Summary:

Inside the layers upon layers of white tissue paper is a set of navy blue, lacy, lingerie. He can feel heat climbing up the back of his neck and up into his face and his ears. He scrambles for the phone and holds it back up to his ear. "Rose, what the fuck?!" he yelps. She cackles down the line. "Happy anniversary, baby!" "It's not my—it's January, Rose!" She continues to laugh, but it's not as infectious as it usually is. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Rose." OR: Rose Landry is a bad influence. Ilya could kiss her.