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The cottage stood still under the spell of dawn. It was the kind of quiet that held its breath. Soft morning light slipped through the blinds, wrapping the dining table in a pale golden glow. Their suitcases were mostly packed, the practice gear leaned against the wall by the front door—tomorrow would be the last day of the summer break, but today all the chores were paused.
Outside, a pale autumn sun painted trees in reds, yellows, and burnt orange—colors that seemed shy but beautiful, like a palette still wet. The air carried a rich smell of coffee grounds and pine dish soap.
Ilya stood barefoot in the kitchen, his curls an unruly mess. The kettle hissed on the stove. He watched the water bubble without really focusing on it, his gaze somewhere past the window.
Beyond the glass, Anya was already padding around the yard with her nose down and tail high, chasing nothing in particular. She darted through the patch of leaves, sending a little explosion of golden and brown into the air. Ilya almost smiled. Even the dog seemed to understand mornings like today—keep it busy, keep it moving, make it look easy.
The calendar on the wall was bare except for the small circle in blue ink. Ilya didn’t flinch anymore. The grief had aged with him; the pain had become less sharp, more like an old bruise that refused to fully heal. It was manageable now to respond to a faint ache of the memories.
Today was his mother’s birthday.
When the water boiled, he made tea the way she loved: strong, black, with a spoon of sugar and a thin slice of lemon. The mug on the counter was chipped along the rim. Ilya brought it from Russia over a decade ago when he first moved to Boston. It belonged to her.
The scent pulled him into something deep and half-remembered. He was ten again, a dark January morning after New Year’s. The old TV flickered with an old film. His mother hummed as she kneaded dough, her apron white with flour.
“You’ll be late for practice, solnyshko,” she used to say with that tired fondness only mothers have. “Go on, Ilysha, you’ll miss the bus. I’ll have everything ready by the time you come back from the rink.”
Behind him, soft footsteps padded down the hall. Shane appeared in the doorway, face creased from sleep, wearing Ilya’s old jersey over his shorts. He rubbed his glasses clean and squinted at the light.
“You’re up early,” he mumbled, voice groggy. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Ilya didn’t turn right away. “Wasn’t trying to,” he paused. “It’s her day.”
Shane nodded—no need to ask who was her. He rubbed his eyes and came up behind Ilya, brushing a hand over his back long enough to say “I’m here”. They stood shoulder to shoulder for a long moment, just breathing in the smell of lemon and tea leaves.
Outside, Anya barked and ran another circle, clearly upset with the squirrel high in the tree.
“She’d be happy that we have a dog,” Ilya murmured absently. “She always wanted one, but my father hated the fur in the house.”
Shane smiled, watching Anya wag at her own shadow. “She’d spoil her rotten.”
Ilya gave a small huff of agreement.
They both glanced at the baby monitor on the counter. The screen glowed blue, showing Archie sprawled sideways across his crib, one hand gripping the ear of a teddy bear. His face was smashed into the pillow.
“Graceful as ever,” Shane nodded toward the monitor. “He kicked off the blanket again.”
Ilya’s arms were folded loosely across his chest, but his mouth twitched, betraying the grin he didn’t bother to hide. “He sleeps like me.”
“That’s not something to brag about,” Shane shot back, the words light and warm.
It wasn’t just teasing for the sake of it. Shane knew how to keep the morning light, how to pull his husband back from the edge of quiet spiraling thoughts with small, steady words. No lectures, no heavy sighs. Just presence, so Ilya didn’t have time to think too much.
Ilya huffed through his nose, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes still on the smudge of movement on the monitor. “I was thinking…”
“What is it?”
“I want to cook today. The way she did. Pirozhki and maybe Medovik. She made it every birthday.”
“Then we cook,” Shane smiled, and the simplicity of it—the lack of hesitation—always hit Ilya right in the throat. Shane had been around long enough to know how these days usually went. And he knew exactly what to do to keep it mellow.
“I don’t want to be sad anymore.”
“It doesn’t have to be a sad day,” Shane said. “You told me before that she always liked to laugh in the kitchen.”
Ilya glanced at him, something very soft behind his eyes. “Yep, she did. She said food tastes better when someone’s teasing you.”
Anya scratched at the back door, and Shane crossed the kitchen to let her in. She burst across the floor, wagging so hard her whole body wriggled. She nuzzled Ilya’s knee, then turned in circles before dropping with a satisfied groan.
