Chapter Text
Shane wakes up to a sharp crash and someone’s loud voice echoing through the stairwell.
9:20 a.m.
Sunday.
His only day off this week. Fucking hell.
“Blyad’!” someone yells from the hallway, followed by another dull thud and the scrape of something heavy being dragged across the floor.
Then silence.
Shane freezes, face buried in his pillow, and allows himself a tiny, fragile hope that it’s over. That the noise has stopped and he can sink back into sleep.
No such luck.
He lies there for a few more minutes, twisting restlessly, counting the cracks in the ceiling and getting angrier by the second, until he finally gives up and drags himself out of bed.
This building has soundproofing straight from hell.
Half a year ago, Shane moved in and spent an entire month listening to the hipsters upstairs scream at each other in what sounded like Hungaria or something close to it before making up romantically enough to rattle the glasses on his table. They never said hello, tossed cigarette butts off the balcony, and kept mixing up organic waste with general trash. Shane endured it. And endured it. And then endured it some more.
Once, he even worked up the nerve to go talk to them like a normal human being. Put on a hoodie and sweatpants, laced up his sneakers—
And the noise stopped exactly while he was tying the laces.
That was the end of his confidence. The conversation never happened.
And now, apparently, the show “How to Finally Drive Shane Hollander Insane” has just launched a brand-new season.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” a voice snaps from the stairwell.
Male. Sharp. Thick accent.
Shane pauses.
Hungarian neighbors making a comeback?
For the first time in a long while, Shane feels the urge to be brave. To march out there and kick the ass of whoever dared to ruin his sleep. On his one — his only — day off. No shift at Blue Moon. No shitty coffee. No painfully polite small talk with Hammer. No strained smiles.
He deserves this Sunday.
Quiet. Peaceful. A hot bath with his Lush sea salt scrub. Dumb survival videos on YouTube.
But—
“This is a complete fucking disaster,” the same voice adds, like it’s reading Shane’s thoughts out loud.
Then comes a long, grating ringtone that drills straight into Shane’s skull.
That does it.
He jumps up, pulls on the sweatpants neatly folded over the chair, grabs a T-shirt — he really should do laundry; he hasn’t had time all week with those extra shifts and before he can change his mind, heads for the door.
The stairwell greets him with a cold draft and the unmistakable feeling of intrusion.
The apartment door across the hall is wide open.
Chaos spills out into the shared space: boxes, boxes, more boxes. Black trash bags. Random clothes. Cables everywhere. The floor is so cluttered it’s impossible to pass. A guitar case leans against the wall, a combo amp abandoned beside it like someone dropped it mid-journey.
And right in the middle of all that mess—
A neat, almost touchingly well-kept pot of aloe vera.
Shane hears footsteps on the stairs. That same sharp voice again.
A guy steps into the hallway, leather jacket on, another plant pot in his hands, phone wedged between shoulder and ear.
Well.
New neighbors.
Straight from heaven.
Or hell.
“Go to hell,” the guy says, as if confirming Shane’s thoughts. “I said no. No, I’m not doing that. Rehearsal tomorrow. That’s it. Bye.”
He sets the pot down without noticing Shane at all.
Shane shifts awkwardly and takes a steadying breath.
Yeah. The guy is stupidly attractive. Broad shoulders. Lean muscle. And that—
That ass.
Light brown curls. And Jesus Christ, those cheekbones.
Shane is definitely, absolutely going to be rude to this beautiful asshole who just ruined the only perfect morning he’s had in the last three weeks.
“Uh… hi,” Shane starts.
The guy finally turns.
His gaze slides over Shane in silence, slow and unreadable. Shane shifts from foot to foot, scrambling for his words.
“You must be my new neighbor,” he continues. “I’m Shane.”
“Yeah,” the guy replies.
Even that single word carries the accent. Strong. Eastern European, for sure. No mistaking it.
Shane frowns slightly, trying to look serious. In control. Like a person who has things handled.
He does.
And then he hears his own voice:
“Do you need help? I can—”
“No,” the guy cuts him off sharply.
Shane exhales, blinking.
Without looking at him again, the stranger presses the elevator button. Apparently, the boxes aren’t done yet.
“Okay, I just... there are a lot of boxes and—”
The devil finally lifts his gaze again, scanning Shane from head to toe.
“Go back to sleep,” he says suddenly. “It’s Sunday.”
And presses the elevator button again.
“Right. Nice meeting you.”
“Yeah,” the new neighbor mutters, barely audible, stepping into the elevator.
It pisses Shane off more than a simple no ever could.
The tone.
The command.
Go back to sleep.
“Asshole,” Shane thinks as he heads back into his apartment.
Yeah. Looks like the next chapter in How Shane Slowly Loses His Mind by New Year’s starts today.
Downstairs, the front door slams.
And the neighbor’s voice echoes up the stairwell:
“Stop fucking calling me!”
***
The noise eventually dies down. More or less.
Still irritated, Shane pours the sad remains of a coffee bag into his moka pot — shit, he really needs to start thinking about grocery shopping for the week — when his phone rings.
Oh, come on.
Who else could it be?
Hayden.
