sharply at the sensation, throwing his head back with a curse.

“Everything’s fine, relax, I’ll go slow.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Ilya laughs and kisses him intently, tracing the outline of his lips with his wet tongue. When he bites him lightly, Shane melts against the bed and allows the intrusion of his fingers with a hiss that masks a desperate moan. Ilya holds him by the hips, hard, keeping him firmly still. 

As if he were Ilya's possession. 

That thought makes Shane chase the pressure and suck on Ilya's finger until he pulls it out and pushes it in again. Again and again.

“Shit,” Shane gasps, needing to cling to something tangible. Ilya’s shoulders are enough; without hesitation, he digs his nails in until he manages to calm down. Ilya doesn’t even blink. “Come on, faster.”

Ilya clicks his tongue.

“I already told you, you’re not in charge here. Shut your face and take it.”

Oh, fuck. Shane feels his blood rush so fast to his dick that his ears ring, and he bites his tongue to keep from begging Ilya to say it again.

“Shut up,” Shane mutters more out of habit than anything else, so he doesn't lose a game he already won, and moves his hips impatiently when one finger isn't enough. “Fuck me already.”

“You have to work on your patience,” Ilya replies, repeating a phrase Shane says to him constantly. It feels like a slap, one he wouldn't mind being more physical than metaphorical. “I'll decide when you're ready.”

It's a heavenly experience to be under Ilya's knowing hands. In both opposite senses; an Ilya who knows him and recognizes every gesture and expression that comes out of his mouth, and an Ilya who clearly has experience with other people.

Shane ignores the bitter taste in his throat and nods between ragged breaths. He hates being bossed around by Ilya, but now that he's tasted his body, Shane thinks he hates even more the idea of Ilya having other experiences like this. Making others feel the same way he does. Shane doesn't need any more competition than he already has.

One finger becomes two, then three, until Shane dissolves into suggestive sounds, openly and shamefully. He's never been particularly expressive in bed, but Ilya combines his skillful fingers with his lips on Shane's chest, neck, and stomach, accompanied by words that blend English and Russian in a dance Shane hopes will never end.

Shane closes his eyes and surrenders completely, not doubting for a moment what Ilya is capable of. At some point, he loses himself in the sensations that overwhelm him and lets his body float under Ilya's divine touch, which is rough, fast, and slow all at once.

It's exactly where he wants to be.

A light slap on his cheek brings him back to reality, and he feels Ilya's burning body on top of his. Shane blinks to focus on Ilya's half-drunk eyes and smiles contentedly, even with his hard cock dripping into his belly.

“Hey.”

“Hey, are you okay?” Ilya murmurs, his voice barely audible over Shane’s mouth. Shane purses his lips, and the man kisses him almost instinctively, as if they’ve done it a million times. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“Don’t I always tell you?”

Ilya smiles back and kisses him again, more firmly this time. Shane opens his mouth and moans as a different kind of pressure, thicker and heavier, slowly enters his hole. His breathing immediately quickens as he tries to relax, but it's difficult when the most beautiful man Shane has ever seen disarms before his eyes.

Ilya's expression is otherworldly, surprised and stunned. It's as if he's never felt anything like this before. It seems as if he believes that fucking Shane is a feeling from another plane of existence. Shane believes him. Good god. He believes every damn sigh Ilya exhales between curses and nonsensical words, wishing that leaving is the last thing Ilya ever does, wishing that he'll always come back to him.

This has driven him insane. Shane has no idea where his common sense is, who he is, what the circumstances are. Maybe he should never have been on the rooftop listening to Svetlana, because now Shane needs to fulfill every sick desire that has appeared in his mind since he met Ilya.

Shane wants Ilya to fuck him for hours, he wants him making him coffee in the mornings, he wants him demanding that Shane be better at everything he does, he wants him begging, he wants him arrogant and selfish, he wants him tyrannical and evil, he wants him soft and timid under his hands. Shane wants it all, everywhere, now, tomorrow, always. 

“Damn, you’re tight,” Ilya breathes, his voice coming out shaky and unsteady. “You’ve got—fuck, how did it take me so long to do this?”

Shane has no idea what he's talking about, but he can't question him because the man thrusts inside him in one swift motion. Ilya adjusts himself, pulls out, and then slams into Shane's body hard. Over and over. It's not a perfect rhythm, but it's deliciously intense. Ilya's eyes never leave Shane's, mesmerized by a rhythm that draws moans and sobs from Shane that he can't control.

The burning sensation envelops every thought in his mind. Shane wonders for a moment, as his legs tremble around Ilya, if the man feels the same. It doesn't matter much, because the chorus of sounds that fills the room is a glorious song of fiery words and growls and Ilya's sweaty skin slapping against his.

Driven mad with pleasure, Shane tangles his fingers in the back of Ilya's hair and tugs hard, pulling him away just enough so that his mouth is over his.

“Spit on me,” Shane sobs, desperate for a little more. More of anything, of whatever the man wants to give him.

Everything.

Ilya’s eyes dart frantically across his face, and after a particularly hard thrust, Shane opens his mouth and receives Ilya’s saliva directly onto his tongue.

Fuck. He swallows the warm fluid without hesitation, and a burning sensation pulls at his belly. Before he can realize it, Shane comes, splattering his and Ilya's chests.

It's a wonderful sight, and between drunken thrusts, Shane wonders if Ilya might manage to remove the condom in time so he can come on his face. He can't even form the words to ask, because Ilya's arms begin to tremble and Shane feels the warm liquid inside the condom with one last shaky thrust.

Ilya collapses onto his chest, still inside him, and Shane exhales a sigh.

Holy fucking shit.

It takes him a few seconds to come back to the real word. Shane struggles to breathe with Ilya's weight on top of him, but he doesn't push him away. He doesn't move him any closer either. Suddenly, he's unsure of the rules of this. Yes, Shane has had casual sex before, but never while in love. It's monumentally different, especially since Shane has no idea what Ilya gets out of it.

Ilya lifts his head and blinks lazily. Then, he frowns slightly.

"Your heart started beating faster. Are you okay?"

Of course, a jerk like his boss notices these things. Shane wants to push him away and lock himself in the bathroom, but he's not eighteen anymore. He's going to suppress his feelings like a damn responsible adult.

"Yeah, just post-sex anxiety. Never felt that?" Shane says sarcastically, and Ilya laughs. "Of course not."

"Usually, all I do after sex is smoke a cigarette."

"That's bad for you."

"You have a lot of rules about what's good and bad, Shane."

He knows it all too well. It's Shane's way of maintaining some semblance of control in the chaotic world they live in. The defined line between right and wrong helps him stay sane, to be a human being who adapts to situations as needed. He's polite, doesn't ask inappropriate questions, and doesn't sleep with his coworkers.

Now his whole world is screwed up.

In a foreign gesture between them, Ilya kisses his face softly. He kisses him in his mouth, his nose, his forehead, and his temple, distracting him from the discomfort of pulling out. Shane still grimaces as he watches Ilya stand up.

"Where's your bathroom?"

Ilya stands naked, his hair disheveled, in the middle of the room, hands on his hips. As if it were an everyday occurrence. Shane turns away and buries his head in a pillow to avoid further torture.

"By the entrance."

Good. Shane got what he wanted. Kind of. He slept with Ilya, and now he has to deal with the consequences. So far, it's just a sore ass and a pleasurable sensation in his body, but soon the gnawing anxiety of having done something wrong will arrive.

Shane stays still and waits. He waits for the rapid beating of his heart to transform into a clogging sensation, a panic attack that will send him straight to a cold shower. He waits while Ilya returns from the bathroom with a warm, damp washcloth to diligently clean him, humming an unknown song like the insufferable man he is. He waits as Ilya kisses him again, this time on the shoulder, and lies down beside him, looking at him with his large, clear eyes.

Shane waits, and it never comes.

Maybe the fucking was so good that it destroyed his source of anxiety, wherever it may be.

Maybe this isn't inherently wrong.

"Okay, Mr. Good and Evil," Ilya says huskily. "What's the stance on cuddling?"

"What?"

"Cuddling," Ilya repeats, exasperated. "The little spoon and shit. Good or bad?"

Shane frowns, confused by the question. He has no thoughts about it because he has not cuddled with anyone since he was a child, protected by the warmth of his parents. Shane didn't think Ilya is a man who practices it, but his question contradicts him. He looks at Ilya's muscular arms, his eyes lingering on his bare chest until the man snaps his fingers in front of his face.

“I don’t usually do it,” Shane huffs after a pause. “You?”

“I don’t usually do it either.”

They both fall silent, staring at each other. It's surreal to have Ilya in his bed after all the months they've spent together. Hate and love, the same line Shane refuses to acknowledge because maybe he never hated Ilya. If asked, he'll say he doesn't love him because that would be pathetic after spending months begging for his eyes to even glance at the back of his neck, pleading for Ilya to speak more than three syllables.

What are you fighting against?

“You want to try?” Shane says casually, trying not to betray his sudden need for Ilya to put his arms around him. Unfortunately, this must be obvious to the man from the satisfied smile he gives him. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“But you like me this way. Come here.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Ilya doesn't respond and opens his arms, inviting him closer. Shane is not a proud man; he would shoot himself before he'd pass up that chance.

They're both still naked, so when Shane turns his back to Ilya's chest, the vast amount of skin touching him sets him on fire. Ilya smells of sweat and his own cologne mingling with his skin. Shane wants to turn around and bury his nose between Ilya's breasts and inhale the scent, but his priority is maintaining his sanity when he feels Ilya's cock brushing against his ass.

He can't help but ask. Shane isn't going to miss the opportunity on a technicality.

"Do you want to go again?" 

The answer is Ilya's booming laughter, which Shane would consider an offense if it weren't for the fact that his arms are firmly gripping him by the waist.

"Would it kill you if you weren't a son of a bitch just once?"

"I'm not laughing at you," Ilya replies, nuzzling Shane's nose as he turns to look at him. It's an intimate, familiar gesture that sends shivers down his spine, and Shane doesn't dare lose his warmth. “Let me breathe. We’ll go again and again if you want, but I’m just a man. Why didn’t you tell me you’re a fucking sex machine?”

“I’m not,” Shane replies simply. “I just want to take advantage of this before it’s over.”

Ilya remains completely still for a moment, a flash of confusion crossing his face. 

Shane doesn’t know what time it is, but the orange light of the setting sun falls on his boss’s curls and illuminates his face exceptionally, reminding him that this is just a fleeting moment. Soon it will be night, and Shane has no real excuse to keep Ilya in his bed any longer than necessary.

