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It was late—Shane knew that much for sure, even though he'd lost track of the hours sometime ago.
Right now, he was tucked into the corner of a spacious booth, perched on Ilya's lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles in Ilya's palm. Ilya's other arm was wrapped snugly around his shoulders, absently playing with the hem of Shane's sleeve.
They'd gone out as a couple a few times before, but never with the rest of the team—never with their partners—and it still felt surreal like stepping into a version of his life that hadn't quite settled yet.
A warm tingle flowed beneath his skin; his tolerance for alcohol was long gone after abstaining for so long. Of course, Ilya had insisted on topping up his glass with the Russian vodka he'd made sure the bar stocked, watching Shane with open satisfaction as it went to his head faster than it should have.
Eventually, Ilya stood, murmuring something about the bathroom. Shane wanted to follow him—wanted to stay exactly where he was—but forced himself not to. Instead, he slid out of the booth and made his way to the bar for some water.
He ended up leaning against the bar, half-listening as he chatted with Caitlin Dykstra about something completely unimportant, the words blurring together in his pleasantly hazy state. When the bartender pulled her attention away, Shane was left on his own.
When he looked up again, Ilya was nowhere to be seen. In fact, most of the team had vanished, too.
He sighed, spotting Evan's broad frame through the window, and decided to head outside.
The moment he stepped onto the deck, the smell of weed enveloped him. He slowed, distracted, watching them for a second.
Ilya had quit smoking a few months ago—Shane had drawn a hard line, flat-out refusing to kiss him until the taste was gone. As for weed, Shane knew he hadn't touched it in even longer.
But tonight was a special occasion. Ottawa had finally made it to the finals, and this was their last real hurrah before everything tightened up again—no late nights. No substances. No indulgences. Just discipline and hockey and the long grind.
And Shane had to admit, a little helplessly, that it was really fucking hot watching Ilya take a drag anyway.
Harris spotted him first, turning just enough to murmur something into Troy's ear. Troy's head snapped up immediately.
"Hollzy," he boomed.
Ilya turned at the sound, his face lighting up when he saw Shane. He lifted a hand in an easy, unmistakable come here gesture. "Want a drag?" he asked, already being passed the blunt.
Shane smiled as he stepped into the circle, tucking himself into Ilya's side beneath his outstretched arm. Ilya pressed an obnoxious kiss to his temple.
Shane giggled—the sound surprising even himself—and leaned closer. He shook his head, then opened his mouth anyway, the words lining up badly.
Ilya cut him off before he could get a single one out. "No. He is okay."
"Maybe I'm not," Shane said, locking eyes with him. His smile tipped sharply at the edges. "You're not my keeper."
Irritation flared, sudden and hot. He was a thirty-two-year-old man, for god's sake. If he wanted to try some weed, he would. He didn't need Ilya protecting his innocence, or whatever the hell he thought he was doing.
The circle went quiet—just a few snickers, uneasy and curious—but Ilya didn't look away.
Instead of hardening, his expression softened, and somehow that made it worse.
"Moya lyubov," he said gently, "you are drunk. It's fine. Nobody expects you to have any. And I know you don't want to."
Something in Shane snapped clean in half.
He was so tired of this version of Ilya—the careful one, the one who handled him like glass and good intentions.
So instead of arguing, instead of explaining, he looked past Ilya's shoulder and zeroed in on the joint resting between Boods' fingers.
"Pass it," Shane said.
Boods lifted an eyebrow.
"No," Ilya said sharply.
If anyone hadn't been watching them before, they definitely were now.
"Pass it to me," Shane shot back, flashing a crooked smile that was more challenge than charm.
Boods glanced between them, clearly uncertain—until Shane shot him a glare sharp enough to settle it. Reluctantly, he passed it over, fully expecting Ilya to intercept.
Ilya did.
He exhaled slowly.
Shane crossed his arms, petulant and unashamed, leaning just enough of his weight into Ilya to make the point.