The ever-so-respected Hayden. Manager of Blue Moon, the coffee shop where Shane has been trying, for the past few months, to build his life brick by brick. Brew coffee. Smile at everyone. Especially at the ones who will never smile back.
Hayden, light of my life, please don’t tell me—
“Shane, thank God!” Hayden rushes out the moment Shane picks up. “Lily got food poisoning or something, and we desperately need someone here right now!”
“Hayden, I—” Shane clears his throat awkwardly.
This would be his third extra shift in the last three weeks.
Third.
Oh no, Bard caught a virus.
I can’t today, I urgently need to—
“Shane. Shane, please, please, please,” Hayden barrels on. “I’ll clean the espresso machine for a whole month.”
A lie.
“Shane, be a friend!”
“I know I’m asking a lot,” Hayden exhales.
Shane closes his eyes.
Yep. This is it. The manipulation. The one he will, once again, fall for.
“But only you can help.”
“Okay,” Shane says weakly. “Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“You’re the best! I owe you one.”
Yeah. Sure you do.
“It’s fine,” Shane mutters, hanging up.
Goodbye, hot bath with a Lush bath bomb.
An hour later, as he heads out for yet another unplanned shift at Blue Moon, the hallway is spotless. No boxes. No trash bags. No chaos.
Quiet and clean.
Shane exhales, satisfied. He likes order.
Only from the apartment next door comes the soft, rhythmic strumming of a guitar.
He makes a point not to listen too closely. Not to admit (to himself, at least) that he kind of likes it.
And just like that, the story “How to Drive Shane Hollander to the Edge” gets its own musical score.
Thanks a lot.
***
The second run-in with the neighbor happens on Wednesday.
Shane is trying to juggle his mom’s worried voice on the phone and wrestling his apartment door shut at the same time. The stupid lock has started sticking.
With his free ear, he catches the sound of the door across the hall creaking open.
“Sweetheart, do you have any medicine?” Yuna chirps into the phone.
Shane exhales. He’s about two seconds away from exploding from the sheer amount of noise and irritation, none of which is actually his mom’s fault. The key gets stuck halfway in the lock, and he twists it again. And again.
“Mom, I’m fine,” he says, forcing the words out. “I really am. I feel better, okay? Just a bit of a cold. November in Montreal, you know how it is.”
The key finally gives.
“Let me come over, and we can—”
“No,” he says, carefully measured.
What he really wants to do is howl.
He is, genuinely, hovering somewhere near desperation, but he will never admit that out loud. Montreal November hit his immune system hard, and he spent all of yesterday evening congested and red-eyed. So far, not from crying.
But hey. New day, new chapter, right?
The same story, though. Always the same narrative.
Shit, Shane, I’m so sorry, I can’t cover your shift. I’ve got… (insert any useless bullshit).
I would love to, but… (insert any useless bullshit).
Any bullshit at all — never mind the fact that he, too, has some kind of life — never seems to count when it comes to Shane.
“It’s all good, mom. I really have to run. Shift’s till five. I’ll call you later, okay?”
He finally shuts the door.
“Shane—”
“Love you!”
He hangs up and lets out a long breath.
And when he turns around—
The new neighbor is already there, having called the elevator, watching him almost without blinking.
Shane shifts awkwardly on the spot.
His first instinct is to take the stairs. Avoid the elevator. Avoid this whole situation entirely. But he’s not a coward, okay? He deals with rude people all the time. He can handle this too.
The elevator arrives.
Thirty seconds of awkwardness. Polite nods. Have a good day.
That’s it.
They step inside, and some absolutely godawful music starts playing. Apparently, one of the neighbors decided elevator rides needed to be less unbearable.
Cute idea.
Terrible execution.
Up close, Shane finally gets a proper look at him.
Holy fucking shit—he’s wearing eyeliner.
Shane is ready to die on the spot. Dark liner, smudged just right along the lower lash line, looks painfully, unfairly perfect on him. His curls are still going in every possible direction. A small hoop glints in his left ear.
Shane forgets how to breathe.
The guy is unbearably attractive.
And, judging by everything so far, unbearably himself.
He lifts his gaze—and doesn’t look away.
Studies Shane’s face impatiently, tracks every movement. Shane swallows and awkwardly adjusts his hair. Fuck. That was bad. That was very bad. Way too obvious.
Which is ridiculous, because he is not nervous.
Their eyes meet, and the guy smirks.
“Shane,” he says, the accent thick, like he’s testing the name, feeling it out in his mouth.
He remembers it.
The name Shane tossed out quickly, barely audible, in the middle of moving-day chaos.
“We didn’t really get introduced,” he continues. “My name’s Ilya. Rozanov.”
“Oh. Uh. Yeah. I’m Shane.”
“Yes,” Ilya laughs. “I got that part.”
And the award for the most awkward communication skills goes to—
“Shane Hollander.”
The elevator doors slide open on the first floor, and Shane practically bolts out.
“Who picked this music?” he hears Ilya call after him.
Shane lets himself smile.
“Oh, seriously,” he throws back. “Have a good one.”
The neighbor doesn’t reply. Maybe that’s just how Slavs are.
They step outside and head off in opposite directions, not looking back at each other again.
