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Being in New York meant one thing—pizza. A different style, a different smell, and, if Shane was being honest with himself, possibly an entire pie instead of just a slice.
But the moment they stepped into the brick-walled restaurant, the thought soured.
Shane’s smile faded into a frown, his hand moving instinctively to his stomach. The noise, the heat, the overlapping scents—oil, cheese, charred dough—hit him all at once.
Ilya was right behind him, close enough to notice immediately. His brows furrowed as he leaned in, murmuring softly in Russian, my love, before gently guiding Shane back toward the door.
“Maybe next time,” Ilya said quietly.
Outside, Shane drew in a slow breath of cool air. The tight discomfort eased almost instantly, replaced by something worse—disappointment.
Ilya watched him carefully. “Was it not the restaurant you wanted?” he asked. “Maybe we go somewhere better, hmm?”
Shane shook his head. “No, no—it’s fine. I just got overwhelmed. My senses went into overdrive.” He hesitated, fingers resting over his stomach again. “I don’t think she liked it as much as I thought.”
He’d been craving pizza for weeks. Not just any pizza—New York pizza. The real thing. But the moment he stepped inside, everything changed.
All he wanted was pizza and a ginger ale.
Shane had always liked his diet simple—straight to the point, familiar, reliable. Pregnancy had ruined that. Things he loved didn’t taste the same anymore, and he found himself craving foods he’d never even looked twice at before.
He just wanted this one thing. And yet his body was already pushing back.
Still, Shane was getting that pizza one way or another.
“I really do want it,” Shane said, flashing his signature smile.
Ilya hummed in response, his expression unreadable—but Shane knew that look. He was already working through options.
“How about this,” Ilya said after a moment. “You sit and wait out here. I get the pizza for you. Maybe you feel better that way.”
Shane nodded easily.
Ilya’s hands slipped from his hips, one lifting to press a kiss to Shane’s forehead, hidden beneath the fall of his bangs.
“One kiss for you,” Ilya murmured, “and one for paparazzi across the street.”
Then he turned and walked back into the shop.
That was one of Ilya’s superpowers—his, and his mother’s. They both seem to have eyes at the back of their heads.
Shane hadn’t even noticed the paparazzi across the street. Instead, he settled at one of the outdoor tables beneath a faded red-and-white umbrella, the fabric sun-bleached and outdated. He smiled to himself, remembering the last time he’d eaten here—years ago, after a game—how he’d thought the place looked old even then.
Now, it felt comforting. Familiar.
He took in the scenery he’d seen a handful of times before. This wasn’t a long trip, just a day away, a quick change of pace for the two of them—but it felt like a pause he hadn’t realized he needed.
“Love,” Ilya called softly in Russian.
Shane looked up.
“The pizza is ready,” Ilya said, already stepping closer. “It is very hot, so be careful.”
Shane smiled, warmth spreading through his chest. “Okay.”
Shane’s eyes lit up at the first bite.
Savory, rich, the perfect balance of sauce and cheese—it was exactly what he’d been craving. Mission accomplished. They’d even had the brand of ginger ale he liked, cold and sharp enough to settle his stomach as he ate.
Mid-bite, Ilya lifted his phone and snapped a picture. Shane barely noticed, smiling around his food like an idiot—completely, helplessly in love.
Ilya huffed softly, murmuring under his breath,
“Влюблённый дурак.”
Idiot in love.
When Shane finished, Ilya reached across the table with a napkin, gently wiping a smear of sauce from the corner of his mouth.
“Thank you,” Shane mumbled, his blush deepening, pink dusting across his freckles.
He stood to toss their trash, but Ilya was already there, moving ahead of him like he always did.
Shane woke to the soft rumble of his stomach.
Ilya lay behind him, face tucked into the space between Shane’s neck and shoulder, limbs loosely tangled together. One arm rested protectively around him, hand settled over the roundness of Shane’s stomach like it belonged there.
Shane glanced at the sliver of silver on the nightstand. The Rolex read 4:00 a.m. on the dot.
He stayed still for a while, hoping the feeling would pass. It did—but the hunger didn’t. Worse, he didn’t even know what he wanted. And he really didn’t want to wake Ilya, who slept like the dead.
Carefully, Shane eased Ilya’s arm away. Ilya shifted but didn’t wake, mumbling something in his sleep—definitely Russian.
Shane slipped out of bed and padded down the hallway, acutely aware of how everything sounded louder at night. He avoided the rooms without thinking, mindful that Anya could be asleep anywhere in the house.
The fridge offered no immediate answers. Shane sighed, rubbing slow circles into his lower back—something Ilya was usually very good at.
“We should make a decision soon, huh,” he murmured, mostly to himself, mostly to the little one growing inside him. “Before he realizes we’re gone.”
A tuna melt sounded incredible. Unfortunately, Shane hated how his always turned out—and waking Ilya was not an option.
He paced the kitchen once before it hit him.
Peanut butter. Banana. Toast. Ice cream.
Perfect.
Shane moved quietly, or at least tried to. The toaster, however, chose violence.
“Fuck,” he muttered as the spoon clattered to the floor. He crouched to retrieve it, nearly dropping the ice cream container in the process—and the peanut butter, which would have been catastrophic, but great for Anya.
He sat on the edge of the kitchen island, feet swinging unconsciously as he ate. The combination was ridiculous—and perfect. The crunch of toast against the cold sweetness of the ice cream had him smiling despite himself.
“Are you sharing?”
The voice came rough with sleep, Russian still clinging to the words.
Shane looked up to find Ilya already crossing the kitchen toward him.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Shane said quickly.
Ilya’s expression softened. “You did not wake me,” he said. Then, eyeing the food, “But what is this madness?”
Shane didn’t answer. He just lifted the spoon.
Ilya leaned in first, kissing him instead—licking peanut butter from Shane’s lips in the process.
“Hey,” Shane yelped softly, startled.
He offered the spoon again. Ilya tasted it this time, and shrugged.
“It tastes better off you than the spoon,” he said simply.
Shane huffed a laugh. “Okay. Just a little more,” he said, already knowing that was a lie.
“Just a little more,” Shane said.
Ilya didn’t argue. He simply stepped closer, lifting Shane easily from the island, one arm secure around him while the other somehow kept hold of the bowl—not just ice cream anymore, but whatever madness Shane had created.
Back in bed, Ilya settled behind him, Shane resting comfortably against his chest. Ilya’s hands returned to their familiar place, warm and steady over Shane’s stomach, thumb brushing slow, absent circles as he stole a few bites from the bowl.
Shane pretended not to notice. Pretended not to care.
Ilya hummed thoughtfully. “I will not admit this,” he murmured, already half-asleep, “but it is… not terrible.”
Shane smiled, eyes drifting shut.