Finally, Ilya bent close, his mouth brushing Shane's ear.
"If you are sure," he murmured in Russian.
Shane wasn't fluent by any means, but he understood Ilya almost all of the time now, and the language gave them a thin veil of privacy in front of basically the entire team.
"I'll let you have some. But you do this my way."
"Let me," Shane scoffed, answering in Russian without missing a beat, their shared language turning the moment into a private battlefield.
Ilya's mouth curved, all dangerous amusement now. His eyes flicked over Shane's face, cataloguing every reaction.
"Ever shot a shotgun?" Ilya asked, switching back to English purely to watch Shane's expression fracture.
Shane froze.
Ilya smirked. He already knew the answer—he just wanted to hear it.
He ran a knuckle slowly down Shane's jaw, stopping at his chin and tilting it up. "Have you shotgunned before?"
Shane shook his head.
"Do you know what it is?"
"I'm a grown-up, Ilya."
"Okay, okay," Ilya murmured, amused. "Calm down, moya lyubov."
He studied him for a beat longer, then nodded once. "If you're sure."
"I... maybe?" Shane admitted, defiance sparring with the warmth already creeping up his chest.
Ilya's grin widened—that crooked, infuriating grin that made Shane want to roll his eyes and kiss him in the same breath.
"Good," he said, guiding Shane's hand into position. "Come here."
Shane hesitated, then did.
Their shoulders brushed, heat spreading through him—nothing like the alcohol. Ilya's chest was solid against his, steady and calm, the way he always seemed in control of everything except Shane's heart.
"You ready?" Ilya asked softly, just for him.
Shane swallowed. "I'm... ready."
Ilya pulled back just enough to take a slow, deliberate drag, eyes never leaving Shane's. Smoke curled from the corner of his mouth as he leaned back in, lips brushing Shane's.
Ilya's hand slid to the small of Shane's back, steadying him, anchoring him there.
Then his mouth covered Shane's—not a kiss, not quite. Softer. Intentional. Warm breath spilled between them, smoke following.
Shane startled, inhaled too fast—
He coughed almost immediately.
Ilya laughed low in his ear, warm and teasing. "Relax, moya lyubov. Breathe with me."
Shane tried, fingers brushing Ilya's, the contact sending a jolt straight through him.
"Holy shit," Luca said faintly. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen—and I'm straight."
The deck erupted in laughter and hollers, but Shane barely heard them.
Because Ilya was still watching him.
Eyes dark. Unrelenting. Like Shane was the only thing in the universe that mattered.
The joint made its way back around the circle, and when it landed in his line of sight again, Shane didn't hesitate. He plucked it neatly from Boods' fingers before Ilya could say a word.
Ilya's brow lifted—warning, curiosity, something darker threading through it—but he didn't stop him.
"Slow," Ilya said quietly, hand hovering near Shane's wrist without touching. "You don't need much."
"I know," Shane muttered, which was only half true.
He brought it to his lips and copied what he'd watched Ilya do a hundred times: slight drag, measured inhale. The smoke burned sharper than he expected, scraping the back of his throat, but he held it this time—counted in his head like he was timing a drill.
One, two—
He exhaled, coughing just enough to make the circle laugh.
"Atta boy," someone said.
Shane flipped them off weakly and handed the joint back, only vaguely aware of Ilya's hand finally closing around his wrist—warm, grounding.
"Enough," Ilya said, not unkindly.
Shane opened his mouth to argue.
Then, he promptly forgot what he'd been about to say.
"Well?" Ilya asked quietly. "How do you feel?"
Shane blinked, took inventory. His lungs felt fine. His head wasn't spinning. No lag. No haze. Just heat—mainly from the way half the team were still looking at them
"I feel... normal," Shane said. Then, after a beat, "Annoyingly normal."
Ilya's mouth curved. "That tracks. Shotgun's not always enough."
Shane frowned. "So that wasn't—"
"You're not high," Ilya confirmed. "Maybe a little warmed up. Nothing more."