***
“Ohhh, Shaney, are you sick?”
The hipster coffee shop Blue Moon, two blocks from his apartment, greets Shane with Hammer’s syrupy voice — his replacement for the shift.
“Nothing serious,” Shane says.
Hammer sighs and gives his shoulder a friendly pat before starting to gather his things — he’s done for the day. There’s something about the way Hammer behaves that Shane can never quite pin down. Polite, technically within boundaries… but with quirks.
Shane knows Hammer is openly gay, and for some reason, he doesn’t mind that at all. Maybe it’s the light, almost accidental touches. The shoulder pats. The brief, nearly imperceptible brushes of fingers — imperceptible, except Shane feels them. The affectionate nicknames.
Kitten.
Shaney.
Baby.
And yes, it’s kind of… flirting? Probably.
In short, all the things Shane is famously terrible at. Socially awkward, chronically unsure. He could, theoretically, use the practice but Hammer is not his ideal candidate. He’s nice. He doesn’t cross lines (not really). He’s funny, easy to talk to. Sometimes he throws out things like, “Oh! Did you hear they opened a Ferris wheel downtown? We could—” and Shane either pretends not to hear, deflects with a weak joke, or smiles softly in a way that suggests he simply doesn’t understand.
“Drink more fluids,” Hammer advises. “Tea. Warm water. Paracetamol packets.”
Oh, thank you so much, Shane wants to say. Instead, he smiles and nods. His favorite tactic — changing the subject — almost never fails.
“Yeah, thanks. How was your shift?”
“All good. Pretty calm. We ran out of Peruvian beans, just so you know.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
Hammer pats his shoulder one last time.
“Well, I’m off,” he says. “Get better. See you tomorrow!”
Once he’s gone and the café finally empties out — the lunch rush will hit in about half an hour — Shane lets himself breathe.
And immediately stops.
Because now he can hear the playlist again.
That playlist. On repeat. The same songs. Over and over. Hayden, who put it together, clearly has issues with his hearing.
Yes, Shane knows how hard it is to get a license to play music in a public space. Yes, it’s a bureaucratic nightmare.
But fuck.
Is this what Hayden is going to dance on?
The bones of a young, promising twenty-four-year-old Shane Hollander, who moved to conquer Montreal half a year ago?
Shane shakes the thought away.
The coffee shop is temporary. Just a way to pay rent. What he actually came here for—that—Shane spent all summer and the beginning of fall chasing. Auditions. Small theaters. Independent projects. Commercials. Cold readings in freezing rooms with plastic chairs. He memorized lines on the metro, ate on the go, and believed in better things.
Then October hit.
Extra shifts. Covering for others. And at some point, the energy ran out. No anger left. No fire. Not even the will to check his email.
“It’s fine,” he tells himself. “This isn’t the end. I’m not done yet.”
“Hi!”
Shane turns at the sound of a girl’s voice. She drops by the café from time to time. Mila, he thinks. Always paralyzed by indecision.
And honestly? He gets it.
“Hi, Mila! What are we feeling today?” Shane smiles.
“Um, a latte, please. With almond milk?” She hesitates. “Shit. Maybe oat. Although it messed up my stomach last week…” She winces, then waves it off. “Almond. Let’s do almond.”
“Great choice,” Shane nods, heading for the espresso machine.
Another mournful chorus drifts out of Hayden’s playlist.
“You always have such great music here!” Mila says sincerely. “I love it.”
“Yeah, it’s impossible to escape,” Shane agrees. “I’ll be sure to pass that on to our DJ.”
***
Shane gets home around nine, exhausted and completely wrung out.
The shift was relatively calm. Still, his mom was right—he’s falling apart. By the time he kicks off his shoes, he finally gives in and texts Hayden that there’s no way he can make it to work tomorrow.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Hayden: [November 13, 8:25PM]: 🥲🥲🥲
“Yeah, of course, Shane, sweetheart. Get well soon. Do you need anything?” he mutters under his breath as he steps into the building.
The lights flick on as he reaches the stairwell. There’s no sound coming from Ilya’s apartment — no guitar, no distracted strumming like there’s been every day since the move-in.
Honestly?
Thanks for that.
What he does notice is a neat cardboard bag placed right in front of his door.
He’s not expecting a delivery.
It could almost be a mistake, if not for the letters written in thick black marker across the front.
Shane.
Yuna’s motherly instincts probably couldn’t take it anymore. She must’ve ordered something for him. I should call her before bed, Shane thinks, but when he opens the bag, he starts to suspect it isn’t from his mom after all.
Inside: a bottle of milk.
And… a jar of honey?
That’s an odd combination.
The answer is waiting at the very bottom of the bag — a small scrap of paper with a short message written on it:
Mix them. Drink it warm.
Always helped when I was a kid.
The handwriting is rough. Block letters. Like the person isn’t writing so much as carving the words out one by one.
It doesn’t look like his mom’s.
Shane glances around the empty landing, and for a brief second, a chill runs through him.
Because someone knows he’s sick.
Someone knows he’s home.
And someone maybe cares?
That part is questionable.
It’s both comforting and faintly unsettling.
There’s something strange about the note. And somehow, touching.
Always helped when I was a kid.
