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Ilya Rozanov does not get jealous.
He has elite genetics, tall, broad, unfairly handsome. He’s had women stumble over themselves when he winks at them, had men go stiff and awkward, suddenly very interested in proving how straight they are when they shake his hand, even though Ilya sees them blush. He’s an excellent captain, the best in the league. And, according to several highly reputable sources, he has a huge cock and knows exactly how to use it.
So what did he have to be jealous about?
Nothing.
He is not possessive. Not unhinged. Not the type for anything as messy or undignified as jealousy. He is a pillar of stability. A monument to Russian composure.
Which is why he is currently sitting outside Shane’s cottage, nursing a beer, staring at Shane’s open phone and not flinging it into the lake.
His eye twitches as it pings with another message.
“Okay.”
-
Shane is in the shower, completely oblivious.
He's washing the fluids that Ilya put on and in him that very morning. Ilya can hear him humming, happily, carelessly. He sounds like he doesn't have a worry in the world.
The bathroom door is slightly ajar. Steam curls into the hallway, carrying the scent of Shane’s soap. Ilya smells like it too, he’d been using it the whole time he’d been at the cottage. He’s always liked the way Shane smells.
Ilya didn’t join him in the shower this time. He had other plans, he wanted to make Shane lunch instead, and if he stayed to soap Shane's body up, he'd get distracted.
The sandwich he’d prepared sits next to Shane’s phone.
Which was buzzing.
Again.
Ilya's head snapped toward it as the screen lit up. He didn't move his body. Only his neck. He can just see the messages coming through.
*u free tonight?*
Ilya’s left eye gave a tiny, traitorous twitch.
Is he free tonight? Ilya thought, as he downed the rest of his beer.
No. He is busy. Busy being at cottage. With Ilya. Who is also at the cottage. Who was invited. Who fucked Shane so hard he cried this morning.
Buzz.
*miss u ;)*
“Stupid fucking emoji,” Ilya mutters as Shane's phone goes dark again.
He exhales slowly.
This is fine. Shane has friends.
He thinks.
Buzz.
Buzz.
*thinking about your south*
*mouth*
“Fuck.”
Ilya stops being a reasonable person.
He reached across the table, picked up the phone, and entered the password he wasn’t supposed to know. He’d snuck a glance at it the other day when Shane unlocked the screen.
He's sure Shane won't mind.
He scrolled through the messages, and with every flick of his thumb, his "perfectly calm" facade cracked.
He shoves Shane’s sandwich into his mouth to stop himself from screaming.
He doesn't recognise any of the names, must be code like he and Shane use. The messages stretching back weeks, months, fucking years.
*last time was insane I've never cum so hard*
*when are you in town again wanna see ur ass?*
*can’t stop thinking about you*
*send me your dick*
He clicks into a conversation, scrolls, clicks out, opens another. He’s smearing mayonnaise across the screen in his haste.
There were emojis.
Hearts, flames, eggplants, peaches.
And the dick pictures.
So many dicks.
He felt a sudden, violent urge to walk to the lake and throw the phone as far as he could. To drag Shane's stupid smoothie blender out and put it in there and watch it turn to powder. Maybe feed it to one of those dumb birds so it would fly away and never come back. Maybe he'd break it into bite size pieces and consume it himself.
Then, the shower shuts off.
-
Ilya closed the phone and wiped his sleeve over the screen, wiping away his smeared fingerprints. He adjusted it carefully, angling it exactly as he’d found it. Shane would notice otherwise.
Then he sat back and waited.
Hands on his knees. Behind his head. Back again. His knee started bouncing.
A minute later, Shane emerged, barefoot, towel slung low on his hips, skin flushed pink. He always liked his showers to be too hot.
He dragged his fingers through his damp hair and shook it out, droplets scattering. A few landed on Ilya’s lip.
Ilya licked them away.
Shane noticed as he leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of Ilya’s chair, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Hey,” he murmured, breath warm as he nuzzled across Ilya’s face.
Ilya didn’t move. His hands clenched in his lap, stopping himself from dragging Shane down onto him.
He didn’t have to.
Shane did it anyway.
He hitched the towel higher and straddled Ilya’s lap, damp fabric settling right over his cock, which was already half-hard from the moment Shane walked out.