Shane let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Relief flickered first—quick and instinctive—followed immediately by something else. Curiosity. Stubbornness.
"Oh," he said. "Okay."
Ilya tilted his head slightly, already clocking the shift. "Okay."
Shane shot him a look. "Don't psychoanalyse me."
"Big word," Ilya huffed, clearly amused. "I'm too drunk to translate."
That earned a snort out of Shane before he could stop himself.
He hesitated anyway, jaw tightening as the noise around them swelled—someone calling his name, someone else making a joke he pretended not to hear. The deck felt suddenly louder, like it was waiting for him to do something.
"I just—" Shane rolled his shoulders. "I don't like half-assing things."
Ilya sobered a fraction, eyes sharpening even through the alcohol
"You don't have to prove anything," he said. "This isn't a competition. These are your friends; they will not judge you.
"I know," Shane replied immediately. "That's not what I mean."
"Then what do you mean?" Ilya asked, voice steady despite the slur creeping at the edges.
Shane met his gaze, steady. "I want to know what it feels like. For real."
Ilya searched his face again, slower this time. Checking for bravado. For pressure. For that sharp edge Shane sometimes used as armour.
"Okay," he said again—different this time. Clear. Certain. "Then we do it slow. And we do it together.
Shane's shoulders eased, tension bleeding out of him. "You're really not going to let me be stupid about this, are you?"
Ilya's mouth twitched. "Absolutely not."
He shifted closer—not touching, not crowding—just close enough to be a solid, grounding presence at Shane's side.
"If at any point you change your mind," Ilya said, voice low and even, "you tell me. We stop. No questions."
Shane swallowed, throat tight, but nodded.
"Good," Ilya continued, seriousness holding for exactly half a second before it cracked. "Because I am drunk," he added, then tipped his head thoughtfully, "and a little high—" he made a tiny, very earnest hand gesture in the air, pinching his fingers together "—so I cannot read your mind right now."
Shane blinked.
Then he laughed, the tension snapping cleanly in two. "You don't normally read minds."
Ilya gasped, affronted. "Excuse me. I am very intuitive."
"Sure you are."
"Yes," Ilya said solemnly. "But tonight? You must use words."
The warmth in Shane's chest spread—relief, affection, steadiness all tangled together. He nodded again, this time more easily. "Okay. I'll tell you."
Ilya's mouth softened into something fond. "Good. That is all I ask."
He stayed right there, close but hands-off, a quiet anchor amid the noise and laughter of the deck—letting the choice stay exactly where it belonged, with Shane.
"Boyle," Ilya said, turning back toward the circle, voice carrying just enough to cut through the noise, "stop hogging and pass."
There was a chorus of exaggerated groans.
"Oh, now you care about sharing," Boyle shot back, but he grinned as he leaned forward and handed it over.
Ilya took it, inspected it like he was judging quality control, then glanced sideways at Shane. "Still good?"
Shane nodded. "Still good."
Ilya handed him the joint without ceremony. No buildup. No pressure.
"Small pull," he instructed quietly. "Inhale. Hold for two. Exhale. I'll tell you when you've had enough."
Shane took it, fingers steady despite the way his pulse ticked a little faster. He lifted his eyes to Ilya's one more time, searching—then found exactly what he needed there. Calm. Certainty. No expectation beyond being honest.
Ilya's thumb brushed briefly over Shane's knuckles, grounding and sure, a wordless check-in.
"Ready?" Ilya asked.
Shane nodded.
He brought the joint to his lips, drew in carefully—just a slight pull, like he'd been told. The smoke was warm this time, less harsh than he'd expected. He held it, counting in his head.
One.
Two.
Then he exhaled, slow and controlled, watching the smoke curl away into the night.
Ilya watched his face closely, eyes sharp even through the haze of alcohol. "Good," he murmured. "Just like that."
Shane handed it back, chest rising a little quicker now, anticipation buzzing under his skin—but still clear—still himself.