Shane was raised on antibiotics at the first sign of a sniffle. No folk remedies. No warm milk miracles.
Trying not to get fired.
Trying to help everyone else.
Trying to stay in touch with friends.
Trying to remember why he even came to Montreal in the first place—
Shane is so tired.
Completely drained.
And the simplest thing in all this chaos is coming home, peeling off his rain-soaked November clothes, and following the advice on the note. Heating the damn milk. Mixing it with honey.
He drinks a full mug.
And by morning, he actually feels better.
***
“Oh. This is a nice song,” Ilya says.
My moon, my man, so changeable, and
Such a lovable lamb for me
The music spills from the elevator speakers unexpectedly softly. For a moment, Shane is almost ready to forgive this building everything else.
“Did it get here by accident?” he asks with a smile, squinting slightly.
Ilya shrugs.
“Aist podbrosil. Stork brought.”
“A stork?”
“Sometimes it brings good things,” the neighbor adds vaguely.
“Whatever that means,” Shane replies as they step out of the elevator. “Have a good day.”
“Yeah. Don’t get bored, Hollander,” there’s a hint of a smile in his voice.
They part ways, as usual, heading in opposite directions.
Over the past two weeks, Shane has exchanged more words with his neighbor across the hall than with all the other residents combined. It’s even turned into a small routine: they ride the elevator together at 8:50 a.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
(Not that Shane is marking those days in red on his calendar. Why would he? Obviously.)
Shane heads to his morning shift. Ilya goes for a run.
That kind of ass doesn’t build itself. Forget it.
Facts about Ilya Rozanov, as learned by Shane:
Ilya Rozanov is from Moscow.
He’s been living in Canada for two years.
He probably works somewhere, but his main passion is music.
He’s a guitarist and the lead singer in a band.
He smells faintly — pleasantly — of vanilla and pepper, nothing overdone.
He plays with Shane’s name however he likes.
He looks at him too intently and speaks boldly—often in Russian.
He hates the elevator playlist just as much as Shane does.
And he never. Never. Never. wishes Shane a good day back.
Ilya Rozanov has strong, steady hands, and Shane keeps catching himself wanting to touch them.
And from a single look, his knees go just a little weak.
Now a fact about Shane:
He finds himself unexpectedly drawn to that Russian restraint. The seriousness. The sense that Ilya never says more than necessary.
Yes, Ilya Rozanov is objectively very attractive.
Shane isn’t blind.
In any case, Ilya Rozanov is most likely straight, and there’s nothing there for Shane. He understands that. Tries not to think about it too much, especially since working at the coffee shop continues to drain all his energy and time. There’s simply nothing left over for anything else.
His personal stats for the past month are… bleak:
Acting auditions: 0
Proper, balanced dinners: 4 (and the fucking broccoli burned more than once)
Sex: zero. None. Zilch.
Hanging out with friends: once (if that awkward between-shifts lunch with Hammer counts, the one where Hammer smiled like a deranged clown)
Times Hayden asked him to cover an extra shift (and Shane didn’t say no): 5
Times Ilya Rozanov smirked and said “Shane Hollander” (and Shane nearly ceased to exist as a person): 4
Four.
But Shane is a grown adult. He can get his life under control.
So today’s decision is simple:
He’s going on a date with a stranger.
And he’s going to have fun.
Interpret that however you want.
***
He is absolutely, unequivocally not having fun.
The guy is a disaster.
They’re wedged into a stuffy corner of the bar, and Shane is finishing his second ginger ale. A little more of this, and he’s going to fucking explode.
Luca is a digital nomad from Italy who’s traveled to thirty countries. Sounds impressive on paper. In reality, people like that are usually unbearable bores.
Case in point.
He talks about himself nonstop, with a smug, slightly condescending smile, and between stories casually nudges Shane’s leg with the toe of his boot, confident the rest of the evening is already a done deal.
Shane’s stomach knots.
“Oooh, are you local?”
“Ohhh, right, Ottawa. Yes. I once got so drunk in Ottawa that—”
Another story about spending the night in a monastery in Thailand.
Jesus.
So many insights.
“Once I took part in a sacrifice ritual. It changed my life by three hundred and sixty degrees.”
“So… that means you ended up exactly where you started?” Shane asks.
Luca laughs. “Ha. Smart boy?”
No.
This is Shane sacrificing his evening.
He’s stuck in a suffocating corner of a bar, listening to pretentious, self-satisfied nonsense from a man who hasn’t asked him a single question all night.
And suddenly, Shane feels it. A clean, sharp surge of anger.
Something bright and undeniable. Something he’s been swallowing for months while trying to be the perfect neighbor. The perfect employee.
He finishes his second can and sets it down on the table with a dry clack.
“You know,” he says, “I should go. It was… nice meeting you.”
“Already?” Luca smiles flirtatiously. “So soon?”
“Yeah. A lot to do.”
“Leave me your number?” Luca leans in. “We could make this acquaintance even more pleasant sometime.”
Shane’s mouth twists into a crooked smile.
“Oh, I’m deliberately limiting my pleasures,” he says, unable to stop himself. His voice turns sharp. “Like a Thai monk. You know. So many insights.”