Ilya’s hands slid involuntarily to Shane’s hips, thumbs pressing into the divots there. Shane huffed a soft moan, and Ilya’s cock twitched.
Traitors, he thought.
Shane leaned back slightly, squinting at him, brow furrowing.
“You okay?”
Ilya blinked, grip tightening for a second before he forced it loose.
“Of course. I am peachy.”
Shane tilted his head. They’d barely been coexisting for a few days, and already Ilya felt like Shane could see straight through him, like he could read his pulse under his skin.
He’d never be able to lie to him in the future.
That seemed extremely inconvenient.
Shane cupped his face, forcing eye contact. The crease between his brows smoothed as Ilya’s hands slipped under the towel, fingers dragging along his inner thighs.
“Okay…” Shane sighed, twisting slightly to glance toward the table. “Did you make me lunch?”
Ah.
“I ate it. You take too long in the shower. I was moments from death.”
Shane snorted. “Dramatic.”
“I was fading,” Ilya insisted. “Vision going black. Weak.”
“You’re literally hard right now.”
“Adrenaline.”
Shane rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.
“So I have to starve instead?” Shane asked, voice already breathier.
Ilya’s answer was to pull him in hard, dragging Shane’s hips down against his lap in a slow, filthy grind.
The thick, heavy length of his cock pressed right between Shane’s cheeks, rubbing insistently against his ass through the damp towel.
The wet fabric twisted and bunched uselessly between them, barely hiding anything as Shane slid against the hard bulge straining in Ilya’s pants.
The friction was maddening.
“Mm,” Ilya murmured, lips brushing Shane’s ear. “I’ll provide you sustenance.”
Shane tried to roll his eyes, but the bratty gesture died instantly when Ilya yanked the towel up roughly, bunching the fabric high around his waist.
It stayed on by a thread, but left his ass completely bare and exposed.
Ilya’s hands immediately dug into Shane's ass and spread his cheeks apart, grinding his clothed cock directly against Shane’s naked hole with a low, hungry sound.
Shane’s head tipped back with a broken moan, his body melting as he rocked down desperately into every grind. His cock twitched visibly under the towel, already leaking enough to make the fabric cling.
This Ilya understood. This he was fucking good at.
Who needed communication skills when you had a big cock and a needy, pretty boy ready to hang off it.
He pushed Shane’s chest back until he arched beautifully, one hand palming his tits, pinching and rolling a stuff nipple between his thumb and forefinger, while the other guided his hips, rutting him harder against his dick, the friction filthy and hot.
“You’re going to get dirty again,” Ilya murmured, tutting under his breath.
“Tragic,” Shane breathed, sounding anything but upset.
His eyes fluttered shut, only to snap open wide when Ilya’s hand slid up and curled loosely around his throat, thumb pressing against the visible throb of his pulse.
A raw groan tore out of Shane. He leaned into the grip, grinding harder, rubbing his soaked cock against Ilya’s stomach through the damp towel like he couldn’t help himself.
Ilya could see how much Shane was enjoying this.
The towel was plastered to his cock now, the outline shamelessly visible, the fabric dark and wet with precome.
Ilya knew he could make him come just like this. Of course he could. No one knew Shane’s body better than he did.
But someone else probably knew Shane’s body too.
Maybe even better than him.
The thought hit sharp and sudden.
His hand tightened slightly around Shane’s throat. Shane moaned loudly at the added pressure, a raw, needy sound that went straight to Ilya’s cock.
He trembled and writhed in Ilya’s lap, shamelessly grinding down, already teetering so close to the edge.
Ilya’s other hand clutched the firm globe of Shane’s ass, spreading him open, exposed, to the warm air while his own cock throbbed hard against the thin fabric of his sweats, aching to be buried inside that tight heat again.
“Kotyónochek,” Ilya said, voice lower now, rougher. “You make such pretty noises. Are you close?”
Shane nodded frantically, mouth falling open, a thin sheen of spit gathering at the corner of his lips.
Ilya’s thumb pressed firmly into his jaw, tilting his head back as he imagined forcing those spit-slick lips wide around his co-
Buzz.
The sound cut clean through everything.
Buzz.
“Ilya?”