The idea that Ilya might be frightened by the intensity of his eyes is a very real possibility, so Shane remembers his decision to approach this with a critical eye. He's in love, yes, but he's also horny. Given the current situation and their earlier conversation, Shane has to ensure that at least one of his two issues is resolved.

"This is just sex," Shane says, trying to keep the man from escaping. "I already told you my plan, so we can continue doing this if you want."

Ilya just stares at him, not responding for a few seconds. Maybe Shane misinterpreted his pleasurable sounds, and he has no intention of continuing—

“Only if I want it? What about you? You’ll do it against your will if I want you to?”

His boss’s raised eyebrows challenge him as always. It’s kind of ridiculous considering Shane has to force himself to censor how much he wants Ilya to grab him without even asking, to fuck him despite the doubts flooding his mind. Shane has the impression that he’ll always say yes, that even in the futile attempt to force him to do something against his will, Shane would just submit to Ilya’s wishes.

Shit. He’s really fucked in the head.

“It’s obvious I want it too,” Shane says reluctantly, and even though he looks away, he can feel Ilya’s smile at his temple. “But we won’t have sex in the office. And you’ll buy me a desk. Starting tomorrow, I’ll sit across from Luca.”

This causes his boss's good mood to vanish. Ilya exhales against his cheek, and although he can't see him, Shane knows he's frowning.

"What? Why?"

Because if I sit in the same place as you for eight hours a day, I'll want to fuck you for at least seven of them.

“Because we have to define this somehow. It’s non-negotiable.”

Ilya says something in Russian that Shane doesn't understand, but he doesn't seem really bothered. Maybe frustrated. The extra cost is probably something he didn't budget for, but screw it. Shane needs to keep his cool at work or he'll succumb to Ilya's provocative gaze.

He begins to believe it will be just a futile attempt to get away from the man, just as it was when Shane insisted on calling him by his last name. Especially since as soon as Ilya's hand slides down to his groin, Shane opens his legs and leans back, chasing his warmth.

When Ilya kisses him, Shane feels a smile on his lips.

So be it, then.

The office becomes a nightmare when Scott Hunter's visit is announced before the first summer issue. Harris decides it's a nice tribute to give him the cover to promote his collection now that Hunter is a fashion designer, which spells trouble for Shane and his colleagues. As always in these situations, Ilya turns into a complete demon of perfection that comes with being named the best editor-in-chief since the founding of the Centaurs.

“No,” Ilya says when he sees the sketch Rose presents. “The color is wrong.”

“We can—”

“No.”

The model in front of the camera looks distressed, but Hayden reassures her with a subtle gesture. They’ve been taking the photograph over and over for thirty minutes just because Ilya doesn't like the contrast of light on the blouse that Scott Hunter chose for the cover.

Shane admires Hunter for his career, but lately just hearing his name irritates him. Perhaps Ilya has brainwashed him with his unfounded animosity.

“Mr. Rozanov,” says Ella, the photographer’s assistant, timidly. “Perhaps it would be helpful to use a different model for your idea. So you can show us what you want.”

Shane wants to roll his eyes at the girl’s accommodating tone, but he knows what it’s like to be under his boss’s unforgiving gaze and crave his approval. His ass still aches from the spanking he received yesterday. Shane begged for it, but still.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Hayden agrees, helping Rose as they discard the old cover to consider other options. “Let’s give Stephany a rest, she’s been here all morning.”

“Shane, stand over there.”

Ilya's tone makes him blink, confused by the seriousness with which the man is speaking to him. Shane looks up from his notebook and it takes him a moment to realize that he's being asked to replace the model. Ilya is standing next to the cameraman, waiting impatiently, arms crossed with a sour expression.

"Huh?"

"I can do it if—"

"No. Shane, in front of the camera, now."

Son of a bitch. 

Luca's suggestion is abruptly cut off, which means Ilya must be more irritated than he's letting on. His boss usually favors his assistant over other employees, even if he won't admit it. Shane has seen Ilya making sure no one bothers Luca more than necessary, which is unfair, because he never shows the same consideration to Shane. 

Ilya's eyes find him and silently tell him to comply with his fucking demand.

It's been three weeks since he and Ilya started… fucking their brains out. Shane can now understand, without exaggeration, what people mean when they talk about sex. He feels this unfamiliar urge—which hasn't diminished one bit since they started hooking up—to jump on Ilya every time he's alone with the man in a room.

This is a bit problematic given that they spend practically every minute of the day together, but Ilya has kept his word.

He hasn't touched him at the office. Shane figures it's enough that they fuck almost every night. In fact, he appreciates that this is a secret because it's a bit psychotic and it's getting out of control, if Shane is honest, because sometimes they just hang out to jerk off and that's it. The effort Ilya puts into organizing his entire afternoon around Shane seems unjustified under that premise, but the excuse of staying overnight at his apartment because it's close to the office is extremely convenient for both of them.

For Shane, because he can watch Ilya sleep without losing his mind. For Ilya, Shane still hasn't got a clue.

He's not going to complain, though.

And it's all because it's a damn fantasy to be fucked by Ilya. The man is receptive, sensual, and has impressive stamina. He listens without judgment, complementing each perverted idea that comes out of Shane's uncensored mouth with his own version. This leads them to explore a universe that, until now, was unknown to Shane.

Ilya doesn't back down when it comes to a challenge, and Shane isn't going to be left behind either.

That's why he's discovered that defying his boss gets him hard, and that's precisely why Shane passes his notebook to Lucas and submissively walks to the front of the camera to take the model's place.

Hayden's reproachful look seems to tell him he's not doing a very good job hiding whatever is going on with him. Shane ignores him.

"Hi, Shane," the assistant greets him. She's a short woman with dark hair and a shy smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Uh, sure. You too."

"I was wondering if—"

"We need more light," Ilya interrupts, his voice gruff and irritated. "We don't have all day."

The assistant nods nervously as the photography team mobilizes to follow Ilya's orders in a focused and efficient manner, but Shane cannot register a single word of what they say because his eyes are fixed on Ilya.

He is wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and there are a few creases in the fabric from the day's work. Ilya speaks quickly and decisively, earnestly outlining all the points that need addressing. It's that editor-in-chief persona that drives Shane crazy, that demeanor that seems capable of solving any problem that crosses his path.

Yes, Ilya hasn't touched him in the office since that time, but Shane is certain that every move he makes is a provocation. The man doesn't touch him, but he does brush his fingers across the surface of Shane's new desk every time he passes by. He doesn't touch him, but he does stare intently during the meetings they have in the conference room where it all began. He doesn't touch him, but it seems he's doubled down on using his commanding voice after Shane told him he actually likes it when he's in control. He doesn't touch him, but he forces him to replace the model and endure his serious expression in a room full of his colleagues.

It's hell. It's the most entertaining thing Shane has ever done.

A few days ago, Shane came to the conclusion that that's what it's all about. Ilya is the breath of fresh air Shane desperately needs to relieve the oppressive life that troubles and anxieties him. Ilya takes care of all his thoughts and prioritizes his needs outside of the office, making sure Shane is always okay and enjoying every interaction. Ilya worries about him, fucks him hard when he asks, and cleans him up tenderly afterward.

The left side of his bed will begin to take the shape of Ilya's body with the rhythm they're maintaining, but Shane can't help it. 

Being in love is overrated if Shane can have that version of Ilya. 

“Perfect!” Ilya shouts, and Rose’s department erupts in relieved applause. “Great job, guys, you keep me young. We’ll use that light. I want three different options printed. Send them to Troy and let him decide which one will go with the final design. Luca, Shane, you can leave now.”

Shane blushes when the model thanks him for filling in for her for a few moments. So much for studying journalism at university. Shane moves away from the camera as quickly as possible, but before he can slip away, he comes face to face with Hayden’s curious eyes.

His friend raises his eyebrows without saying a word, and Shane resists the urge to shake him by the shoulders to make him stop staring like that.

“It’s all fucking good, don’t even mention it.”

“Do you want me to report him for abusing his staff?” Hayden says with a sneer. “It’ll be a tough case to make in court if you always seem this eager to follow his instructions.”

“Hayden, stop wasting time,” Ilya interrupts again, but he no longer seems to be in a bad mood. Shane restrains himself from turning to look at him or he’ll do something stupid like drop to his knees in front of the photography team. “I don’t pay you to talk.”

Hayden rolls his eyes in annoyance and Shane laughs.

One night, after Ilya had him begging for twenty minutes until his orgasm exploded in his ears, Shane and he talked about office dynamics. Ilya confessed that before the cover incident, he didn’t like Hayden, but that when they talked about the situation, his friend had been so cool and self-assured that Ilya felt admiration for him. Shane laughed out loud and since then he can notice that every time they both talk it seems as if they are trying to outdo each other.

“You pay me to be your fucking servant,” Hayden snarls through gritted teeth.

“What was that, Hayden?”

“Nothing, Ilya.”

Shane laughs again and pats his friend’s shoulder sympathetically before following Luca to his desk.

During lunch, Shane idly eats his salad while listening to his colleagues chatter about Rose and Svetlana's wedding plans. Ever since Troy won the bet against Hayden, he's decided he'll be a bridesmaid because, in his own words, he can.

"A winter wedding is a good idea," Troy suggests, taking a bite of his apple. "Very Russian."

"Maybe."

"Or a summer one. You two could get married in bikinis."

"I'm glad you have a job because your ideas are awful," Svetlana laughs, stroking Rose's intertwined hand. Shane follows the movement of their fingers with curiosity. "You know you're not our actual bridesmaid, right?"

"The bikini idea could be for the after-party," Harris suggests good-naturedly. "What about dresses? I worked for a couple of years in the wedding section of a magazine. There are a million options."

“Oh, I already have an idea. I know the designer who made…”

Shane nods to let his friends know he's listening, but his mind is somewhere far away. Between rumpled sheets and messy hair, Ilya's name hangs on his lips as he feels his body on fire.

Fuck. Maybe Shane really does have a problem because it's not normal how much he's been thinking about sex lately. He doesn't think anyone else does this; everyone seems perfectly functional. It's like there can't be a topic of conversation that doesn't involve Ilya and his naked body, which makes it even worse because Shane can't talk about it out loud. 

Hayden told him, between squeals like a schoolgirl, that he'd finally slept with Jackie. Then he went on to talk about the last movie he saw at the theater with his friends. Like a normal human being who isn't obsessed with sex.