“Sometimes I just…want to call her,” Ilya said quietly as he poured freshly brewed coffee into a mug for Shane. “When something happens. A good game. Or when Archie came into our lives…fuck, she’d loved you so much. So much I’d be jealous.” A broken laugh slipped out, tender and aching.
Shane leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching Ilya’s profile—the quiet sorrow mixed with affection in his eyes. A ghost of a smile touched Shane’s lips, wry and warm. He thanked him for coffee. “Well,” he added gently. “She’d probably scold me for not feeding you enough.”
Ilya finally looked up, his own smile breaking through like sunlight after rain. “And she’d definitely tell you I need more discipline.”
“Yeah, well,” Shane said, his grin widening with a familiar spark of playful defiance in his eyes. “I pick my battles.”
A soft chirp from the monitor cut through. The camera blinked, showing Archie sitting up and rubbing his eyes with tiny fists.
“Showtime,” Ilya smiled, watching Archie maneuver out of the crib.
Seconds later, rapid, unsteady baby feet raced on the wooden floor. The door flew open with a blur of dinosaur-printed pajamas and adorable curly bedhead.
“Daddy!” Archie squealed.
Shane barely had time to set down his mug before the boy collided with his legs. He scooped him up in one quick motion, and Archie immediately tucked his head under Shane’s chin like it belonged there.
“There’s my big guy,” Shane cooed as he pressed a tender kiss to the top of Archie’s head. “Good dreams?”
Archie’s response was a happy grunt, his small body wriggling in Shane’s arms. “Papa! You awake too?” His eyes found Ilya. Archie was still half-asleep, cheek pressed to Shane’s shoulder.
“Yes,” Ilya’s voice went soft. “Papa’s up early.”
“Why?” Archie blinked, confused.
Ilya’s expression softened further, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Today is special,” he whispered, his voice filled with love and nostalgia. “It’s Grandma Irina’s birthday.”
Archie frowned, the way toddlers do when they’re trying to fit a big thought into their small mind. “She…your mommy?”
Ilya nodded. “That’s right.”
“She come visit?”
Ilya’s heart ached at the question, his lips twisting into a bittersweet smile. He knew he had to be careful with his words, choosing ones that would neither confuse nor upset his sensitive child. “No, malysh, not today.”
Archie’s face scrunched up. Ilya saw the gears turning, the confusion slowly giving way to understanding. “We can still celebrate her, yes?” Ilya continued, excitement creeping into his voice. “We’ll cook her favorite food. Do you want to help?”
“Yes, Papa, I wanna help!” Archie perked up immediately, his chubby hands eagerly clapping together as he bounced on Shane’s knee. “I’m a big helper!”
“Sure about that, Arch?” Shane grinned, flicking a teasing glance at Ilya. “Have you ever seen Papa cook?”
Ilya narrowed his eyes at him, mock offence lacing his reply. “Papa cooks like he plays hockey—he never misses. True professional.”
Shane chuckled, shaking his head. “Professional mess-maker.”
Archie exploded into giggles, snorting once, then laughing harder at himself. Anya barked from the floor, tail drumming the couch in approval.
Ilya sighed, though there was no way he could hide another smile already tugging at his lips. “All comedians today.”
Shane took a slow sip of coffee. He tilted his head, watching the light spill soft across the table, and then, almost without thinking, he asked. “Do you think she’d like mornings like this?” His voice was casual, but underneath there was the subtle weight of someone treading carefully over fragile ground.
Ilya didn’t hesitate. He nodded with a small, knowing smile. “She’d loved them,” he whispered, resting his tea between his palms. “She always said the best thing you can do with a memory is make more room for it.”
There was something in the way he spoke, as if repeating her words out loud let her become a part of this morning.
Shane’s mouth curved with a soft smile, the kind that didn’t need to be forced. “Then let’s make more room,” he said, voice steady, sunlight pooling in his words.
Archie, oblivious to the conversation, sat perched on Shane’s hip, his curls a golden storm. Ilya reached out, brushing a hand through them fondly before setting his tea down. “Alright, big helper,” he said, forcing brightness like dawn through fog. “First, we're gonna eat breakfast. For energy. Grandma Irina loved oatmeal and yogurt, deal?”
Archie reacted instantly, throwing both hands in the air in a dramatic burst. “Yay yogurt! Boo oatmeal!” He declared, wrinkling his nose with exaggerated flair.
Shane chuckled, hoisting him a little higher. “God save the kitchen!” He said with mock horror, already imagining the chaos of small hands in big bowls.
