Summary:

Shane watches Ilya shove a hand through his hair, waits for him to meet his eyes. “You pretend to want things, pretend I can have things that we both know you won’t let me have,” he says, his newfound self-esteem carrying him past the point of no return. He wishes he’d never discovered it, because it’s making Ilya’s face do something awful.

“Oh, you mean I hurt your feelings?”

Close enough, Shane supposes, his chest aching again. He goes to lift his hand again, sees Ilya zero in on the movement, doesn’t. “I guess so.”

Ilya scoffs, mean and sharp. “So sorry, Hollander, I didn’t mean to make you get so emotional about a casual fuck.”
Asshole. So many times he has lobbed the word at Ilya in exasperation, reluctant affection and disbelief, but now he thinks it with vitriolic anger. “I think you should go.”

Shane finally decides that Ilya's ability to weaponise sex isn't enough for him anymore. Ilya doesn't take it well, but Shane holds firm. Then they start to text about it. Sort of.