Shit.

The vibration of his phone makes Shane take a deep breath and check his notifications, reminding him that he's in the real world and not lost in his fantasies. When he sees Ilya's email, he immediately frowns because his boss usually communicates with him by text or call.

From: Ilya Rozanov <ilya.rozanov@centaurs.ca>

To: Shane Hollander <shane.hollander@centaurs.ca>

Subject: Your ass.

Dear Mr. Hollander,

I am writing to you on behalf of everyone at Centaurs magazine to inform you that, with all due respect, your attire is not appropriate for the office. Especially considering how shamelessly those trousers cling to your ass.

You should consider, for future reference, attending work naked.

I look forward to your feedback.

Ilya Rozanov, Editor-in-Chief of Centaurs Magazine.

Shane blinks, stunned. He doesn't know if what surprises him most is the fact that Ilya dared to use the official company email to send him that message, or the fact that he sent it at all.

With a shiver running down his spine, Shane lifts his head and scans the cafeteria. Ilya is nowhere to be seen—something he already knows because his boss prefers to eat at restaurants or in his office—but Shane still feels his eyes fixed on him, engulfing him in barely concealed flames.

Shane swallows and begins to type.

From: Shane Hollander <shane.hollander@centaurs.ca>

To: Ilya Rozanov <ilya.rozanov@centaurs.ca>

Subject: Fuck you.

Dear Mr. Rozanov,

Don't send me suggestive emails at work, you fucker.

I can and WILL sue you.

Sincerely,

Shane Hollander

Office of the Editor-in-Chief

[Centaurs Magazine]

From: Ilya Rozanov <ilya.rozanov@centaurs.ca>

To: Shane Hollander <shane.hollander@centaurs.ca>

Subject: Fuck you indeed. 

Let's say in 15 minutes, in the storage room next to the copy room?

Ilya Rozanov, Editor-in-Chief of Centaurs Magazine.

From: Shane Hollander <shane.hollander@centaurs.ca>

To: Ilya Rozanov <ilya.rozanov@centaurs.ca>

Subject: No.

No.

Sincerely,

Shane Hollander

Office of the Editor-in-Chief

[Centaurs Magazine]

From: Ilya Rozanov <ilya.rozanov@centaurs.ca>

To: Shane Hollander <shane.hollander@centaurs.ca>

Subject: Farm animals.

Bok-bok-ba-gawk.

I hope that's what chickens sound like. You would know.

Ilya Rozanov, Editor-in-Chief of Centaurs Magazine.

Shane stares at his phone screen, mouth agape. What a son of a bitch. He imagines him typing the email with a mocking smile and his tongue over his teeth, like Ilya sometimes does when he wants to laugh at him.

The worst part is, it works.

While Rose recounts in graphic detail for the thirteenth time how Svetlana proposed to her, Shane counts the minutes.

Maybe he should visit his parents this weekend. He spent last weekend sweating against the wall while Ilya was eating his ass, so Shane has to make an effort to maintain his good son image.

Three minutes.

It's a little creepy to include his parents and Ilya in the same sentence. They know him because Shane has complained endlessly about what an asshole he is, and although his mother likes him for the days Ilya gave him off to take care of her a hundred lifetimes ago, his family doesn't have a good opinion of the man he's in love with.

Seven minutes.

Not that it matters. Ilya will never meet his parents because he and Shane have a strictly sexual relationship. Well, Ilya has it; Shane watches him sleep while tracing dreams and illusory realities on his relaxed features. It doesn't matter if his parents hate him, Ilya doesn't want to be part of that aspect of Shane’s life.

Eleven minutes.

So what if he doesn't want to? Shane can receive his illegally suggestive emails and survive. At this point, he needs Ilya to keep existing. His hands, his laughter. Maybe Shane should start insisting on that letter of recommendation and escape this insane reality that—

Fifteen minutes.

Shane stands up.

“Sorry, I have to get back—I have things to do,” Shane says rapidly, stumbling over his words. His colleagues look at him, surprised by his sudden outburst, so he tries to force a smile that comes out more like a grimace. Shit. “I left, uh, some documents unfinished. On my desk. To be done.”

“Ah, every time Hunter comes around, Ilya’s a demon. We understand,” Troy says, whistling under his breath. “Don’t let him spank you too hard.”

Shane blushes furiously and looks at him, confused because, how the hell does Troy know how hard Ilya hits?

“Ouch,” Troy continues, laughing. “It’s good that he’s left me alone since you arrived. See you, buddy.”

None of those present seem disturbed by the information Troy just shared. Maybe Shane misheard, but his colleague is still half-laughing. Shane knows from a reliable source—Hayden, apparently the laziest guy on the twentieth floor—that Troy and Harris are dating. Or at least they're in some kind of exclusive relationship, judging by the jealous scene Shane and Svetlana witnessed a few days ago in the parking lot.

Now, Harris doesn't even flinch at the mention of Ilya spanking Troy.

"Uh, yeah. Sure. See you."

Shane doesn't let nervousness paralyze him because he's not twelve years old, so he leaves the cafeteria with his head held high and a renewed anger burning in his gut. Fucking Troy. The man doesn't usually joke around much, no more than the dynamic between him and Shane allows, so there's a good chance his words are genuine.

Did Ilya sleep with Troy before him?

His boss hasn't mentioned it. It's not like they've talked about their non-relationships before the one they have now, but Shane remembers Troy's attitude the first few months after he arrived. He and Ilya spent too much time together, an unnecessary and annoying amount.

Fuck.

Now, Shane can recognize the uncomfortable exasperation of seeing Troy sitting next to Ilya as jealousy. Now, he understands that the tingling in the palms of his hands and the unease in his chest at the thought of Ilya looking at others with the intensity with which he looks at him is nothing more than irrational possessiveness. 

Shane doesn't own Ilya. The man isn't interested in being possessed or tied to a relationship with someone he doesn't love. Yes, Ilya stays overnight at his apartment and has even made him breakfast before they both head to the office, but only out of kindness.

He's kind and a slut, apparently.

The corner of the storage room is empty when Shane glances both ways and enters without hesitation. He's been here before, when Ilya used to send him to retrieve out-of-date documents just to annoy him. Now, his boss is leaning against the wall in the dim light filtering through the small window above his head.

Shane exhales and makes sure to lock the door behind him before taking a step forward.

Every time he and Ilya share space, Shane can feel the cosmic shift around them. The hairs on his arm stand on end, the static paralyzes his heartbeat and changes its rhythm, the passage of time itself blurring the past and future into a single present.

“I take back what I said about you being a chicken,” Ilya says softly. He doesn’t seem like the diabolical boss who was fuming all morning about a photoshoot. He never does when it’s just the two of them. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I came to find out in person what the hell is wrong with you, talking to me like that at work and through the fucking official magazine email.”

Ilya snorts and pushes himself away from the wall to meet him halfway. They stare at each other, not touching.

“Don’t you know the concept of flirting?”

“I don’t care if it gives me a heart attack,” Shane snaps, and unable to bear it any longer, he shoves Ilya by the shoulders until he stumbles against the wall. The impact makes his head bounce against the hard surface, but Ilya doesn’t complain, maintaining his provocative smirk. “I told you I don’t want us to get mixed up with our work.”

“But I missed you. And tomorrow is Wednesday already, you’ll be off to work with Wyatt soon. I have rights, you know?”

Shane exhales shakily at his words and lets his hands fall to his sides. Ilya wants to kill him. Ilya is going to kill him, and Shane will have to hide the real reason from his parents because the idea of dying for unrequited love is humiliating.

Ilya smiles more broadly and strokes his shirt with his long, soft fingers. Shane loves Ilya's hands. Large, warm, and skillful, they touch him in all the right places, discovering the hidden passageways of his body and forging new ones that no one else will ever be able to unlock. Shane will be condemned to spend the rest of eternity in solitude if Ilya suddenly turns his back on him, if Shane chooses the path of cowardice over honesty.

“Oh, yeah?” Shane replies quietly. He doesn’t want to say it because it’s embarrassing to let on that this bothers him personally, but the words have a life of their own and race off his tongue before he stops them. “You used to send those emails to Troy?”

The silence is deafening, as are Ilya’s raised eyebrows in what can only be described as indignation. Well, not then. Shane opens his mouth to retract his question, his face burning, but Ilya is faster.

His laughter echoes between them.

“Troy and I kissed a couple of times, yes, but nothing more ever happened,” Ilya says, amused. The man takes advantage of their closeness and brings his face close to Shane’s, nuzzling the curve of his neck with his nose. “Haven’t you ever kissed your friends?”

“No.”

“Boring Hollander,” Ilya clicks his tongue, and the sound makes Shane’s spine tingle. “Don’t worry, I’ve come to expand your world.”

The understatement of the century.

“So now we’re friends,” Shane murmurs, closing his eyes as Ilya’s hands dance across his chest. “I’ve never let my friends suck my dick.”

“Boring Hollander,” Ilya repeats, and kisses him.

It's been less than ten hours since Shane's mouth was last touched by Ilya, but he experiences immeasurable relief at feeling his warmth again. Shane kisses him back, opening his mouth to deepen the gesture, letting everything around them evaporate and be reduced to this.

Shane missed Ilya too. He's grateful that the man is unscrupulous and invites him to secluded rooms at his workplace. What do rules matter, really? Nobody follows them. Shane deserves to be happy, at least once in a while. He deserves the squeeze on his ass that Ilya gives him when Shane pushes him a little more aggressively against the wall, impatient to extend the pressure between their bodies.

"Shit," Ilya says, panting as he breaks the kiss. "Want to take a vacation with me?"

Shane rolls his eyes and kisses him again, silencing his ramblings. Sometimes, when Ilya is buried deep inside him, the man babbles nonsensical promises that serve no purpose other than to feed his delusions. Ilya suggests buying an apartment so they can fuck all day. Ilya mutters that he wants to have Shane sitting on his cock for days on end. Ilya promises to leave his handprints on Shane's hips so everyone can see who owns him.

Ilya is very good at dirty talk. It's a shame that Shane desperately wants these ideas to be genuine, or else he might be able to enjoy them without feeling breathless.

“Not when Scott Hunter is coming to the office in a few days,” Shane murmurs as Ilya moves his mouth to kiss the rest of his face. It’s a strange pattern he’s noticed; Ilya kisses his cheeks, just below his eyes, every time they pull away. “They need you here to keep an eye on the staff.”