Ilya smirked over the chipped rim, finally letting his own shoulders ease. “God help you with cleaning after the flour hits the fan,” he countered, the lightness in his voice carrying the quiet agreement that today the mess was allowed and welcomed.
It struck Shane, as he reached for the oats in the cupboard. The whole day would be shaped around a woman who would never cross the threshold of this cottage. Yet, somehow, her presence was everywhere—in the choice of breakfast, in the shared laughter, in the warmth they were all trying to carry together.
She lingered in the way Ilya said her name without saying it, in the way sunlight seemed warmer for no reason, even in Archie’s wild, unscripted joy. And though the kitchen would, without question, be wrecked by the end of the day, Shane felt certain they were doing exactly what she would have wanted: letting the memory breathe and giving it room to grow in another ordinary, golden morning.
By noon, the cottage was fully awake. In the background, the speakers murmured one of those mellow Spotify playlists with soft guitar strums and voices that seemed to smile as they sang. The kitchen had begun its slow, messy transformation.
The marble island had become a disaster of mixing bowls and measuring cups. A thick layer of flour had covered the countertop, looking like a snowstorm. Archie sat on a tall bar stool, legs swinging, face already streaked with jam from “taste testing.” Shane stood at the sink, sleeves pushed to his elbows, rinsing bowls, half humming, half keeping one eye on their son.
Ilya moved with intense, almost sacred concentration. He was measuring, stirring, kneading, as if cooking were second nature, an inherited muscle memory.
Shane leaned in beside him, towel slung over his shoulder. “You’re in the zone,” he said, mesmerized by his intense movements.
Ilya answered with a low hum, pressing the dough flat with the heel of his hand. “This is how she used to do it. Every Sunday. Said it was her therapy.” He pushed the dough forward, folded it neatly, then turned it over with care. “‘If dough fights you, Ilysha’, she’d tell me, ‘it means you need to learn patience.’” His tone was fond, wrapped in memory, and for a moment, the kitchen seemed warmer.
Shane watched the easy strength in Ilya’s hands, the way they coaxed rather than commanded. “So, if the dough starts arguing with me…” he began, a playful glint in his eyes, “does that mean I’m impatient, or you’re just better at this?”
Ilya looked up, briefly meeting his gaze before returning to his work. “Both,” he said, and his smile was quick, almost shy, but it left Shane grinning like he'd just scored the winning goal.
“Alright then… what’s it telling you right now?”
Ilya’s reply was dry, his voice carrying the faintest humor. “That I need more flour.”
Shane laughed and grabbed the jar. Instead of a careful pinch, he tipped it hard, and a white cloud burst over the dough like a tiny blizzard.
“Overkill,” Ilya said, amusement gleaming in his eyes as he shook his head.
“I call it artistic freedom,” Shane shot back, brushing flour from his fingertips like a proud painter.
Ilya let the smirk stay. He didn’t bother arguing, deciding that letting Shane have his little victory was easier than correcting him. He returned to the dough, pressing and rolling it with methodical precision, his muscular forearms shifting with each movement, veins disappearing and reappearing beneath the skin. Shane found himself staring, caught somewhere between admiration and distraction.
From the perch, Archie announced, “I wanna do it too!”
“Alright, my big helper,” Ilya murmured, his voice dropping into that patient, sweet undertone reserved only for Archie. He guided his son’s small, chubby hands, still slightly sticky from jam, and gently placed them atop the dough. “Like this, malysh.” Ilya’s large hands enveloped Archie’s, showing him the motion. “We push… and we fold. That’s it. Easy.” The dough yielded with a soft sigh under their teamwork. Archie giggled, delighted by the sensation. “So strong,” Ilya praised, watching their son’s focused expression. “Just like Papa.”
Archie’s entire face lit up with a toothy grin. His little tongue poked out in pure concentration as he gave the dough another mighty, satisfying squish. “Big muscles!” he declared.
Shane let out a low chuckle from his spot by the sink. “Definitely strong,” he agreed, his eyes crinkling. “And sticky, and very very messy.”
Ilya glanced back, dark eyes flashing just for Shane. “He gets that from you.”
“Obviously,” Shane deadpanned. “All the best parts.”
It smelled of yeast, honey, and butter. Anya snored under the table, defeated after three hopeful sniffs at fallen crumbs. Outside, a few yellow leaves scraped along the deck. The weather report promised rain tonight.