***
When Shane gets home, voices drift from the landing — a man’s and a woman’s. That’s new.
His hot neighbor, Ilya Rozanov, is very obviously tipsy, fumbling with his lock while a loudly laughing girl is practically hanging off him. She’s beautiful. Dark skin. Glitter dusted across her cheeks. Curly hair. Confidence in every movement. The kind of woman who takes up space and never apologizes for it.
“Ilyaaaa!” she sings, laughing. “Nu ty durak!” You’re such a fool!
So that’s how his name sounds on someone else’s lips. Easy. Familiar. Almost intimate.
The thought hits Shane like a bruise, sharp, aching, and somehow sweet at the same time.
After a shitty date. Tonight, of all nights.
Here’s Ilya—relaxed, laughing, eyeliner still perfectly smudged. And clearly not alone. Clearly not for Shane.
That’s who’s having sex tonight, Shane thinks.
That’s whose night won’t end with an empty apartment and steamed broccoli.
“Oooooh, Shane Hollander…” Ilya says cheerfully when he spots him.
Shane nods.
“Svetlana, podozhdi sekundochku!” Ilya switches to Russian. “Sejchas, sejchas.”. Svetlana, wait a second. Just a moment.
Shane catches her name in the flow of Russian and English.
Svetlana.
That’s what Slavic goddesses are called.
“Aaaaa, Shaaane Hooooollander!” Svetlana drawls drunkenly, giggling as she looks him over — ironic, but not unkind. “Kakoj milashka, Ilya,” she adds playfully. Such a cutie.
If only Shane understood what any of that meant.
“Tishe,” Ilya mutters. Quiter.
“Have a good evening,” Shane says, giving them a small nod before slipping into his apartment and closing the door.
He knows Ilya Rozanov will smirk at that particular wish.
He just can’t prove it.
“Davaj, pojdem-pojdem! Sveta, spat’! Napilas’, vedi sebja prilichno!”. Let’s go and have some rest, Sveta. You’re drunk, behave yourself.
The shouts and wild laughter bleed through the door as Shane leans back against it, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds.
Then he kicks off his shoes, sends them flying down the hallway, and stares at his reflection in the mirror — anxious, searching.
You’re fine, Shane.
You’ll be okay.
Maybe not right now.
Just keep going.
It’s worth it.
Right.
Now for the broccoli.
***
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya Rozanov smiles.
Wednesday. Their usual morning ritual, standing almost nose to nose in the elevator. Today it feels even closer. Or maybe Shane is just seeing what he wants to see.
“If you were in charge,” Ilya asks, “what track would you add to this stupid playlist?”
Wow.
He’s actually… making conversation.
“I don’t know,” Shane shrugs modestly. “Something instrumental. Simple. We’re in an elevator, not a club.”
Rozanov wrinkles his nose in displeasure, though the amused curve of his mouth doesn’t disappear.
“How boring,” he says. “You’re boring.”
“Boring,” Shane rolls his eyes. “You got a better idea?”
“I’d put on something sexy,” Ilya replies easily. “Like my ass.”
He breaks into a satisfied grin when he notices the faint blush creeping up Shane’s cheeks.
“The only thing that can compete with it,” he adds, “is my music.”
“Don’t overestimate yourself,” Shane shoots back, trying to sound sharp, but yeah, he can’t stop smiling.
And honestly, he wants to stop. Wants to ask Rozanov about his music. About everything. Wants them to walk in the same direction, pass right by work, and sit on some park bench for hours.
Wishful thinking.
“Maybe someday,” Ilya says.
They’re already stepping out of the building when Shane hears him call after him, clearly a little mocking, but warm all the same:
“Have a good day, Hollander,” the neighbor throws over his shoulder, the Russian accent thick on the goodbye.
Is Rozanov flirting with him?
Or is he imagining things?
***
This shift, Shane and Hammer are working together, and Shane is doing his absolute best to stay friendly. While there are no customers, Hammer chats nonstop about everything under the sun and very carefully — very clumsily — tries to extract bits and pieces of Shane’s personal life.
“Oh my God, when I was thirteen, I replied to every single Taylor Swift tweet,” Hammer laughs. “Can you imagine? Did you like Taylor?”
(Shane, if we’re being honest, preferred Harry Styles. And when the world survived the predicted apocalypse in 2012, his personal end came the moment Harry started dating Taylor Swift. That was when his fangirl heart truly nearly broke.)
“Ugh, I don’t get how people drink coffee with alternative milk,” Hammer grimaces after another customer leaves. “What kind of fake happiness is a banana milk latte? Like... are you serious?”
“Listening, but not judging,” Shane shrugs.
And then, suddenly, he thinks of the bottle of milk left anonymously outside his door.
So… theoretically, that awkward attempt at caretaking could have been from Hammer?
He tries to vaguely recall Hammer’s handwriting — the way he signs customers’ cups — but gets distracted when the song he hates most starts playing over the speakers.
“Ohhh, I love this track!” Hammer exclaims happily.
Shane’s eye starts twitching. For real.