“Fuck Hunter and the staff,” Ilya sighs, letting his head fall against the wall. They hold each other tightly, chest to chest, in a half-embrace that makes Shane’s heart pound wildly. “I hate that Harris suggested that old man be the first one to appear in the summer issue. I have other things to worry about.”

Shane snorts.

“Like what?”

“My brother. That idiot has been pressuring Nadya to be a model. She wants to be a journalist, but Andrei will die before he lets her be happy.”

Ilya doesn't speak about his brother more than necessary, completely ignoring the topic they discussed months ago in a place just like this, when there were many more repressed desires between them. Ilya's face twists into an unpleasant expression that drains his liveliness and replaces it with contempt; suddenly, his boss seems younger than he is. A frightened child, an angry teenager.

Shane places a hand on his face and lifts his head to look him in the eyes. Despite the anger, Ilya's gaze conveys that passion for his loved ones that both burns and frightens him, but Shane can handle it even if he isn't the recipient of that affection.

"I'm still in touch with some of my professors from university," Shane says thoughtfully. "I can give you their email addresses if you'd like, so you can talk to them about your niece's options. My college is pretty good."

Ilya looks at him with a curious expression that seems born of affection and gratitude. Shane thinks the dust in the storage room has messed with his perception of reality.

“Of course, smarty pants. I bet you were your professors' favorite student.”

“Weren't you?”

Ilya laughs and seems to want to say something more, but Shane kisses him to swallow the delicious, happy sound that has recently become his lifeline. He loves the man's cheerful laughter, always on the verge of becoming louder and more boisterous.

Shane no longer has the strength to pretend he doesn't love Ilya. They make out erratically for a few moments, then languidly and experimentally, all to the rhythm they agree upon simply by exploring each other's bodies with their hands. Ilya lifts his leg so Shane can lazily humps on it, focusing more on enjoying his touch than seeking his own release.

The minutes melt around them, and in some moment of complete sanity, Shane drops to his knees in front of his boss. Ilya stares at him, wide-eyed, but does nothing to stop his hands as he unbuttons his pants and Shane places his hot mouth on his half-hard cock through his underwear.

“We—we need to review the policy on having sex between employees,” Ilya gasps, his hands tangling tightly in his hair. Shane lets out a laugh that makes the man squirm. “I lacked imagination when I wrote your contract.”

“You always lack imagination.”

“Shut, ah, up.”

Shane grins and lets Ilya fuck his mouth at an impossibly slow but delicious pace.

It’s easy, really, for him to allow himself to act in unknown environments when he knows Ilya is prepared to support him. Shane doesn’t trust others, but he lets Ilya’s flattering and praise wash over him from head to toe. He doesn't let the others see his needs, yet Shane isn't ashamed to rub himself against Ilya's shoes, seeking his own orgasm while choking on his boss's cock.

It's a universe unlike anything he ever imagined. It's terrifying. That becomes irrelevant when Ilya kisses him directly after coming in his mouth, savoring himself in a chorus of sounds Shane will remember until the day he dies.

And what else can he do but surrender to Ilya's endless gaze?

The rest of the week, Shane drifts between writing the grueling articles Wyatt assigns him and the fantasies about Ilya that fill his head. These fantasies don't come to fruition because his mother stays at his apartment on Wednesday and Thursday, so Shane has no choice but to pretend he isn't a sex addict and spend quiet afternoons shopping and drinking tea.

“Damn, Wyatt is kicking our asses,” Nikolai sighs beside him, making Shane jump. His Russian accent is much thicker than Ilya's, but it inevitably reminds him of the man he hasn't seen in the last two days. Shane can allow himself to play with Ilya when he's on the twentieth floor, but not when he's working for Wyatt. Being a writer at a magazine like this is sacred to him; Shane has his limits. Surprisingly. “Can you check the article I wrote about Scott Hunter's new collection?”

He and Nikolai are the only ones left in the office. At Wyatt's request, they were both tasked with writing the articles to accompany the photographs for Hunter's new release, so Shane spontaneously decided to stay after hours to polish his work. Nikolai is a good writer and an even more dedicated colleague, so he offered to keep him company in the conference room where he'd secluded himself.

"I already read it," Shane smiled, nodding toward his computer. "You did a good job."

"Really?"

"Well, in the second part you could incorporate more sensory details. Use Hunter's words; he talked about the type of fabric and how it allows the light to project with… shit, wait a second."

The ringing of his phone cuts off as Shane answers the call without looking at the caller ID.

"Shane Hollander."

“Good evening. I think I dialed the wrong number. This is Pietro Kuznetsov, private investigator. If you're Noah Smith, I have news for you. Your suspicions were correct: your husband is indeed cheating on you with the butcher.”

Shane freezes at the sound of Ilya's deep, purring voice on the other end of the line. Oh, shit. Conditioned by a game they both agreed to at some point, all the blood in his body rushes to his face and his dick.

He feels Nikolai's curious eyes watching him, so Shane does his best to pretend the call is work-related. Or something personal other than his boss role-playing as a private investigator. He glances at his computer screen, trying to come up with something to distract himself, but his colleague's article is the only thing taking up all the space.

"Mr. Smith?" Ilya's voice makes him jump, and Shane curses his own lust in his head so many times he needs a second to recover.

"Uh, yeah, yes. Of course. I appreciate your good work."

"I know how long you've been married," Ilya continues, completely serious. If his job at the magazine ends, he could be a good actor. Shane makes a note to remember to tell him that. "You're a good man, you deserve to be treated as such. I can drop off the photos proving the infidelity tonight, and you can pay me with a cup of tea. Maybe more. What do you say, Mr. Smith?"

Shane purses his lips in disappointment, realizing he'll be spending another night without Ilya. Tomorrow is Saturday, and he doesn't know if he can bring himself to ask Ilya to stay with him for the weekend. Last time, it was a spontaneous result of spending Friday panting against his mouth.

Beside him, Nikolai quietly asks if he wants more coffee.

"Oh?" Ilya whispers, because of course the jerk heard that. "It seems to me you don't need to worry about your husband, Mr. Smith, if you're following in his footsteps."

“I’m still at the office,” Shane says through gritted teeth. He shakes his head at his colleague and sighs into his phone’s microphone, hoping the sound will bother Ilya. “I’m reviewing articles for the next issue, and I don’t know when I’ll finish.”

The silence on the other end of the line is tentative.

“Wyatt doesn’t pay you to stay after hours,” Ilya says slowly after a moment.

“Neither did you, and you didn’t complain when I was organizing your schedule at two in the morning.”

“Yes, but back then it was just you and me. Not you and Wyatt. He has a wife, you know? Let him go home.”

“I’m not with Wyatt.”

When the seconds tick by and Shane doesn’t get a response, he checks his phone to realize the call has ended. Whatever. He needs to finish reviewing this so he can go home and complain about the lack of Ilya’s warmth. Mentally, anyway. 

Shane glances at Nikolai as he returns with a steaming mug and smiles slightly, pretending he hasn't just wasted the best call of his life.

“I apologize for that. As I mentioned before, your editorial needs some sensory details. That's all.”

“Thanks for your help. You're a great colleague.”

Even though everyone is nice to him at work, Shane can't get used to the compliments. He shakes his head to hide his blush.

“I'm just doing my job.”

“And you're good at it,” Nikolai smiles, and Shane sees him lean slightly in his chair toward him. “I'd like to thank you for all your help with dinner. How about we go out Monday night?”

Shane knows Nikolai is nice because they've had lunch together before, but they don't have much in common. What would they talk about at a dinner other than work? For Shane, there's little point in prolonging a social interaction beyond what's necessary, especially since lately all his thoughts revolve around Ilya and when he'll see him again.

As if he'd summoned the devil himself, the conference room door opens and his boss appears. Nikolai immediately sits up straight and stands, surprised by his presence. Shane only reacts when he realizes that Ilya was probably in his own office and is now here, which means there's a good chance they'll both go home together.

Excellent.

"Mr. Rozanov," Nikolai says in a high-pitched tone. "It's good to see you."

Ilya, like the son of a bitch he is, looks him up and down without saying a word. Shane doesn't have time to waste, so he rolls his eyes and stands up to start packing his things. It's not egotistical to think the man came looking for him; it's almost obvious seeing the hungry eyes that fall on him without a shred of sympathy.

Oh, it's going to be one of those nights. Good for Shane. He likes it when Ilya is a little mean and makes him beg to be touched, his hands above his head tied with Ilya's tie. He also likes it when Ilya kisses him all over his body and whispers tenderly how good he looks bouncing on his cock, but this attitude strikes a different chord in Shane's brain.

"Is there anything we can do for you?" Nikolai speaks again when Ilya doesn't return his greeting.

"Not you," Ilya replies. Shane glares at him, so the man clears his throat irritably. “You guys do a great job all the time, it’s time to head home. Get some rest, you can continue on Monday.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rozanov,” Nikolai says, surprised. He quickly packs his things in his bag, gulps down his coffee, and pats Shane on the shoulder goodbye. “Think about dinner. See you. Good night, both of you.”

Shane has no idea if his colleague suspects anything else about his boss's presence, but he's grateful that Nikolai quickly leaves the conference room anyway, because then Shane can stop pretending to be friendly and give Ilya a reproachful look.

"You don't have to be unpleasant all the time, you know?"

Ilya scoffs.

"I am a kind person. The kindest. I'm just preventing my employees from breaking their contracts."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know, sexual intercourse between employees is not allowed."

The laughter that rises from Shane's chest bursts out unbidden, surprising Ilya like the hypocrite he is. He has an expression of fake shock, as if he hadn't expected his reaction.

All this would be easier if Ilya weren't so damn endearing.

"I don't have anything with Nikolai, stop being ridiculous."

"Hmm, I wouldn't be so sure."

Shane huffs impatiently at the distance between them, but it's dangerous to start anything in the deserted office because he knows he won't be able to stop in time. Besides, Shane knows there are cameras everywhere on this floor.

He already checked it for, uh, security reasons.

Shane walks with his documents and belongings out of the conference room before his boss's hypnotic hands grab him, heading to his desk to put his things away.

Ilya follows closely behind.

"That guy is gay."

"Not everyone's gay."

"He is. He was probably the parade sponsor this year or something."

Sometimes Ilya is such a ridiculous man that Shane doesn't know what to say. He puts on his jacket and turns to face him, still surprised by the bitter tone in his words.

He won't allow himself to think that Ilya is jealous of his colleague, because deep down Shane knows it's a projection of his own feelings. He already finds it horrifying that Ilya's frown is adorable; he can't go any further into madness.

