Chapter Text
Ilya’s mother was beautiful.
She was kind and gentle with him, fun to be around, and gave the best kisses in the world. Whenever she went out with his father, she always tried to sneak back a piece of candy—whatever she could find—and pressed a finger to her lips as she handed it to him, making it their own little secret.
But every time his parents came home, the magic shattered.
His father would pull his mother into their bedroom and scream at her. And every time that happened, Ilya would retreat to his own room, crawl under the blanket, and wait until the yelling stopped. He never understood why she chose his father. The man was cruel. She deserved so much better. Sometimes Ilya thought that if his father simply weren’t alive, his mother would leave him in a heartbeat—but she never would. Not because of love.
Because of Ilya.
And for that, Ilya was sorry.
When the screaming ended, his mother would always come to his room. She would slip into bed beside him and wrap him in her arms, holding him tightly. It wasn’t painful—it was grounding. And even as a child, Ilya knew the hug wasn’t really for him. It was for her. She needed to feel something solid, something real, because he could see her slowly disappearing.
Sometimes she would stare out the window for hours if Ilya didn’t interrupt her. Other times she would stay in bed all day, only rising when his father was about to return home.
Ilya knew, deep in his bones, that he was losing his mama to the darkness. And he was terrified she would never come back.
So he tried—God, he tried so hard—to make her happy. He told her stories his friends shared at school, talked endlessly about hockey practice, about his goals, his dreams—anything, everything, just to make her smile.
But it was never enough.
And it was eating him alive. Slowly. Surely.
One night, as they lay together in his bed, his mother reading him a bedtime story, she asked a question that would haunt him forever.
“Ilyushka,” she said softly, brushing her fingers through his hair. She always loved his hair—it was the same as hers—and she kissed the moles on his skin like they were constellations. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”
“Like… when people die and get to live again in a different body?” he asked.
“Yes. Like that.”
“I think so,” Ilya said. “How about you, Mama?”
She hummed thoughtfully. “I believe in it,” she whispered. “Because I want to see you again.”
“You’re not going to die, Mama!” he burst out. “You’ll live a long time! You’ll see me win every hockey game, and you’ll be proud of me! I’ll buy you a big house—and a puppy! You can spoil her with treats until she bursts!”
She laughed softly, tears shining in her eyes. “Oh, I know, Ilyushka. I know. And you will do all of that because you work so hard. I’m already so proud of you.”
Then she cupped his face gently.
“But believe this, Ilya—if I’m gone, don’t be sad. We will meet again someday. And I will always—always—find you, wherever you are. Do you understand?”
“You promise?”
“I promise,” she said. “My little bear.”
That was the last time they talked.
He should have known. He should have understood why she asked about reincarnation so suddenly, why her voice sounded like goodbye. The signs were all there—but he chose to ignore them.
And now they were crashing back into him.
Because she was standing right in front of him.
“Everyone!” Harris announced loudly. “I’d like you to meet our newest personal Centaurs photographer! Say hello to Yurina Melfor! She’ll be capturing your skills and making you all look good as hell!”
But Ilya heard none of it.
The hair. The face. The eyes.
It was her.
“Hello, everyone! I’m Yurina,” she said brightly, smiling.
That smile—
“I hope you’ll all be good to me.”
Her voice didn’t belong to her.
No Russian softness, no familiar weight to the words that had once tucked him into bed and promised she would always find him. Instead, the accent was light, Canadian—easy, practiced, wrong.
“She’s from Ottawa,” Harris added cheerfully. “One of the most promising photographers around.”
The team laughed and joked. Someone whistled. Someone else welcomed her.
Ilya stood frozen.
If this was truly his mother—if this was the woman who had whispered Ilyushka like a prayer—then why did she sound like a stranger in her own body?
And why did it hurt like he was losing her all over again?
He couldn’t move.
She was the reincarnation of his dead mother. Alive. Right in front of him.
As Yurina scanned the team, her gaze finally landed on him. Something flickered in her eyes—recognition, maybe—but it vanished in an instant, replaced by a polite, professional smile.
Even that smile looked like hers.
Shane noticed the silence immediately.
“Are you okay?” he asked, brushing his arm against Ilya’s side
“Huh? Da, moy lyubov. I’m okay,” Ilya said quickly.
But Shane didn’t miss the way Ilya stared at Yurina, as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Do you know her?” Shane asked.
“No. First time I’ve seen her,” Ilya replied.
“Then why do you look like that?”
“It’s nothing, moy kotyonok,” he said, hiding the storm inside him.
Shane smiled at the nickname but remained unconvinced.
Practice began, but Shane couldn’t ignore the way Ilya kept glancing toward the boards, toward Yurina. When their eyes met, Ilya would force a small smile—I’m okay, don’t worry—and Shane chose to trust him.
After practice, Yurina showed the photos she’d taken. The team passed the camera around, impressed. When it reached Shane, he smiled at a good shot of himself—then scrolled.
The next photo was of Ilya.
Then another
And another.
Close-ups, action shots, his face from every angle.
Shane frowned, glancing at Yurina as she spoke with the team. Questions twisted in his stomach. Was she interested in Ilya? Admiring him? Or something else entirely?
But Ilya was his. Shane set the thought aside and passed the camera back.
“You have real talent,” Shane said honestly.
“Thank you,” Yurina replied, smiling warmly—almost motherly.
Okay. Shane relaxed. Maybe she was just a fan.
Later, at home, tangled together after sex, Shane finally asked again.
“Are you really okay?” Shane whispered, lying against Ilya’s chest.
Ilya’s fingers threaded through Shane’s hair, gently scratching his scalp—the way Shane always found soothing, the way it made him melt into the touch.
“Da,” Ilya murmured. “I’m okay. I was just… remembering something.”
“What is it?” Shane asked softly.
They had promised each other, after their marriage, that there would be no secrets. That sharing even the difficult thoughts would make them stronger, closer. Galina had once told Ilya that letting Shane in would help him carry his burdens. So far, she has been right.
“It’s… my mama,” Ilya admitted. “I just… miss her. That’s all.”
Shane’s chest tightened. He knew how deeply Ilya missed his mother every day. He had always wished he could have met her, even if only to thank her for giving him Ilya—the man who made him better, who loved him exactly as he was.
“Oh, honey,” Shane whispered. “It’s okay. I know your mother loves you. And she’s proud of the person you’ve become.” He smiled softly. “I’m proud of you too.”
“Yes,” Ilya said, closing his eyes. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”
Shane wrapped his arms around him and held him tight. If Ilya’s mother could see him now, she would be happy—happy that her son was loved, safe, and sound.