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Summary
Freckles.
From cheek to cheek, right over the bridge of a very tiny button nose.
He knows these freckles. Knows them better than he knows the backs of his own hands, probably.
Which, really, combined with the basket and the blanket and the fact that this happens at least once a season to someone in the league, Ilya’s heart races, then settles as he holds the baby close.
“Well, hello there, my little one.”
AKA wish baby fic