A new customer saves him from yet another painfully awkward conversation about music. Shane pastes on his polite work smile as the doorbell jingles and—
Walking into the café is none other than his deeply respected, instantly-awkward-making, ridiculously sexy neighbor: Ilya Rozanov.
He doesn’t look like a coffee person. Maybe Shane is stereotyping Slavs, but don’t they usually prefer something stronger? Something with at least a hint of cognac?
Ilya’s eyeliner is back. A worn gray leather jacket hangs off his shoulders, a guitar case slung over one of them. Looks like someone has a gig tonight, which probably means Shane won’t get any quiet strumming from the apartment next door this evening.
He won’t be sad about it.
(Okay. Maybe just a little.)
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya lights up when he sees him.
What a surprise.
“Hey,” Shane smiles. “Ilya Rozanov.”
“You’re literally surrounded by shitty music, huh?” Ilya tilts his head.
“Can’t argue with that,” Shane laughs. “You know, a couple weeks ago I got a new neighbor with a guitar. His music could easily take first place on that list.”
Ilya rolls his eyes, still smiling.
This feels like flirting.
Right?
This is flirting.
“You’re lying,” Rozanov says simply.
“So what’ll you have?” Shane asks — gentle reminder: he is, in fact, at work. And Hammer is watching them very closely, like he’s trying to connect invisible dots.
“I…” For the first time, there’s a flicker of uncertainty in Ilya’s voice. “I don’t really know much about coffee.”
And what else brought you here? Fate? A detailed Google Maps review praising hot baristas?
“Mm.”
“Recommend something,” Ilya says. “Something interesting. Not as boring as you.”
Boring.
Shane smiles at the word. For the past couple of weeks, it’s been permanently attached to his name whenever Ilya addresses him. And that, too, is a kind of… flirting?
Either that, or Shane just really enjoys insults.
But let’s be honest, coming from Ilya Rozanov’s beautifully curved lips, even dog shit would sound like a sacred prayer.
“Something sweet, but simple?” Shane suggests. “Caramel latte, just not too much syrup.”
Ilya grimaces.
“Or…” Shane adds, “I’d personally go for something more acidic. Citrusy. A bumble.”
“Bumble?” Ilya repeats, confused.
“Espresso with orange juice. Classic version gets a drop of caramel syrup. I like it.”
“Ohhh, Shane, a bumble?” Hammer suddenly jumps in, sounding like a connoisseur. “Unexpected from a classic filter coffee fan.”
Shane barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. Ilya shoots them a long, unreadable look.
“Fine,” Ilya says at last. “I’ll take that. Just without the caramel, God forbid.”
Shane makes the coffee while Ilya silently types something on his phone. Hammer—Mr. I Know Shane Hollander So Well—has the good sense to vanish and busy himself slicing sandwich ingredients.
Shane isn’t actually a filter coffee fan at all. He praised it offhand once, back when he and Lily were testing new Colombian beans with soft notes of vanilla and strawberry. It was good — sure — but more the exception than the rule.
Truly (yes, coffee purists, feel free to choke on this), he prefers something gentler. A hot bumble with orange or grapefruit juice and a hint of bitter spices, perfect for fall.
And for some reason, he really wants Ilya to like it too.
That irrational need to please.
Maybe he’ll smile again.
The cup lands on the counter, and Ilya finally pockets his phone.
“Bumble for Rozanov,” Shane announces.
“You do last names here?” Ilya laughs.
“For special guests,” Shane says. “Personalized service.”
“Oh.” Ilya’s lips form a small o. “Special.”
Flirting?
Or not flirting?
He’s straight.
Svetlana is his girlfriend.
Ilya takes a sip and dramatically pulls a face.
“So this is what the trendy youth of Montreal drinks every day?” he asks.
“Yep,” Shane says. “And now you’re one of them.”
Ilya takes another big sip and winces again.
“God forbid,” he says, and Shane can’t quite tell how much of it is an act.
“Have a good day!” Hammer calls from behind the counter as Ilya heads for the door.
Shane feels genuinely offended.
That awkward politeness is their thing. A local joke. And it’s just been stolen unwittingly, but rudely.
“Oh, absolutely,” Ilya throws back, giving Shane a slow once-over before leaving the café.
Shane feels his face heat up.
Absolutely.
***
“Shane, we’ll make sure to get back to you with feedback by the end of the month,” the director, Sheila, says.
There’s genuine warmth in her voice. Even if it turns out to be a polite no, Shane is ready for it. He still feels proud — he showed up. He did it. His first audition at a small independent theater in months.
The play is called Monologues.
An intimate story about love. A handful of characters, barely interacting with each other directly, stepping onto the stage one by one to speak about the people they love, the people they’ve lost, the people they never quite found the courage to say the most important things to. Between the monologues, simple, repetitive actions: boiling a kettle, putting a record on, waiting for an elevator, coming back home.
There’s something quietly beautiful about it. Something simple, alive, and deeply touching. Shane would really like to be part of it to finally belong to some kind of creative community again. Cold November has a way of amplifying loneliness.
Maybe this could turn into something.
When he steps out of the theater, he’s surprised to find sunlight outside. Cold, a little sharp against his skin but sunlight nonetheless. He puts on his sunglasses.
Another date awaits.
By all accounts, it should be a good one.