Ilya glanced at the recipe on his phone. “Mom used to sing while she cooked,” he mumbled. “We had an old junky TV in the kitchen corner. The remote didn’t work half the time, but Mom would keep it tuned to one of those music channels. She’d hum along… sometimes sing, if she liked the song enough. Ahh—” He laughed under his breath. “I wish I remembered the words now.”
Shane said nothing at first. He reached over, brushed flour from Ilya’s knuckles, thumb lingering where the pulse beat steady and warm. “I think you are a lot like her, you know.”
Ilya’s head snapped up, startled, eyes meeting Shane’s. His brows knit together before he shook his head. “No,” he said, almost defensive.
Shane’s gaze stayed soft. “Yeah. The way you look after people. The way you make any room feel safe and sound. She’d love how you turned out.”
A faint smile ghosted over Ilya’s lips, reluctant but there. “She’d probably scold me for feeding Archie too much candy.”
Shane’s grin flashed bright and boyish. “Then she and I would’ve been best friends.”
Just then, Archie tugged at Ilya’s sleeve with both hands, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Papa…what’s Grandma ’Rina like?”
“She was very kind,” he began, carrying the weight of memory. “She loved music and had the best laugh—one of those laughs that made you laugh, even if you didn’t know why.” He traced a small circle on the counter with his finger, drawing patterns in the fine dusting of flour. “When I was little, she used to tell me stories. My favorite was about the moon—how it followed me home after school to keep me safe.”
Archie’s head tilted, and then he burst into giggles. “Moon can’t walk!”
Ilya chuckled too, shaking his head. “I know that now. But back then…” he shrugged, “…it made me feel like I had a friend in the sky.”
Shane crouched, eye-level with Archie. “Grandma Irina would’ve loved you, bud. Spoiled you silly.”
Archie gasped, eyes round. “More toys?”
“Mountains of toys,” Shane swore.
“And cookies,” Ilya added, tapping Archie’s nose with a floury finger, leaving a white smudge.
“Cookies and toys!” Archie crowed. “My favorite!”
The three of them laughed, and for a moment the kitchen felt more crowded than it should—like someone else was in the room, listening, smiling at them.
Once the dough was ready, pirozhki were formed in tiny boats and sent to the oven, Ilya moved to the Medovik next. He worked carefully, brushing honey between the thin layers, while Shane helped Archie pour cream filling, pretending not to panic every time a spoon wobbled too close to the edge.
Ilya caught Shane’s nervous twitch and smiled. “Relax, sweetheart. If we lose one layer, we still have five more.”
“I’m not worried about the cake,” Shane said. “I’m worried about this little human operating heavy dairy machinery.”
Archie grinned at them proudly, holding a spoon like a hockey stick. “I’m doing it!”
Shane gave up and kissed his forehead. “You’re doing an amazing job, Arch.”
Ilya stepped back to wipe his hands. He watched them—their little son glowing under Shane’s praise, Shane looking so at ease it hurt a little. This was the part his mom never got to see. A life beyond the ache and sadness.
Ilya’s chest felt full, the way it sometimes did after a win on the ice—except this wasn’t about the victory. It was about having survived enough to be here. To want to be here without doubting dark thoughts, without shadows whispering otherwise.
When the cake was finally assembled, they stood back to look at it—it leaned slightly to the left, and one side was thicker than the other. It looked delicious and just beautiful in the imperfect way all homemade things do.
Shane wrapped an arm around Ilya’s waist. “Not bad, chef,” he murmured, his voice pitched just enough to make it sound like a tease.
Ilya tilted his head toward him, eyes crinkling with a quiet amusement. “She always said the uglier the food, the better it tastes. Just made with love is enough.”
“Then this one,” Shane said, giving Ilya’s waist a small squeeze, “is perfect.”
Archie reached up, smearing a tiny bit of frosting on Ilya’s cheek. “Papa and Archie look the same!”
“He learns how to misbehave from you!”
Ilya laughed, open and bright, wiping the smear with his sleeve. He hooked an arm behind Shane’s back, pulling him close until their breaths mingled. “And the patience,” he countered, eyes glinting playfully, “that he learns from you. That’s how it works, yes?”
Shane’s gaze softened, the mock seriousness fading into something quieter. He let out a slow breath, his forehead dipping toward Ilya’s before pressing a gentle kiss against his cheek. “Maybe,” he said thoughtfully. “Or maybe he just gets to start fresh—no rules, no habits. Just who he is.”