He hadn’t even realised he’d stopped moving.
Buzz.
“Are you going to answer that?” Ilya asked, his grip still firm around Shane’s throat.
Shane huffed in frustration, hips rocking weakly against him, chasing friction.
“What? No. It’s probably just my parents,” he whined, slapping Ilya’s chest. “Come on.”
Ilya’s fingers tightened on Shane’s jaw, holding him in place with enough force to make him still. His thumb pressed into the soft skin just under his chin, tilting his flushed face down.
“Mm. No. I don’t think it is.”
Shane stilled.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the table. Toward his phone.
His throat bobbed.
“You touched my phone.”
“Yes.”
Their eyes met again.
“You unlocked my phone.”
“Yes.”
Shane shoved his hand away and climbed off his lap, clutching the towel before it could slip. It tented obviously as he stood there, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“You read my messages.”
“I read some messages, yes. You're very popular.”
Shane’s gaze darted between him and the phone.
“I particularly liked the one from a bartender in Montreal,” Ilya added lightly. “I never knew cock was on the menu.”
Shane choked, colour flooding his face, guilt, for a beat, then something sharper.
Defiance.
“Well, it’s rude to snoop through other people’s phones,” he shot back. “Don’t they teach that in Russia?”
“How many are there, Shane?”
“Nope.” Shane pointed at him, grabbed his phone, and turned away. “No.”
Ilya was on his feet immediately, following close enough to crowd him as Shane strode into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.
“Tell me.”
Shane drank, fast, water spilling at the corner of his mouth and trailing down his throat. Ilya’s eyes followed the path, his body reacting before his brain could catch up.
Focus.
Shane set the glass down, wiping his mouth.
“It doesn’t matter, Ilya. I’m here with you.”
“Today,” Ilya snapped. “You are here with me today.”
“Oh my god.”
“What about next week?” Ilya went on, pacing now, agitation building. “Or the week after? Do you have schedule? Is there a roster?”
Shane blinked.
“A roster?” he repeated.
“Yes,” Ilya said, increasingly heated. “Is there a system? Should I take a number? Do I need to book in advance?”
Shane stared at him for a second, then huffed a laugh.
“Oh my god, you’re jealous.”
He stepped forward, not stopping until Shane’s back hit the counter. His hands braced on either side of Shane’s hips, boxing him in.
“I am Russian, Russians do not get jealous. I am asking simple question. Why are there so many?”
Shane blinked, then snapped.
“You ghosted me the first time we fucked. You disappeared for months after I finally-” He cut himself off, swallowing hard, looking away.
“Finally what?”
Shane looked back, chin lifting.
“Finally got fucked.”
Ilya didn’t think that was what he’d been about to say.
“Then you ignored me,” Shane continued. “So yeah. I made some… friends.”
“These are not friends.”
Shane threw his hands up.
“You don’t get to make me feel bad about this! Do you forget I’ve seen the tabloids? All the women you parade around with? What about the men you sneak into your hotel room to fuck when I’m not available?”
Ilya knew he was being a hypocrite.
He didn’t care.
The thought of Shane with anyone else. anyone that wasn't him-
“What was I supposed to do?” Shane demanded. “Sit around thinking about you while you fuck anything that moves?”
“Yes.”
Shane froze.
“What?”
“You should be thinking of me,” Ilya said, like it was obvious. “All the time.”
He slid a leg between Shane’s, pressing in.
“Every time one of your ‘friends’ bent you over, you should have been thinking about how much better it is with me.”
His teeth found the crook of Shane’s jaw, biting down. Shane’s head tipped instinctively, exposing more.
“You don’t own me,” Shane said, voice shaking.
“I do not want to own you,” Ilya lied.
Shane let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh.
“Liar.”
Ilya gripped the back of Shane's thighs and lifted him onto the kitchen counter. Shane's legs immediately wrapped around his waist.
“Would I know any of them?”
Shane ran his hands through Ilya's hair, slow at first, then tugged at the nape, pulling his head back just enough to make him look up.
“Maybe.”
Ilya groaned, more frustrated than anything. “Tell me names.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Hollander.”
“Rozanov.”
Ilya’s eyes narrowed. “Were any of them bigger than me?”
“Fuck off.”
“Answer me.”