Jordan works with LGBTQ teens dealing with mental health issues. He seems sincere, attentive, genuinely invested in what he does. He’s objectively attractive, quick-witted, and the conversation never stalls. They have two beers each, laugh easily, and by the end of the evening, Shane feels pleasantly buzzed.
And still—
There’s a faint, itching note of desperation underneath it all.
Suddenly, he wants to be pressed against a cold brick wall in some dark corner of the bar and kissed—hard and fast.
Jordan does exactly that.
The kiss is confident, enjoyable, and Shane kisses back but something’s off. It’s hard to explain when the person in front of you is practically the perfect candidate.
“I should go,” Shane says, pulling away.
Jordan looks at him with a slightly curious, hazy gaze.
“Everything okay?”
It’s a small thing, but it matters — he’s the first person besides Shane’s mom to ask questions like that. To seem genuinely interested, without pressure. Rozanov’s elevator questions don’t count.
Still, Shane feels uneasy. Like he’s standing in the wrong place.
“Yeah,” he says. “I just have a couple things I need to get done tonight.”
Those things include boiling a bunch of broccoli in the slow cooker and crawling under a blanket to watch Netflix. He’s just… tired.
All of a sudden, the date feels like a bad idea.
“Got it,” Jordan nods. “Text me when you get home. If you feel like it.”
***
After stocking up at the nearest supermarket with several days’ worth of healthy food—everything for maintaining a proper protein-to-carb balance — Shane makes his way home at an unhurried pace.
He can’t help worrying a little about the date. Now he’ll have to explain himself to Jordan.
Yeah, you know, nothing really clicked. But we could stay friends.
Thanks for a lovely evening, but actually I keep thinking about my unbearable straight neighbor, and that feels like a problem.
Shane hates turning people down. Especially nice people. But damn it, he’s an adult. He gets to have boundaries too. And no, he doesn’t have to be a sweet little flower decorating someone else’s emotional garden. Even if those people are good and kind.
Especially then.
He has to take care of himself first.
The elevator greets him with the same familiar, irritating tune. From behind Ilya’s door, though, comes something entirely different — smooth, pleasant music. Shane pauses for a second and smiles.
He wants to knock. Sit down next to him and just listen. Casually. Neighborly.
But they’re not friends. And it’s unlikely that a few short elevator conversations will turn into anything more.
Shane knows a lot of things about the world, but maybe he really is boring? Maybe he’s not fun to be around.
Nonsense.
Nonsense…
Maybe he shouldn’t take everything Rozanov says at face value.
Lost in thought, Shane nearly trips over a cardboard bag sitting outside his door.
Twice can’t be a coincidence, right?
Inside the bag is a neatly packed box with something fairly light inside. Shane opens it, a little nervous and finds…
Several water filters?
Is this a prank?
Thanks for not leaving a dead mouse, but this is still very, very strange.
At the bottom of the bag lies a lemon-yellow sticky note with a short message written on it:
Drink more often.
There’s something about the note — so simple, so sparse — that makes Shane smile. For some reason, he can picture Ilya trying to come up with the message, overthinking it.
Water is good for you 👍🏻
But why on earth would Ilya, his straight neighbor, who was laughing loudly by his door with some girl just a week ago—be leaving him dumb little gifts?
Well.
Shane just has a very vivid imagination.
***
At first, Saturday goes quietly.
No emergency calls from the coffee shop. Shane finally cooks food for the next few days and only at the very end realizes he completely forgot salad and lemon juice for it. He could make do without it, but Shane wouldn’t be Shane if he didn’t feel the constant urge to do everything properly.
When he comes back from the store with a lemon in his pocket and a bag of vegetables, he spots Ilya by the entrance to the building. Same worn leather jacket — it’s cold today, Shane wants to scold him, — finishing a cigarette at an unhurried pace.
“Shane Hollander,” his lips curve into a smile. The signature greeting.
“Rozanov,” Shane shoots back, smiling despite himself.
He steps inside and immediately hears his neighbor’s footsteps behind him.
Same routine: the elevator, standing opposite each other. Forty seconds of conversation ahead (Shane timed it once) — awkwardness mixed with a low, humming excitement.
The elevator doors slide shut.
Of course, the irritating tune starts playing.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
Twenty-eight seconds to go.
“Another boring evening?” Rozanov nods toward the bag of vegetables.
“What exactly about fiber bothers you?” Shane shakes his head.
“Nothing. Very on brand for you.”
“You know a lot about my brand.”
“Enough to assume you avoid the ice cream aisle.”
Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.
Just a few more seconds, and Shane won’t have to explain that he doesn’t avoid it — he just tries to stay in shape and eat properly.
He looks at Ilya and suddenly, time stalls.
The lights go out.
With them, the stupid familiar melody dies too. The one that, as it turns out, had been grounding Shane all along.
“Fuck,” Ilya exhales, without a trace of irony. “Are we… stuck?” he asks, uncertain.
Maybe Shane’s hearing is off, but he catches the edge of fear in his voice.
“That happens,” Shane says calmly. “I’ll call maintenance.”
He presses the emergency button. They promise to come within twenty minutes... sooner, if possible.