Ilya didn't react to the laughter the way Shane expected.
He didn't preen. Didn't play it up. Didn't even glance toward Luca or the rest of the team.
His attention stayed locked on Shane.
"Hey," he said quietly, lowering his voice until it barely carried past the space between them. "Eyes on me."
Shane swallowed and obeyed without thinking. The world narrowed again, sound dampening, lights softening at the edges. Ilya's face was steady—amused, yes, but more than that: focused.
"How's your head?" Ilya asked.
Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "It feels like... light."
Ilya hummed, low and thoughtful. "Okay. Any nausea?"
"No."
"Dizzy?"
"A little. But not bad." Shane shifted his weight—and immediately wobbled. "—Okay, maybe bad."
Ilya's hand was on his waist instantly, firm and sure. "Easy," he said, steady as ever. "You're good. I've got you."
The certainty in it loosened something in Shane's chest, warmth spreading where tension had been coiled tight. He let himself lean—just slightly—and Ilya adjusted without comment, anchoring him like it was second nature.
"Breathe with me," Ilya said again. "In. Slow."
Shane followed, chest rising under Ilya's palm.
"And out," Ilya murmured.
The deck faded around them. Laughter and music blurred into something distant, harmless, as it belonged to another night entirely. Shane focused on the rhythm—inhale, exhale—matching Ilya's unhurried breathing beat for beat.
"There you go," Ilya said softly. "You're riding it now."
His thumb pressed lightly, reassuring.
"You're safe," Ilya added. "You're just high."
"Never thought I'd see the day Shane fucking Hollander gets high," Evan said, gesturing broadly at the pair of them.
A chorus of laughter followed.
"Never thought I'd see Roz this fucking soft," someone else chimed in.
His shoulders tensed on instinct, awareness sharpening even through the alcohol and haze.
Before he could say a word, Shane stirred against him.
"He's always been soft," Shane mumbled, words thick and earnest. He tipped his head back just enough to look at Ilya, a fond, unfocused smile spreading across his face. "My little teddy bear."
Then he kissed him.
It was clumsy and brief and wildly unplanned—and it nearly sent both of them off-balance—but Ilya caught them at the last second, gripping Shane more firmly as laughter and hollers erupted around the deck.
"Okay," Ilya said tightly, forcing a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Okay. Now that you all know my deepest, darkest secrets, I think it is time I get my lovely husband home."
"Boooo," someone complained.
"Let him live," another said.
Ilya shifted them gently anyway, angling Shane so his back rested safely near the railing while Ilya stood between him and the group—not to block them out, to keep Shane steady.
Shane sighed, content, leaning fully into him.
Ilya tightened his arm just a little, smiling despite himself.
"Water?" Ilya asked.
"Please," Shane nodded immediately.
Ilya took his hand and led him back inside, guiding him through the crowd with an easy familiarity, one hand settling at Shane's lower back to keep him steady. Shane clung shamelessly to the front of Ilya's jacket, fingers curled tight like it was the only solid thing in the room.
The music was louder inside, bass thudding through the floor, lights too bright and a little too close. Shane leaned heavily into Ilya as they reached the bar.
"Water," Ilya said to the bartender, clear and practised, already shifting so Shane had space to brace himself against the counter.
He stayed right there, close and steady, thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles at Shane's back while they waited—no rush, no pressure. Just making sure Shane stayed upright, breathing, and exactly where he needed to be.
"I love you," Shane said earnestly as he sipped his water, eyes a little too serious for how casual the words sounded.
Ilya smiled, soft and fond. "You okay?"
Shane rolled his eyes. "I'm fine."
Ilya didn't argue. He knew that tone—knew the way Shane's jaw stayed tight, the way his shoulders hadn't quite relaxed yet. Fine, but still a little mad. Fine, but not finished.
Shane watched Ilya pull out his phone and order them an Uber.
Part of him wanted to retaliate against the familiar urge to argue, to insist he was fine, that he could go back out and keep going. He'd only had two drags and a shotgun, for god's sake. Barely anything. He could handle that.