“A few were.”
“Fuck off, you lie now.”
“No, I’m not.”
Ilya huffed out a breath, jaw tight. He knew exactly what he was doing. Asking questions he didn’t actually want answers to. But he couldn’t stop. The idea of it sat under his skin, it was impossible to ignore.
“Did they-” he cut himself off with a frustrated noise, tthen tried again, quieter, “Did they fuck you as good as me?”
“No.”
Ilya preened, just a little.
“Did they make you come just on their cock?”
“Yes.”
The pride vanished. His mouth pressed into a thin line.
“Did they kiss you?”
“Of course they did.”
“Where?”
Shane didn’t hesitate. “Everywhere.”
That did it.
Ilya’s grip tightened, determination and anger flashing across his face. He lifted Shane clean off the counter, like he weighed nothing, and carried him across the cottage.
“You are making me mad.”
“You’re the one who went through my phone,” Shane shot back, but he didn't seem that annoyed.
Ilya dropped him onto the couch. Shane bounced once and pushed up onto his elbows, looking unimpressed.
“I’m glad I did now,” Ilya said, voice dropping low. “Have to teach you a lesson.”
“What lesson?”
Ilya stepped in close, crowding him, one hand braced on the back of the couch as the other pushed Shane’s thighs open.
“I’m going to ruin you for every other man, Hollander. By the time I’m done, you won’t even look at anyone else.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. Ilya shoves Shane’s thighs wider, the towel finally slipping free, Ilya throws it down onto the floor. Shane’s cock stood upright, pink and leaking heavily, the tip glistening from all their earlier grinding.
Ilya’s mouth watered.
“Look at you,” he murmured, roughly. One big hand stroked up Shane’s thigh. “So fucking pretty. Already so hard for me. Good boy.”
Shane’s breath hitched, cheeks flushing darker at the praise.
Ilya leaned down and dragged his tongue in a slow, broad stripe up the underside of Shane’s cock before swallowing him deep.
He sucked hard and messy, spit sliding down his chin as he hollowed his cheeks and worked Shane ruthlessly.
His tongue pressed firmly along the underside of Shane’s cock, throat tight as he took him to the hilt.Shane moaned loudly, fingers twisting tight in Ilya’s hair.
Ilya moaned around him in response, he fuckimg loved when Shane did that.
Just as Shane’s thighs began to tremble and he started panting heavily, Ilya pulled off with a wet pop.
“Not yet, kotyónochek,” he growled, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of Shane’s inner thigh.
“You come when I say.”
Shane whined in frustration and tried to kick at him. Ilya caught his ankle with ease, nipped sharply at the delicate bone, and chuckled against his skin.
“You’re doing so well for me.”
He stood, shoving his sweatpants down. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed. Ilya fished the lube from between the couch cushions, there was some hidden in nearly every room of the cottage now, and slicked his fingers.
Ilya hooked one of Shane’s legs over his shoulder, opening him up nicely. He relished the soft, shaky sigh that fell from Shane’s lips as he pushed two fingers in at once, then quickly added a third, stretching him with little warning.
Shane was still loose from that morning, but his hole was puffy and sensitive. He moaned loudly, head thrown back against the cushions as his body adjusted to the sudden fullness. His hand flew down, fingers wrapping tight around Ilya’s wrist like he meant to stop him, only to pull him deeper instead, his hole clenching greedily around the intrusion.
“Fuck. Ilya-”
“That’s it,” Ilya praised, voice low and steady. He twisted his wrist, curling his fingers hard against Shane’s prostate. “Take my fingers so beautifully. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to take me.”
Shane panted, sweat gleaming on his chest, a steady drip of pre-cum sliding down his cock onto his stomach. Ilya drank in every tremor, every desperate sound.
He pulled his fingers free, lined up, and slammed in with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Shane’s mouth fell open in a silent scream, his back bowing sharply off the cushions.
Ilya didn’t give him time to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, hips snapping forward hard and deep, the couch creaking beneath them.
Skin slapped wetly against skin, the sound filthy and rhythmic. Lube and sweat made everything slick; Shane’s cock dragged messy streaks of pre-come across Ilya’s abs with every thrust, strings of it connecting them.