Ilya inhales sharply. It’s dark in the elevator, but Shane can make out beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. He shrugs off the leather jacket, then pulls off a simple knit sweater, left in a tank top.
So that’s it.
Big, bold, sharp-tongued Ilya Rozanov is afraid of enclosed spaces.
Like a kitten, he squats down in the corner. And Shane, without really thinking, sits down beside him.
“Come on, Hollander,” Ilya says. “Tell me a story.”
For all his bravado, Shane hears something fragile in his voice. Something tired.
“Let’s go back,” Shane says, “to your beef with fiber. Vegetables are a source of vitamins. They’re good for you.”
“Oh my God…”
“And you’re probably the kind of person who’s never even heard of the plate method,” Shane continues evenly. A faint smile is visible on Ilya’s face in the dark. “A quarter carbs. A quarter protein. Half fiber.”
“Are you trying to push me into a panic attack?” Ilya asks.
“Adding greens to your meals is the best thing you can do for yourself.”
“Shutting up right now would be the best thing you could do for me.”
They look at each other in the darkness—and suddenly, they start laughing quietly. Shane from awkwardness. Ilya, probably, from nerves.
“How much longer?” Ilya groans.
Shane doesn’t know. Sweat is streaming down Ilya’s chest now. His breathing is heavy.
“You know,” Shane says suddenly, “this used to help me as a kid.”
Without fully understanding what’s driving him, he peels a small paper label off the tomato packaging, takes Ilya’s hand, and places it palm-down on his own knee.
Ilya complies without protest. Says nothing. His impatient eyes track Shane’s face in the dark. And it’s a good thing no one can see how Shane’s cheeks heat up, how goosebumps ripple down his spine.
“Close your eyes,” Shane says.
“Open my mouth?” Ilya suggests.
“Nice try.”
Shane traces the edge of the paper along Ilya’s fingers, slowly moving toward his palm, following the line of his life.
“Guess when I reach the bend of your elbow.”
“That’s easy,” Ilya says.
“We’ll see.”
He guides the paper over the raised veins, higher and higher. Imagining how good it would feel—how right—to touch them with his fingers. Skin to skin. To trace the soft strength of his arm, up to broad shoulders and his neck. To tilt his chin and follow the line of his jaw, all the way to his earlobe.
Heat floods Shane’s body. He exhales softly.
“Catching a panic attack?” Ilya asks, eyes still closed.
“I’m fine,” Shane says and isn’t sure it’s true.
“What else is on your list of default answers?” Ilya smirks.
Shane wants to get annoyed. Instead, he feels a disarming urge to be honest. To meet the sincerity in Ilya’s tone — rough as it is.
“Something like, ‘Everything’s fine, but I really need to go.’”
Ilya nods.
“Sounds like you.”
They sit in silence for a while. Shane listens to his breathing.
“It’s close to my elbow now,” Ilya says after a pause.
“Stop?”
“Wait. Right… here.”
The edge of the paper is a centimeter away from the bend—but not quite there.
“See?” Shane smiles. “Not that easy.”
“Stupid game,” Ilya exhales, about to say something else—
—but voices echo from the stairwell.
“Hey, you guys in there?”
“Yes, we’re stuck!”
“I’ve got you. Hang tight.”
They’re out a few minutes later. The bright hallway lights are blinding after the darkness. Only now does Shane realize how much he’s sweating—he’ll definitely need to run the laundry.
Ilya seems calmer, but unusually quiet. No goodbye jokes today.
Shane is fighting the stubborn lock when he hears it, soft, almost strangled:
“Thank you.”
He turns around, but Rozanov has his back to him, fiddling with his own door. Not looking.
Maybe he imagined it.
Shane closes his door and leans his forehead against the wood, standing there until his breathing evens out.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet after the elevator, silence sounds almost loud.
He looks at his palm, like something might still be there.
It’s fine, Hollander.
It’s just a hand.
Just ten minutes in the dark.
With a very attractive guy.
Ten minutes that felt like an hour.
He goes to the kitchen, washes his hands, and turns on the kettle. The tea is ready when he hears a rustle by the front door. As if someone passed by the landing without stopping but close enough for the air to shift.
Shane freezes.
Then he moves to the door and peers through the peephole.
No one.
Just a small bag on the doormat — one that wasn’t there before. And the fading sound of the elevator.
Shane bolts down the stairs, but it’s pointless. By the time he reaches the street, there’s no one around.
Breathing hard, he lifts his face into the cold wind.
This is starting to feel like a horror movie.
When Shane comes back up, Ilya is standing in his doorway. No longer sweaty like he was in the elevator. Looking normal. Maybe a little tired.
“Hollander, you okay?” he asks. “Training for a marathon?”
“Did you see anyone?”
Ilya shakes his head.
“Just got out of the shower.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. The thanks is completely out of place.
“Go eat your salad,” he tosses over his shoulder, closing the door.
Shane steadies his breathing, cheeks still burning from the run, and finally picks up the cardboard bag.
So it’s not Ilya.
He feels a sharp sting of disappointment.
Not Rozanov. Definitely not him.
The bag smells intensely of citrus.
And at the bottom a note:
Want some sweet oranges?