"One day you'll get sued for workplace discrimination, and I'll make such a fool of you that my trial will be right after yours," Shane sighs, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter if Nikolai is gay. I'm not interested."

"Okay."

"Are you interested?"

Ilya's offended expression is so funny that he can't help but chuckle. Shane starts walking toward the elevator, and without waiting for an invitation, Ilya's footsteps follow closely behind.

It's comforting to know Ilya well enough that Shane knows what he wants without either of them saying a word. It's terrifying and torturous, but it's better than not having him around at all.

Infinitely more glorious.

"No."

"You took too long to reply, Ilya. I'm starting to get suspicious."

"I'm not interested in that guy."

"Good."

"Perfect."

“Great.”

As soon as they both step inside and the elevator doors close, Ilya pushes him against the wall and kisses him passionately.

How can Shane fight this, if not by surrendering?

He lets Ilya push him hard against the wall and devour his mouth with fervor, engulfing him in a flame that has been burning for weeks on end. Shane needs him closer and more possessive, but he's also exhausted from the day.

As always, Ilya seems to read him easily. The elevator doors open and the man breaks the kiss, pulling him by the hand toward the parking lot.

"I don't know what dinner he's talking about, but I wouldn't advise you to go," Ilya says casually as they both get into his car. "I don't think he's any good at cooking."

"I'm not interested in what you have to say about it," Shane says with a yawn, immediately leaning back in the passenger seat. "I'm not going to do anything anyway. I'm too fucking tired."

"I will make you dinner, don't worry, and it will be a thousand times better."

Shane laughs at Ilya's childlike tone, but he doesn't continue the conversation, preferring to let sleep take over. At some point during the drive, he feels Ilya's hands caressing his face, but Shane is unable to open his eyes due to the fatigue that consumes him.

Maybe he does need a vacation. Ilya might like a bright place, with lots of people and good weather. Loud music and a beach. It sounds like hell, but Shane would be able to endure it just to see Ilya smile.

Shane lets his thoughts wander to a promising future, one where he can achieve his dreams and have Ilya sleeping on the other side of the bed. Just like now, only this time he wakes up to stay. They plan vacations and take Anya for walks. They eat in the park and hold hands.

Can they?

He hopelessly wants to.

Between yawns and blinks slowed by exhaustion, Ilya helps him out of the car when they arrive at his apartment. Shane has no further perception of reality until, after what seems like hours, he wakes up with Anya snoring on his chest, her head resting on him like a pillow.

Despite being in Ilya's dark room, he can see the warm light filtering through the half-open door. A sweet promise of the man's company he so desperately craves, so Shane stretches, whispering apologies to Anya, and gets up to go find Ilya.

It's been a month since this thing with Ilya started, and yet the man's apartment feels like home. His, in the most demented sense of the word. Shane shuffles toward the kitchen and sees the man with his back to him, cooking something with precise knife movements.

Gorgeous and hot, just like he is.

Shane has completely lost all sense of shame, so he rests his forehead against Ilya's shoulder blade and inhales his cologne. He must have smoked a cigarette while he slept; Shane can smell the tobacco mixed with the sandalwood that drives him wild.

"You slept for about thirty minutes," Ilya says. Shane closes his eyes to savor the vibration of his voice in his spine. "Dinner's almost ready."

"I thought you were joking."

"I never joke about you."

Shane lets out a soft laugh and playfully pokes him with his finger.

"I'm not eating with Nikolai."

"That's good," Ilya says, turning to face him. "Fuck him."

"Hey, no. Fuck me first."

Ilya chuckles and kisses Shane's forehead, igniting every muscle in his body, ready to do absolutely anything the man says. He knows nothing will happen now because the pot is bubbling with dinner, but Shane would like to hear that Ilya wants him as much as he wants him.

“Later. Let’s eat first.”

The food Ilya has prepared is surprisingly delicious—the man, of course, is offended by this remark—so Shane has seconds while Ilya tells him about the drama that unfolded between two stylists at the last fashion show they covered. He's almost certain the information Ilya is sharing is confidential, but Shane is so engrossed in Ilya's facial expressions that he couldn't care less about morality.

Besides, they've already broken enough rules. The world could go up in flames, and all Shane would care about is that this warmth reaches Ilya's cheerful eyes.

Later, after dinner and a make out session with Ilya on the sofa, they dance around the living room to a song Ilya listened to as a child. The Russian lyrics of the song mingle with Ilya's humming, which vibrates in his brain as a reflection of the enduring joy of sharing this moment. Shane revels in the feel of Ilya's hands on his back and takes the opportunity to cling to his neck, trying to ignore the ever-present anxiety of losing him, absentmindedly stroking the curls on his head.

"Wyatt is going to ask you to do something in the next few days," Ilya whispers during one of their dance turns around the living room. He holds him firmly and securely, his mouth close to his ear. "I want you to agree, okay?"

Shane's eyes are closed, completely relaxed. He nods without question and lets Ilya kiss him again, slowly and passionately. As if he wants to tell him something more, something that escapes them amidst what they share, so intimate and uniquely theirs.

What Ilya says is irrelevant because, for better or worse, Shane would follow him without hesitation. He dismisses it as soon as Ilya leads him to the shower, and together they let themselves be consumed by each other, gasping and groaning.

Later, as Shane and Ilya sleep entwined, he allows himself to forget that this is fleeting. Shane makes the naive mistake of thinking it will last forever, simply because his heart and spirit beat in unison with Ilya's.

Simply because he can.

The following Thursday, when Wyatt congratulates him and Nikolai on their articles for the upcoming issue, his boss asks Shane to follow him to his office to discuss a private matter.

Immediately, Shane's alarm bells start ringing, and his pulse quickens under Wyatt's friendly yet stern gaze. It's impossible that Wyatt knows about Ilya, and even if he did, it's not his responsibility to expose them. Perhaps he's disappointed with his work. Maybe he's going to fire him, intending to hire someone better.

Shane can't decide what's worse.

"You've performed well these past few months, Shane," the man says as they both sit down. Wyatt's desk seems enormous under the pressure of maintaining his sanity. "You're an excellent employee."

Shane nods, but he doesn't allow himself to let his guard down.

"I greatly appreciate your ability to write about fashion, even though it's not your area of interest," Wyatt continues, opening a black folder and sliding it across the table toward him. "That's why a new opportunity has arisen, and your name has been suggested."

The man wears an affectionate, almost proud smile, but Shane feels frozen. His arms won't respond when he tries to reach for the documents to examine them more closely, so he only reads the name of… holy shit, Montreal Voyageurs.

“They're not friendly people, I'm warning you,” Wyatt laughs good-naturedly, “but Ilya said you'd put up with it for the prestige it carries. I know it's not exactly a sports magazine, but they do have a section about it, and it's the most important newspaper in the country.”

Ilya.

Ilya said.

Hearing the man compliment him outside the bedroom makes Shane blush, especially since Wyatt is fucking cool and seems to agree with his words. He can't quite grasp what the hell this is all about, but the editor's friendly expression seems to indicate that Shane has some good prospects.

“In this folder is the project you’ll submit for your application to the newspaper editor position. You must write an article about Andrei Rozanov and his corruption as a political journalist. All the information you need is here. You just have to do it and there's a ninety-nine percent chance you'll get the job.”

Wyatt’s voice sounds serious this time, so Shane leans across the table to pick up the documents. True to his word, the pages in front of him display all the information needed to expose Andrei Rozanov as a dishonest and turncoat journalist. Extortion. Falsification of information. Censorship and illicit payments. There are photographs of the man that prove each of these claims, bearing a face similar to, yet strikingly different from, his brother’s.

It would be a scandal of enormous proportions, and Shane can make it happen, gaining the recognition he so desperately craves, earning a position at the country's most important newspaper.

At Ilya’s expense.

The discomfort makes him swallow, and Shane looks at Wyatt, unsure what to say. It's a golden opportunity, and yet, he needs to make sure Ilya knows about this.

“Wyatt, this isn’t appropriate. I work for Ilya, he would never—”

“He was the one who suggested you for this article, didn’t he tell you?” Wyatt interrupts, frowning slightly. “I'm not surprised that he chose you. After all, it was Ilya who nominated you for this position. He brought me your college essays and your résumé. He’s clearly a fan of your work, even if he doesn’t say so. You know how Ilya is.”

Shane knows this, and that's precisely why he's shaken. When Ilya told him he'd be working for him and Wyatt simultaneously, he never mentioned that he was the one who suggested Shane's name. He always referred to Wyatt as the one responsible for him getting an opportunity in the Editorial Department.

Wyatt is right; it's no surprise he chose him. Ilya constantly praises him, acknowledges his hard work and the quality of his work. Even so, writing an article to expose his brother in front of the entire country is a step beyond simply believing in him.

He remembers Ilya's words a hundred lifetimes ago, when he spoke of how much he believed in himself and the people he loved.

Love.

Does Ilya love him?

He can't know for sure, but the folder with the information needed to give Shane a second chance seems to be compelling evidence.

Then, Shane remembers his words from when they were dancing, when Ilya asked him to accept Wyatt's request. 

He wants to trust Ilya. Shane can trust Ilya with his eyes closed, with his feet on the edge of the abyss and his heart hanging by a thread. He does it with a faith that moves mountains, that moves Shane and makes him believe in a better life, in what he can have but doesn't think he deserves.

But which, good heavens, he wants more than anything in this world.

Shane nods slowly under Wyatt's curious gaze and takes the folder in his hands.

"Thank you, Wyatt, for the opportunity."

"It's your effort, nothing more."

"Still."

"You don't have to thank me," Wyatt laughs, "you know where Ilya's office is."

Oh, he does. Shane will go and kick his ass and grab him with kisses as soon as he sees him.

Chapter 5: Believe in those you love

Chapter Notes

When he was little and went to therapy, Shane was given the weekly task of finding things in everyday life that he enjoyed to help him cope with the chaotic moments in his life.

The sound of skates on ice. His mother's shout when a player scores a point in a challenging game. His father's voice reading aloud what Shane writes. The trilling of birds in the trees. The sunlight on any body of water, especially the lake.

To that list, Shane now adds Ilya's laughter. Loud and somewhat muffled, it has become a constant sound around him in recent months. He savors it amidst the complicity they've developed, against his lips, across the room, under the covers. It has become vital in every way.

The moment Shane hears it, standing outside his office, he knows everything is going to be alright.

