Summary:

Shane shook his head. “It’s… don’t worry about it. This is just… it doesn’t mean anything. It’s… you didn’t need to get flowers. We’re… that’s not what this is.”

“It does not mean anything,” Rozanov agreed. His hands were stretched out on the black granite of Shane’s counter. They were so large, so pale. Rozanov’s fingernails were square, trimmed short. Shane had felt them on all parts of himself, had had bruises made by those hands.

It didn’t feel like it didn’t mean anything.