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    Summary

    He moved to swing his legs out from under the blankets, only to feel one of them get snagged on something: Ilya’s ankle was wrapped around his own, knee pressing into Shane’s thigh. When he tried to wriggle it free, his boyfriend resisted and pulled his leg in closer. A taut arm reached out and sleepily tugged Shane back down onto the mattress. He gave in easily.

    “I thought you were asleep.” Shane whispered, tersely.

    He felt a small stab of irritation too. Once again, Ilya had gotten in the way of his workout routine and — even though he wasn’t doing it on purpose — it was hard not to be frustrated about it. Shane needed this. The only way he had been able to soothe his racing thoughts about flunking out of the NHL next season was by reminding himself of his plan to work out early in the morning. Now, his anxiety soared, but it felt like annoyance. Why didn’t Ilya understand that he needed to stay in shape? Didn’t he see how hard Shane had to work to keep up with everyone else?

    “I woke up.” Ilya’s voice was husky with sleep, “Come back to bed, moya lyubov.”

    -

    Five times Shane Hollander should've asked for help.

    And one time he actually did.

    Language:
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