Bood and Ilya are chatting animatedly when Shane enters with a thick folder in his hands. His boss wears a tight shirt that accentuates his features, and he gestures wildly with his arms as he tells a story that seems to be about Svetlana. Ilya looks good. Relaxed and content, younger.

The men stop talking and turn to look at him. Ilya seems to know immediately why he's there, if his suddenly serious expression is any indication. He must be sure of it because he knows Shane and, with a lot of luck, he loves him too.

"Hollander!" Bood greets him with a grin from ear to ear. "You look amazing, man."

"Hey," Ilya says, scolding his coworker with a look. Then he fixes his clear eyes on Shane. Two infinite, hypnotic, familiar stars. "Come on in, we're done."

Bood snorts with amusement and stands up, patting Shane on the shoulder as he walks past him.

"I don't know how you put up with him, you are a saint. See you."

Shane doesn't have the energy to reply but manages a half-smile, waiting for Bood to close the office door so he can meet Ilya's eyes again. His boss is still behind his desk, with a cautious, curious expression. It's only been a couple of days, but it feels like years since Shane last fed on the warmth of his pupils.

Fuck, working somewhere else is going to be torture.

"You remembered I exist," Ilya says to break the silence between them, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. A professional suggestion juxtaposed with the personal comment that's stuck in Shane's throat. "I was starting to think you'd lost my address. Or my phone number. Or my email."

"I was only gone for a few days. Technically, they were part of my paid vacation."

"A vacation you could have spent with me," Ilya sighs dramatically, but he doesn't seem truly upset, as he gives Shane a fleeting smile when he sits down across from him. The smile disappears when Shane slides the folder across the desk toward Ilya. "Ah, I see."

"I suppose Wyatt told you I'm aware of the situation with your brother and the Montreal Voyageurs."

“Yes, he did. It was the only thing that comforted me that you hadn’t disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Shane shifts uncomfortably in his chair, but doesn't apologize. Yes, it was a dick move to ask for three days off without specifying why, but it gave him the time to work like a madman on the article about Andrei Rozanov and to organize his thoughts.

Now, with the article finished, his resume updated, and his heart lighter, Shane can face Ilya without hesitation. He can stand confidently before the love of his life, knowing that Ilya or he himself won't run away.

"I texted you that I'd be busy for three days," Shane says, raising his eyebrows. "I didn't disappear."

"Yes, I know, but Anya missed you."

"Anya?"

"Anya and I are practically the same person these days."

Shane shakes his head to avoid smiling and places his hand on the black folder resting on the table. Ilya follows the movement with sharp eyes, but his expression doesn't change.

“I finished the article. I want you to read it and, if you agree with what it says, sign my resignation letter.”

The silence is so profound that Shane can hear the keyboard clicking on Luca’s desk and the voices of his colleagues in the central hallway. Ilya blinks in front of him, holding his gaze for so long that Shane starts to get nervous.

After Wyatt briefed him on what his future might hold, Shane went straight to his parents’ house. Yes, it's pathetic that he's thirty years old and they are his main source of support, but Shane knows he can trust his parents. He confessed to them between ragged breaths the heavenly hell he'd been through these past few months and asked for their help in making a decision.

Neither of them seemed particularly surprised, which was disappointing, but Shane knows he's terrible at hiding his true feelings. It’s amazing he managed to keep it from Ilya for so long. 

Based on their conversation, Yuna suggested that he write the article immediately and secure his future beyond question. David looked at him for a long time, as he always did when he wanted to see into his soul, and advised Shane to go, talk to Ilya and propose to him.

For fuck's sake.

Although his father is usually the more level-headed of the two, Shane chose to follow his mother's advice and embark on three whirlwind days writing about Andrei Rozanov. While doing so and verifying every source, Shane constantly thought of Ilya and his hands that made hell seem frozen, his caresses that made him feel human, and every word he had said to him in recent months.

Shane is going to accept the job at Montreal Voyageurs because it's his dream, because every action he takes each day is fueled by conviction, effort, and passion for what he's wanted ever since choosing journalism as his career. Because, inevitably, Ilya's philosophy has permeated him, and now it's Shane who believes in those he loves with reverence.

Perhaps he doubts the existence of God, but Shane believes in Ilya and in his kindness disguised as arrogance. He believes in his friends, who care about him and include him in every opportunity they have. He believes in his parents, who support him unconditionally and allow him to do what he truly wants without letting him doubt his destiny.

Shane believes in himself, in his courage, and in his dedication to everything he does.

He believes he deserves to be happy.

And, for better or for worse, that goes hand in hand with the smile that slowly begins to form on Ilya's face.

“Fuck you,” Ilya says cheerfully, without taking his eyes off Shane for a second. “Look at you, so sexy, telling me what to do.”

“Stop being a jerk and take this seriously.”

“I told you, I don’t joke about you,” Ilya sighs, straightening up. He doesn’t touch the folder and doesn’t seem to intend to. “I agree with what you wrote, and your resignation letter is already signed. Marlow has it on file.”

Shane’s mouth falls open, stunned to the core. What the fuck. Ilya, as always, tries to outsmart him with his rash actions and his damn instinct that never fails. Of course, his boss—now ex-boss, it seems—knew Shane was going to write the article and take the job. Of course, Ilya anticipates his moves with ease when no one else can because he’s the only one who’s bothered to get to know him for who he really is.

Even so, Shane isn’t going to be beaten so easily.

“Read the fucking article. What are you going to do if I give this to my new boss and then you find out I defamed you in the process?”

Ilya clasps his hands behind his neck and opens his arms in an arrogant pose. He's challenging him with a smirk that Shane loves for the confidence it exudes and hates for how incredibly horny it makes him.

"Did you do it, oh, lord of Good and Evil?"

"Do you really care?"

"I care what you think of me. If you're going to say I'm good in bed in your article, that's not defamation, it's public knowledge."

Shane rolls his eyes at Ilya's conceited tone, but is grateful the man brought it up. This is the moment; there won't be another if he's not going to be a Centaurs employee when he leaves this office. 

He takes a deep breath, counts to three, and looks Ilya straight in the eye.

"I appreciate the opportunity you've given me at this magazine. Not only the knowledge I've gained as your assistant, but also that you recommended me to work with Wyatt," Shane says, proud that his voice isn't trembling. He notices that Ilya's expression softens in response to the information he hasn't revealed, but Shane knows thanks to the editor. "It's been a very... interesting year. I know our relationship isn't strictly professional, and I suppose it's not fair to ignore that, so, uh, thanks for that too."

Ilya frowns.

"Why are you thanking me?"

Shane has a list he wrote around four in the morning on the second day he spent locked in his apartment about all the things he's grateful for and loves about Ilya. His reverent faith. His shy yet aggressive kisses. His ability to listen, to support and understand him without question. His ridiculous laughter and the sparkle in his eyes. His drive to be better, to compete for and against him. His generous body, his possessive mind. 

His unconditional and unquestionable affection.

"For everything, really."

A sincere statement, unlike anything he's allowed himself to be these past few weeks. Ilya searches his face for something he doesn't recognize; Shane doesn't know what will happen now, and although the uncertainty is deeply troubling him, it must be evident in his expression because the man sighs and opens the folder.

"My brother isn't a good person, you know that from me and from everything you wrote," Ilya says, quickly scanning the words on the pages. “I have been gathering information over the past few years with the help of Sasha, a friend, to discredit him and expose him for who he is. Nadya knows what her father is like; you don’t have to worry about her. Everything will be fine. It’s an honor for me that you wrote this. You’re an outstanding journalist, Shane. You deserve that position at Montreal Voyageurs.”

Shane exhales shakily and nods once. Even though he already knew Ilya would never intentionally hurt his niece, it’s reassuring to know that Nadya will be okay despite the article.

“Thanks,” Shane murmurs, repeating his words over and over in his mind. Everything will be alright; he knows Ilya always keeps his word. Always. Even so, despite the seriousness of the conversation, he has to ask. Out of scientific curiosity, nothing more. “Is Sasha one of those friends, like Troy and me?”

Ilya seems amused by the question. He leans across the desk, clasping his hands on the surface and looking at him as if he were speaking to a child.

“So what if he is?”

“Nothing, it just makes me wonder if maybe I should deepen my friendship with Nikolai,” Shane says, and when Ilya’s face immediately falls, he lets out a laugh. “You’re becoming predictable.”

“Fuck you.”

“Only if you accept the new terms of our arrangement, now that you and I won’t be working together anymore.”

His words make Ilya sobers up instantly. The man rises from his desk, brushes the invisible dust off his shirt with feigned nonchalance, and circles the desk with slow but deliberate steps until they are face to face. To keep things as they've always been, Shane stands and looks at him at eye level. Ilya smells faintly of cigarettes and sandalwood, a mixture of the soap and shampoo Shane has used when they shower together and when he stays overnight at his apartment.

Shane longs for that same scent on his skin, gliding over his own body. He desires the moist warmth of Ilya's body, the brush of his limbs against his.

"I'm listening."

Shane takes a deep breath, exhales, and straightens his shoulders slightly.

"This can't be casual anymore," Shane murmurs, clearing his throat to raise his voice. "I don't really know what's going to happen with the Montreal Voyageurs, but I assume I'll be busy. We can work things out as they come up. Now, it's important that you know I want exclus—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Ilya interrupts, his hands moving rapidly between them. His arrogant, self-assured demeanor vanishes, and his eyes widen in shock. "What do you mean you can't have something casual?"

"Uh, you know. Casual. I can't just sleep with you and nothing more."

Ilya gasps dramatically, but judging by the color his face turns, it seems like a genuine reaction. Shane hasn't a clue what's going on.

"What was casual about what we were doing?" Ilya yelps, his hands landing on Shane's shoulders as if he needs stability. The touch ignites flames throughout his body, making him slightly dizzy. "What—? Shit, Shane, do you fuck like that with everyone you hook up with?"

"What?"

"Shane," Ilya repeats, this time shaking him slightly as if trying to bring him to his senses. Shane swattes him away, frustrated with this pointless exchange. "Tell me you're fucking with me."

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Shane, of course what we have isn’t casual. Of course not, for God’s sake. Do you think what we were doing is normal? What—? Shit. What part of me saying we could live together is fucking casual?”

He’s sure his cheeks are burning with embarrassment and confusion, but Shane can’t find the words to justify what he said. In his defense, Ilya only said that about living together once, right after they woke up together, and Shane let him fuck him before work. 

Of course everything they have is casual, Ilya has no idea how his heart beats when he touches him or when he talks to Shane about the things he likes.

