Shane thought this was probably a bad idea at the time, but he’d developed a pretty thick tolerance for those. He was used to it. Four years into the habit of him, a sprung-up shit situation born in are-you-fucking-stupid city. With anyone else, it would have been a one-time crudely scratched itch. Shane couldn't stop digging his nails in, again and again and again.

Whatever amount of red lines, pretty much every one of Rozanov’s idea was a bad one. Longterm exposure averaged god-awful into understandable. Doable, even. Done.

There were a lot of things Shane hadn’t thought about. If his skull had been anything but tooth-sunk gum stretched thin and mid-mastication, and honey, all that honey because they had the pool right there to ruin after - if he’d had a functional brain at the time, Shane would have noticed the backyard treeline wasn’t an impenetrable wall. Was not basically the same as being inside, Hollander. So, so private. You will like this. Shane would have craned his neck and maybe found the particular angle the fir faded to sheer, how it kind of carved a perfect window for the hideous Greek revival next door. He would have said no to the thing with the whipped cream and actually meant it.