“So good,” Ilya groaned. He wrapped one hand around Shane’s throat again, firm but careful, his thumb stroking possessively over the racing pulse there.
“Such a perfect hole for me. Look how well you take my cock. No one else gets this. No one else will ever make you feel like this.”
His grip tightened slightly. “Say it, Shane.”
“No, only you,” Shane gasped, voice wrecked. “Fuck, Ilya. Only you.”
Ilya groaned in satisfaction and gripped Shane’s thigh, shoving it up toward his chest and folding him in half.
The new angle let him grind deep, dragging the head of his cock right against Shane’s prostate relentlessly.
He leaned down over him, teeth sinking into the slick skin of Shane’s neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to leave bruises. His voice came out rough and filthy against sweat-damp skin as he murmured praise between bites.
“My beautiful boy. So loud for me. Let me hear you. You’re taking everything I give you so fucking well.”
He straightened up and reached between them, stroking Shane’s cock in tight, rough pulls, his thumb smearing a constant leak over the sensitive head..
Shane was shaking, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes as his hips bucked and writhed beneath Ilya.
Suddenly, he pushed Ilya’s hand away.
“Wait… please,” he begged, voice wrecked. “I want to come like this. Just fuck me. Make me come on your cock.”
Ilya’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head. He fucking loved when Shane came untouched, when all it took was Ilya’s cock buried deep inside him.
“Come for me,” Ilya commanded, his voice rough with restraint. “Be good and come.”
Shane shattered with a broken cry, his cock pulsing as he came hard between them. Hot stripes of come landed across his own stomach and chest, some even reaching his collarbones.
His hole clamped down tight around Ilya’s cock, pulsing rhythmically and milking him with every spurt of his cock.
Ilya fucked him through it with short, erratic thrusts, growling as he chased his own release.
Finally, he buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural groan, flooding Shane with pulse after pulse.
They stayed locked together, panting, bodies slick with sweat, come, and lube. Ilya loved staying inside Shane like this, buried deep even after he’d finished. It was his favorite place in the world.
The couch was ruined, dark, wet spots spreading beneath them, fabric soaked.
Shane let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh as he glanced down. “Jesus, Ilya… this is going to stain.”
Ilya hummed contentedly, pressing slow, lazy kisses along Shane’s collarbone. His tongue flicked out to lick a streak of come from Shane’s chest while he remained buried deep inside him.
His hand stroked over the mess between them, his thumb massaging his come into Shane's skin.
“Good,” he murmured against damp skin. “Maybe you’ll remember who you belong to every time you sit here.”
Shane laughed again and shook his head, then grabbed a fistful of Ilya’s hair and tugged him down into a deep, messy kiss. When they broke apart, he muttered,
“Fuck you. You’re cleaning this.”
Ilya hummed happily and deliberately wiped his cum-slick hand across the top of the couch with zero shame.
Shane made a noise of pure disgust. “Oh my god, you’re fucking gross,” he groaned, shoving at Ilya’s chest.
“Shh. I’ll clean it later,” Ilya murmured, completely shameless. He collapsed his full weight onto Shane, pinning him down to stop the squirming. “Let me bask first.”
Shane eventually melted into the cushions, his body going lax beneath Ilya’s weight. His eyes, however, stayed fixed on the mess they’d made with a furrowed, grumpy little frown.
Ilya watched him quietly, chest tight with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sex.
He was pretty sure he’d never been more in love.
-
“Have you brought anyone else here?” Ilya asked, breaking the comfortable quiet that had settled over them. His voice was still edged with accusation, lips brushing against Shane’s nipple as he spoke. His tongue flicked out, teasing the hardening bud.
Shane let out a slow breath through his nose, fingers sliding gently into Ilya’s damp hair.
“No,” he said softly, tilting Ilya’s head up to force eye contact. “Only you.”
That did it.
All the tension drained from Ilya’s shoulders at once. He smiled, soft, relieved, almost embarrassingly pleased with himself, and collapsed forward, curling into Shane’s chest like he belonged there.
He buried his face in the warm curve of Shane’s neck with a deep, contented sigh, arms tight around him.
For about three seconds, everything was perfect.
Then Shane’s phone starts ringing from the kitchen.
It stops.
Starts again.