“I don’t know what the fuck people normally do,” Shane hisses, a little desperate, but he calms down when Ilya’s hands gently cup his cheeks. Even so, he doesn’t dare look him in the eyes. “I told you before, this is all new to me. I’ve never hooked up with someone I really liked, and it turns out being in love with the person you’re having casual sex with is fucking confusing.”

Shane doesn’t realize what he’s said until the silence in the office becomes palpable. Horrified, he searches Ilya’s eyes to somehow take it back because this isn’t how he wants to declare his ridiculous, unconditional love for the man, but Shane can’t find even a hint of rejection or mockery in Ilya’s gaze.

Only infinite brightness, perpetual warmth.

A smile splits his face in two and promises a bright future, an incredibly wonderful present.

“Please tell me I can fuck you right now,” Ilya begs, and in one swift, unpredictable movement, the man drops to his knees. “Please, please.”

“Wha—? Stop it,” Shane blushes, stunned and flustered, but he feels his cock rapidly growing at the brush of Ilya’s cheek against his crotch. “We can’t, Luca’s out there.”

“You are going to kill me.”

“You are going to kill me. What kind of human being reacts like that to—?”

In another swift action, Ilya stands up again and grabs Shane’s face to kiss him.

It’s aggressive, desperate, and full of affection, as everything between them is. Shane grips the back of Ilya’s neck and opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, letting Ilya push him down onto the desk until he’s sitting on it. Immediately, the man settles between Shane’s legs and gasps against his mouth.

“So you’re in love with me.”

“No.”

“You just said so.”

“Yes, but I’m a liar sometimes.”

Ilya's laugh is so clear and delicious that Shane can't help but run his tongue over his lips, absorbing all the positive energy it exudes. He loves his mouth, with its dirty, wise, and loving words.

Ilya gazes at him, mesmerized.

"You're amazing."

"I know," Shane smiles, enjoying Ilya's hands caressing his waist, his ass, and his thighs. "You're going to lose the best assistant in the business."

"Where are you taking Luca?"

"You son of a bitch." Shane gives him a gentle slap on the cheek, which only makes Ilya lean closer, grinning widely. "Hey, if you knew what we were doing wasn't casual, what the hell was this all about to you?"

Ilya tilts his head, as if he doesn't understand the question.

"About you, obviously," Ilya murmurs, kissing the bridge of his nose. Then he brings his mouth to his cheek and traces a path with his lips to his other cheek. “I was going to do anything you wanted just to spend time with you.”

“You’re pathetic,” Shane says, as if his heart weren’t pounding erratically in his chest. “What if I’d never confessed?”

“I’m good at reading you. I knew you loved me on some level. Not the same level I love you, but maybe eventually I could get you there.”

Shane kisses him again to silence his ramblings, because this is the reality he's imagined for months, and suddenly it seems impossible to hear a man like Ilya saying how much he loves him. It's wonderful. Spectacular. Every one of his fantasies come true.

Shit, now Shane really wants Ilya to fuck him against his desk. He's not going to do it, because even though he can't be fired, he can still be arrested for indecent exposure.

Also, Shane is waiting for that fine when he and Ilya fuck in the public library; he with his glasses while the man pretends to be one of his college professors.

Fun times ahead.

"We need a new plan," Shane says when Ilya pulls away to continue kissing his neck. "Maybe I need to change apartments for work, so—"

"Move in with me."

"No, you don't like vacuuming, and you have a very furry pet."

“I can buy one. I’ll shave Anya if I have to.”

“You’re an idiot,” Shane laughs, cupping Ilya’s face to look him in the eyes. The man looks happier than he’s ever seen him. Shane’s chest tightens at the thought that it’s thanks to him. “I’m not moving in with you, but maybe we can work out a schedule so we can spend more time together.”

“Okay,” Ilya readily agrees. Suddenly, he frowns and looks him up and down. “If this isn’t ‘casual’ anymore, that means exclusivity. You can’t do what we do with others.”

“I didn’t do it before either.”

“But still.”

“Is this some kind of fantasy? The possessiveness and all that?” Shane asks at the same time he can feel the tug deep in his gut with interest.

Ilya seems to notice it too, because he gives a smug smile and places a quick kiss on his lips.

“Why? Are you interested?”

“I don’t like wearing collars for sensory reasons, but maybe if we find one made of cotton, we can embroider your name on it.”

Ilya exhales so forcefully that his body doubles over and he buries his face in the curve of his neck. Shane strokes his head and repeatedly runs his fingers through his curls, noticing how softly they part at his touch. 

“Fuck, Shane, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“Mmh.”

“I’m going to die of sadness now that you’re going to Montreal Voyageurs. We’ll be rivals, and I’ll only be able to see you at some boring conference, which I always skip, but now I’ll have to go just for the thrill of seeing you again.”

Shane rolls his eyes at Ilya’s dramatic tone. The man speaks as if they aren’t going to sleep together and wake up intertwined every day for the rest of… Damn. For the rest of their lives, with a bit of luck.

Shane doesn’t believe in luck. He’s going to work his ass off to make this relationship work, with the same drive he’s put into his career and the same energy that fuels all his actions.

“Centaurs is a fashion magazine. Montreal Voyageurs is the most profitable newspaper in the country,” Shane states. He doesn’t look down on Ilya’s magazine; on the contrary, he admires his work in the industry and his influence in the market. But, objectively, a fact is a fact. “Calling it a rivalry would be a stretch.”

Ilya blows a raspberry with all the seriousness he can muster.

“Oh, no, you’ve already started with your petulance. My boyfriend can’t be like that.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Well, my rival. It’s the same thing, really,” Ilya grins and pokes him in the side, startling him. “Or are you not going to be my boyfriend anymore now that you’re writing for the Montreal Voyageurs? Oh, no, how’s Hayden going to live now that his friend won’t talk to him because he’s a nobody?”

Shane gives him another gentle slap across the face and keeps his palm there to stroke his cheek. Immediately, Ilya turns his face and kisses his wrist, right where his pulse throbs irregularly.

“Shut up,” Shane says, but it doesn’t have his usual energy. He takes a deep breath and rehearses the words in his mind before opening his mouth. When he manages to gather his courage, he speaks again to say, “I love you.”

Shane is good with languages. He speaks English, French, Italian, and Spanish because knowledge is power, and all good journalists escape his native tongue, but Shane has to say he was never interested in Russian until he started hearing Ilya mutter things he couldn't decipher. Murmurs before falling asleep, gasps between fiery thrusts of passion.

Learning Russian is purely a scientific curiosity. It's frustrating not being able to get a complete picture of how Ilya's brain is structured, but Shane can navigate the words and expressions the man uses daily but doesn't bother to translate. Shane has been learning the language to understand him better, to visualize the same images and experience the same purr of his tongue when he speaks.

Ilya blinks at him, stunned, and replies with something Shane can't understand. Shit, he needs to learn faster.

"Since when do you speak Russian?" Ilya says, a little agitated. His large hands cup Shane's face and shake him lightly. “You can never leave me. I’ll die if you leave me, do you hear me? Fuck, I love you too.”

Shane laughs and kisses him, repeating the declaration in both English and Russian. Each time he says it, Ilya turns a little redder, his smile wider, and his eyes brighter.

Suddenly, he feels infinitely younger, as if his life is just beginning. Shane has never been a fan of change or modification, but working on a fresh start with Ilya seems interesting. It is.

It’s everything he wants.

“I want to be there when you tell Hayden about us,” Ilya murmurs against his mouth as the kiss fades into a light brush. “Troy’s got money on this, and I want him to win.”

“I hope the people at Montreal Voyageurs are less gossipy than they are here.”

“You will miss this, trust me.”

Shane smiles. Between Ilya's warm legs and the overflowing love that his eyes reflect, he knows he will.

This year, Harris really outdid himself with the charity gala.

Shane gazes, overwhelmed, at the vastness and high ceiling of the hotel's grand ballroom. The gala hasn't started yet, so the guests are scattered throughout the space, surrounded by decorations and furniture that harmoniously illuminate every corner. 

It's an impeccable job that Shane knows he can attribute to Rose.

"Holy crap, how do they have such a big budget?" J.J. whistles beside him.

"Good management," Shane murmurs, but he has to admit he's slightly surprise too. "The Finance Department knows what they’re doing."

J.J. laughs and puts his arm around Shane's shoulder as they head into the venue together.

The invitation to the event arrived at the Montreal Voyageurs a month ago. His boss, to the indignation of some, asked him to attend to gather details that others wouldn't normally be able to, thanks to his familiarity with the Centaurs. Of course, Shane invited his colleague and now friend, with whom he has an excellent working relationship.

J.J. is charismatic, energetic, and a hard worker. He also loves parties, so perhaps he can rub off on Shane, who still can't get used to large social events, with his good humor. It doesn't help that on stage, next to the podium, is Ilya Rozanov's face, serious and striking, frozen on a banner.

It's a photograph Shane has seen before. It's from the December issue of the Centaurs, praising the work their editor-in-chief has done all these years. Shane recognizes it because Ilya didn't hold back, beaming with pride, when it was published. He also remembers it because Shane keeps that issue in the second drawer of his nightstand.

“There’s an open bar!” J.J. says enthusiastically as they pass by. “You’re going to have to drag me home, buddy.”

“Sorry, I’m not coming back with you. I have, uh, my own ride. I can put you in a taxi if you want.”

“Don’t worry, maybe someone else will be willing to give me a ride home.”

Shane laughs at his suggestive tone and follows his friend when the two enter the crowd. As every year, the charity gala has guests of varying caliber, who chat and network over champagne. This time, Shane is one of them, so he and J.J. have to greet their acquaintances and the Montreal Voyageurs associates to talk about trivialities and other unimportant topics.

“It must be strange for you to be here as a guest,” J.J. says when they finally get a break from the crowd. “Your colleagues seem thrilled to see you. That girl was hot.”

“Rose’s married,” Shane smiles, shaking his head. “And so is Svetlana.”

Shane doesn't even want to remember their wedding that was three months ago. He still has a headache from the hangover he and Ilya got for competing like two idiots to see who could last longer.

“Damn. Is there anyone single in your old magazine?”

“Yeah, but no one is your type.”

“You’re a terrible friend.”

Shane laughs. 

When he arrived at the Montreal Voyageurs, his goal was to be as aloof and professional as possible to avoid unnecessary close relationships with coworkers. Surprisingly, it was easier than he thought because they're all jerks. Competitiveness oozes from the walls, and the journalists only care about writing flawless articles, not forming friendships. Perfect for Shane, really, but of course, he had to be paired with someone like J.J.