Archie, oblivious to the weight in his dad’s voice, was busy licking frosting from his fingers. The kitchen light caught in his hair, and for a fleeting moment, Shane found himself wondering if maybe this was the whole point—messy cakes, sticky fingers, and laughter tangled up in sugar and honey. Ilya’s arm was still solid around his waist, grounding him in a way no perfect recipe could.
The timer dinged for the pirozhki. The smell filled the kitchen as soon as the tray was out. Warm, yeasty, faintly sweet. Ilya closed his eyes. He could almost hear her again, humming under her breath, scolding him gently for eating a scorching hot dough. “Synok, ochen’ goryacho.”
“Are you okay?” Shane asked.
“Yeah,” Ilya nodded. “Better than okay.”
He smiled then, and this time the smile reached his eyes.
The kitchen had finally gone quiet again. Outside, the sky was turning indigo—one of those crisp autumn evenings when the air was sharp and clear. It was about to rain.
Archie had fallen asleep in the middle of a bedtime story, his little face pressed to Shane’s chest while Ilya read in low, patient Russian, not even bothering to translate as he went. They’d tucked him in, dimmed the lights, and let the baby monitor glow on the nightstand.
Now, as they were alone, the house breathed heavier and softer all at once. Anya slept on the couch, the dishes were drying in neat stacks. The cake sat on the counter—a few slices saved under a glass dome for Yuna and David.
Shane found Ilya on the back porch, barefoot, hoodie loose at the neck. He came behind him, moving slowly not to break his peace. His arms slipped around Ilya’s waist, and he put his face on his shoulder. “Hey there.”
They stayed there for a long time, just breathing together. Tonight was the last night at the cottage before the training camp started. Shane wanted to stretch it as thin as possible.
His voice came softer than the wind. “You always handle this day so well.” His words hung between them, carried by the quiet night, as though he was afraid to speak too loudly and break whatever fragile thing was holding Ilya together.
Ilya gave a small sound in response, not quite a laugh but something close enough. His mouth curved faintly, though there was weight in his eyes. “Took me years,” he said, looking down at his feet. “I used to fight it. Try to push the pain away, to distract myself. Now I just let it come. Like tide.”
Shane angled his head, studying the faint lines at Ilya’s temples. “You stopped drowning.”
“Guess so,” Ilya said, lifting his gaze to the dark treeline. “Grief never leaves. I just taught it to sit quietly beside me.” He paused, softer. “And you’re here to catch me if I slip, yes?”
“Always,” Shane slid his hand into Ilya’s, fingers fitting in a way that still felt special after all these years. His thumb brushed the back of Ilya’s hand once, twice, as if sealing a promise. “You made today beautiful.”
Ilya’s eyes softened, the moonlight catching on something unspoken in them, something that flickered quickly and didn’t need to be named. “She did,” he murmured. “I just followed her recipe.”
“It was perfect,” Shane smiled and kissed the side of his neck.
Ilya turned in his arms, close enough to feel the heat of Shane’s breath. “You helped.”
“That’s what teammates do, captain.”
Ilya’s lips stretched in a wide, unguarded smile, and then they kissed—slow, unhurried, full of tenderness that only comes after years of life together. Shane’s hand rose to cup Ilya’s jaw, fingers warm against his skin, thumb brushing just below his ear. Ilya leaned into the touch and let his eyes flutter shut, the world narrowing to the steady push and pull of their breathing.
When they finally parted, Ilya glanced at the sky. The moon hung low, silver and whole. “See that?” he murmured. “The moon followed us home. After she died, I stopped looking up. Didn’t want to see her and not have her. Took years to understand—she’s always there. Full, thin, hidden, but never really gone.”
Shane followed his gaze to the sky. “That’s a beautiful thought.”
Ilya gave a little shrug, almost shy. “Helps me sleep at night.” A chuckle escaped him, not heavy but carrying a thread of sadness. “She would have laughed at how sappy we sound right now.”
Shane smirked, brushing his thumb along the line of Ilya’s jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath his skin. “Now I know where you got that smart mouth.”
“Runs in the family,” Ilya shot back, grinning mischievously.
They stood in the cool air for another moment before heading inside. The house stood still, but it didn’t feel empty. It was the kind of silence that felt lived in and full in that imperfect, deeply human way of love that wrapped every little thing in its warm hug.
And somewhere in between that stillness, it almost seemed like Irina was smiling.