Ilya didn’t move, but Shane felt the exact moment his brain snapped back online.
“It’s probably Cliff,” Shane said casually, one hand still stroking slowly up and down Ilya’s back. “He usually hits me up during the off-season.”
Ilya lifts his head slowly. “Cliff… Marlow?”
“Yeah.”
Ilya blinks once.
Then again.
“…my Cliff?”
Shane snorts. “He’s not yours.”
Ilya is off him in an instant.
It’s impressive, really.
One second he melted into Shane like a housecat, and the next, in one fluid, impressively athletic motion, he pushed himself up, then pinned Shane back into the couch with both hands planted firmly on his chest.
His eyes were wide with genuine betrayal.
“Don’t you say those words,” Ilya says sharply. “Cliff Marlow. My forward… has fucked you?”
There’s a long pause.
Shane tries very hard to look innocent. Fails immediately.
“Yes,” he says. “Many times.”
Ilya’s eye twitches.
The phone buzzed again.
“I will kill him.”
Shane pushed Ilya off him and rolled them until Ilya was flat on his back. Then he straddled and settled his weight comfortably over Ilya’s hips.
“It might not be him,” Shane says casually.
Ilya frowns immediately, suspicion already sharpening in his eyes.
“It might be Peter. He’s my neighbour. I feed his cat when he’s away.” Ilya lets out a small sigh of relief, tension easing out of his shoulders.
Shane hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head.
“He usually buys me dinner and then fucks me as thanks.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“What?” Ilya says flatly.
Shane doesn’t even look at him properly anymore, just stares past him like he’s reviewing a mental list of options.
“Or it could be Simon. The barista at my local café.” A small, evil smile tugged at his lips. “He has very talented fingers.”
Ilya feels something in his chest go dangerously still. He thinks he might actually pass out from the rising pressure of rage inside him.
“…Will you kill all of them?” Shane asks, finally glancing down at him.
“Yes,” Ilya answers instantly, without hesitation.
Shane snorts. He shifted off Ilya, rising gracefully to his feet. Golden sunlight streamed through the windows, catching on his naked skin and bathing him in a warm, glowing light as he stretched his arms overhead.
Ilya’s mouth went dry at the sight.
Shane smirked, clearly aware of the effect, and started walking toward the kitchen.
And his phone.
“I’d prefer you not in jail, Rozanov,” he called over his shoulder.
Ilya scrambled up from the couch in a panicked rush, nearly tripping over the discarded towel.
“Do not answer that,” he demanded, following hot on Shane’s heels.
Shane ignored him completely. He grabbed his phone and kept walking, pushing open the sliding doors and stepping out onto the deck, heading toward the lake.
The phone buzzed again in his hand, loud, insistent, and extremely annoying.
Ilya stopped a few steps behind him, shoulders tense with tension.
He has no right to tell Shane what to do, but he doesn't know what he'll do if Shane answers that phone.
Shane doesn’t even hesitate.
He drew his arm back and hurled the phone in a perfect, graceful arc.
It sailed through the air and disappeared into the lake with a soft, satisfying splash.
“There,” Shane said, dusting his hands together like he’d simply taken out the trash. “Problem solved.”
“Ilya stared at him, stunned. “You—”
“Now,” Shane cut him off, already turning back toward the cottage, completely unbothered and still gloriously naked, “you promised me lunch.”
For a moment, Ilya just stares at the ripples spreading across the lake, the last traces of Shane’s phone disappearing beneath the surface.
Then he laughs, loud, disbelieving, helplessly fond.
And before Shane can take even two more steps, Ilya catches him, hauls him effortlessly over his shoulder, and gives his bare ass a playful slap.
Shane yelps, and kicks Ilya in the thigh, and pinches his ass. Ilya just laughs, delirious, and kisses the side of Shane's thigh.
“You’re insufferable,” Shane muttered, still hanging upside down over his shoulder.
Ilya paused at the doorway, gave his bare ass a happy little pat, and grinned against his thigh.
“Yes, but I’m your favourite,” he said, "And no one else gets to have you.” He wiggled his shoulder. “Now you say it back.”
Shane snorted. “I threw my phone in a lake for you, didn’t I?”
“Exactly. We’re in love. Keep up, Hollander."