His new friend is loud, intrusive, and gossipy. Shane accepts him as he is and enjoys his company as a ghostly, encouraging reminder of his old colleagues at Centaurs.

Shane is about to remind JJ what a great friend he is, having saved his ass last week with an impossible interview, but something catches his eye. A group of people stops a few feet from the stage, and as if some powerful force compels him to turn his head, Shane's eyes meet those of a man staring so intensely that laughter catches in his throat and paralyzes him.

Ilya Rozanov is standing nearby with his old colleagues: Troy, Harris, Bood, and Luca. Shane doesn't pay much attention to them other than noticing how elegant they all look, because Ilya's eyes are so piercing it's unnerving. He wears a serious expression, his brow slightly furrowed, as if he were thinking about something unpleasant.

Shane has no reason to be surprised because he was the one who helped Ilya zip up his pants after giving him a goodbye blowjob, but he can't help but stare at him closely. Ilya is wearing the same suit he was wearing when he saw him leave the apartment they now share, but under the hotel light, he looks different. More handsome, more divine. The black blazer flatters his figure and slightly conceals the white shirt that hugs his torso perfectly. In the crowd, his maroon tie stands out like a locator, making it impossible to lose sight of him.

The coordinated colors were Ilya's idea. The maroon suit Shane is wearing isn't exactly his choice, but when they went to buy it, his boyfriend seemed so turned on by the idea of him in a matching color that Shane couldn't resist buying it.

Anyone who sees them together can tell they match. Their relationship isn't a secret because, in Ilya's words, they're thirty years old and not scared schoolgirls. Shane also doesn't care, because his personal life is nobody's business but his own.

Despite that, the statement that they are clearly interconnected still gets his blood pumping. Shane feels the heat rise to his cheeks and a tingle in the pit of his stomach, especially when J.J. touches his arm and he notices Ilya's expression shift from intense to annoyed.

Ah, fuck. This is going to be fun. The plug shifts slightly inside him as Shane moves his legs to change position.

"Are you okay, Shane?"

"Yeah, let's sit down. The event is about to start."

Now that he's spotted Ilya in the crowd, it seems impossible to miss him. This year, the charity gala is focused on the usual fundraising, but also on recognizing the award Ilya has won for best editor-in-chief for the fourth year in a row. As per protocol, his boyfriend's seated with his staff and is expected to give a speech upon receiving his award.

Observing Ilya from a distance is an art Shane has learned to appreciate now that they don't spend all day together. During dinner, while J.J. leads the conversation among the other guests at their table, Shane's eyes follow Ilya at every moment. 

He watches him as he takes the podium to deliver a speech he already knows—discovering that Ilya rehearses his speeches in front of the mirror has been incredibly entertaining—, as he talks with his colleagues, as he eats. Ilya interacts enthusiastically, waving his hands and interrupting his friends; he laughs happily, heartily, reflecting an anecdote or joke that Shane isn't part of. Everyone seems to orbit around him, attentively absorbing his words and movements.

It's impossible not to notice that everyone seems to gravitate toward Ilya, and he can't help but feel honored that Ilya chooses to gravitate toward Shane.

Sometimes, when Shane feels overwhelmed and the world becomes too confusing, he struggles to understand why Ilya chooses to wake up in his arms every day and confide all his secrets without doubting his loyalty after nearly a year of being together.

But that insecurity never lasts long. It becomes undeniable when Shane thinks about their relationship, so equal and entertaining. Always challenging each other and expecting the best from one another, both Ilya and Shane take care to nurture what they have with sincerity, effort, and teamwork.

Shane loves him, and Ilya loves him back. As simple, wonderful, and fascinating as that.

The cocktail party starts after dinner. For everyone else, it's the perfect time to enjoy their independence and the open bar; for Shane, it means taking notes so that he and J.J. can write an article on Monday about the incredible charity event the Centaurs held. His friend is eager to get all the information possible, so he drags Shane towards Ilya without being able to convince him otherwise.

In a familiar scene, Ilya stands strategically, greeting and exchanging words with the guests. The maroon tie hanging from his neck makes Shane swallow hard, especially when the man's eyes lock onto his. Behind him, Luca stands with his arms crossed, like a statue, ready to spring into action if his boss needs the information stored in his brilliant mind.

Shane smiles.

"Hey, Rozanov!" J.J. calls out with that characteristic energy. "Good speech. Very inspiring. Thanks for the invitation."

"I hope Montreal Voyageurs can write a good article about the staff's exceptional work," Ilya says, raising his eyebrows. His voice sounds weary, but his handsome face betrays no fatigue. Shane wants to kiss him, but he doesn't move. "The invitation isn't free."

J.J. laughs.

“We’re aware.”

“He’s joking,” Shane interjects. “The Montreal Voyageurs adheres to the truth, which for us is not manipulable.”

“Everything can be manipulated, Mr. Hollander,” Ilya says, tilting his head slightly. His voice shifts to the familiar tone that makes Shane’s legs turn to jelly. “The color of your suit is an excellent choice.”

J.J. raises his eyebrows because his friend obviously notices that the color matches Ilya’s tie, but his boyfriend is quicker.

“Luca, take Mr. Boiziau to talk to Harris so he can get an exclusive,” Ilya says, smiling amiably but insincerely. “He’ll be happy to give you all the details of the gala.”

His friend gasps in surprise, shaking Shane’s arm excitedly. He can only squint at Ilya, who is still smiling, but this time the tension in his right eyebrow raises it in silent defiance. 

"Great! Thanks, Rozanov."

When his colleague leaves with Luca and they're left alone together, a thick silence settles between him and Ilya. Shane doesn't know if it's the pressure of the plug in his ass that's been preparing him since he left home, the anticipation, or the fact of seeing Ilya again in a setting familiar to them both, but his body breaks out in a cold sweat and the tingling in the palms of his hands compels Shane to take another step forward.

Just for the pleasure of being closer to Ilya and smelling his cologne, even if it's already etched in his memory.

"You look good," Ilya says in a different tone now that they're alone. "I regret leaving before you. That suit deserves my praise for how good it looks on you."

Ilya is ridiculous; that's the only conclusion Shane has been able to reach in the last few months. That burning feeling of arousal and the urge to fall to his knees before him hasn't diminished one bit, not even since they've been living together and Shane has seen him eat three hot dogs in one sitting. Strangely, the intimacy they now share makes everything more exciting.

"You can, if you want. I booked a room at this hotel. 5511."

For a few seconds, Ilya holds his gaze as if to test his honesty. When Shane maintains his composure and isn't intimidated by the growing interest in his eyes, the man laughs and winks.

"Well thought out, Shane. I miss that agility in my magazine."

"Sorry. Montreal Voyageurs greatly values my good ideas," he says humorously. Ilya makes a mock face as if he's hurt, but nods. "Have you spoken to all your guests yet?"

"Most of them. Svetlana and Rose are excellent support when it comes to socializing," Ilya sighs, and Shane can see his shoulders slump. "Why?"

Ilya has spent the last few weeks complaining about the charity gala and its demands. Every evening, he collapses on the sofa while Shane and Anya try to cheer him up with cuddles. He's put in a lot of effort to prepare for the event, and since Shane is a devoted and loving boyfriend, he's decided to live up to expectations.

In a casual move, Shane reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box to hand to Ilya.

"How about we get the fuck out of here?"

Shane's question hangs between them as Ilya eyes the box curiously. As he picks it up and opens it, Shane can feel the atmosphere shift between them. Ilya's magnetic pull is impressive; his smile is brighter, his eyes sparkle with a knowing glint, when he sees the box is empty. The expectant buzz returns, as it always does when Shane is near the man, coursing through him from the tips of his toes to the scalp.

"Holy shit," Ilya gasps, his expression stunned. "You're wearing it now? Now?"

Shane nods breathlessly at his boyfriend's lopsided grin, which sends his heart pounding so hard it explodes in his ears, blocking out everything else.

J.J. can handle getting all the necessary information for the article. Otherwise, Shane can get his exclusive after Ilya fucks him hard and fast.

Without a word, Ilya walks past him and takes his hand, pulling him toward the exit. Shane can't make out his surroundings; he blinks and feels as if he's teleported to the hotel elevator. The change to cold air restores a bit of sanity, enough for him to clearly see Ilya's blush.

As they both enter the elevator, the man aggressively pushes Shane against the wall, leaving behind the noise, the event, and the rest of the world.

"You're crazy," Ilya whispers, and although he doesn't kiss him, Shane opens his mouth in case he wants to. "Who died and made you king of the world, huh, Hollander? Now you decide when and where you want to be fucked? You spent all of dinner getting ready for me while you were laughing with J.J., you shameless slut."

Oh, it's the best thing that's ever happened to him. Shane gasps slightly as Ilya pushes him further against the elevator wall, feeling his erection pressed against his thigh. Maybe he should hit the emergency button and let Ilya take him right there, in the cramped space they share.

“I always make my own decisions,” Shane says, taking a deep breath. He’s not going to succumb to the thought that’s been nagging at him; Ilya is tired and needs all his energy to fuck him properly. “I get bossed around daily, I deserve a share of power.”

“You’d be terrifying with a share of power.”

Shane grins, showing all his teeth, daring him to deny it.

“You know that firsthand, don’t you?”

Ilya looks at him, his eyes shining in the dim light of the elevator, and the reverential nod he gives him sends a tingle down every inch of his skin. Without a word, Ilya kisses him, melting Shane in his hands, lowering all his defenses.

Tomorrow, when his eyes meet the sunrise and Shane's body aches, he will think, as he always does, how lucky he is to have this. To hear Ilya's breathing, which completes the puzzles of his life, to be kissed by him and to savor the pleasure he knows he deserves. When they both leave the hotel room and go to lunch with his parents, Shane will remember a time when it was impossible to have Ilya's fingers etched into his memory, lazily tracing his face, following a rhythm that could make no sense in any universe except their own.

Shane will keep a secret the relief he feels when he hears how much Ilya loves him, only because his boyfriend will try, as always, to repeat it until the words envelop him like velvet and he finally believes it.

Shane believes in Ilya, in what they have, and in what they do every day. 

He's certain that when they kiss and smile at each other, the rhythm of the universe can only change for the better.

Chapter End Notes

aaaand we're finished!!! Thank you so much for all your comments, kudos, and bookmarks. I love knowing how much you enjoy my writing, thank you for your support!!!!
see you soon xoxo