Summary:

This is worse, somehow, than every other goodbye from the past eight years.

Worse, to have all of Ilya now and not be able to touch him.

It’s been two hours since they last kissed and weeks until they’ll get to again and there aren’t enough ‘I love you’s in the world to make this hurt less.

Ilya is just looking at him, glassy-eyed and a little desperate, and Shane’s hands creak on the steering wheel.

“You need to get out of the car before I do something stupid,” he croaks, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears he can already feel welling up.

“Like what?” Ilya asks, voice scratchy and morose.

“Like turn around and drive you back to Montreal with me.” He opens his eyes again, finding Ilya’s gaze across the console. “Or kiss you.”

*

In which saying goodbye after the cottage is a lot harder than either of them anticipated.