He opened his mouth, ready to say as much—ready to insist he was fine, that he could keep going.
Then he let it go.
Because it felt nice to be taken care of without having to ask. To have someone step in and shoulder the decision for him. Ilya always seemed to know what he wanted before he said it—like maybe he really could read his mind.
And if he was honest—painfully, quietly honest, even if he hated admitting it—Ilya was once again correct.
He did need to go home.
The noise, the lights, the way his thoughts lagged just half a beat behind his body... it was all adding up, stacking higher with every passing minute.
Shane exhaled slowly and leaned into Ilya's side, surrendering the argument he'd almost made.
Just this once, being right could belong to someone else.
Ilya tucked his phone back into his pocket and shifted closer, reading the way Shane leaned into him like an answer all on its own.
"Five minutes," he said quietly. "Car's on the way."
Shane nodded, slower now. "Okay."
They stood together at the edge of the bar, the chaos of the team still buzzing behind them. Someone laughed too loudly; someone bumped a shoulder. It all felt a step removed.
Ilya's hand settled at Shane's lower back again—steady and familiar. Not steering. Just there.
"You wanna sit?" Ilya asked.
Shane considered it, then shook his head. "If I sit, I'm not getting up."
"That is okay," Ilya said calmly. "I can carry you."
Shane snorted, the thought clearly derailing him. "God," he muttered, half to himself, "I'm so fucking gay."
Ilya's mouth twitched.
Shane huffed a laugh and tipped his forehead briefly against Ilya's shoulder. "You're very smug about this."
"Yes," Ilya agreed easily. "But only because I am correct."
"Don't push it."
Ilya smiled anyway, hand warm at Shane's back, staying exactly where he was.
The minutes stretched. Shane sipped his water, grounding himself in the cold of the glass, the familiar comfort of Ilya's thumb tracing slow circles at his back. His body felt heavier now—not bad, just... done.
A shout rang out across the deck. Shane flinched.
Ilya noticed instantly, his thumb pressing lightly into Shane's side. "Hey," he murmured. "Stay with me."
"I am," Shane said. "Everything's just... louder."
"I know," Ilya replied, leaning closer, voice low. "That'll pass. You're doing great."
The praise tightened something in Shane's throat. "I don't feel very great."
"I know, sweetheart," Ilya said. "Just tell me if it changes."
Shane nodded, breathing, sipping water until the edge of the high smoothed into something softer—less sharp, more float.
"You didn't make fun of me," he said quietly.
Ilya lifted a brow. "Should I have?"
"No," Shane said quickly. Then, softer, "Thanks."
"It's your first time," Ilya said gently.
Something unclenched in Shane's chest. He leaned in fully, and Ilya's arm came around him without hesitation.
"I think I'm okay," Shane murmured.
Ilya waited a beat, then nodded. "Good. No rush."
A moment later, Ilya's phone buzzed. He glanced down. "They're here."
Relief and reluctance fluttered through Shane as he straightened—and immediately wobbled.
Ilya caught him easily. "Easy."
"Still got legs," Shane muttered.
"Yes," Ilya said fondly. "They're trying."
They made their way toward the door together, Shane sticking close as Ilya guided them through the crowd. A few goodbyes followed them out.
The cool night air hit Shane like a reset. He breathed it in deep, stars blinking overhead, and let himself be led home.
The car was warm and quiet. Shane sank into the seat, watching the city blur past in soft streaks of light.
He leaned into Ilya without thinking. Ilya adjusted automatically—solid, steady, an anchor.
“You’re… very comfortable,” Shane murmured. Ilya huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t comment.
The silence stretched, easy but not empty. Shane shifted, the words slipping loose now, harder to keep inside.
“I don’t like you speaking for me,” he said quietly, not looking up. “I know you mean well. But sometimes you treat me like I’m some innocent child. And I know that’s how a lot of people—even teammates—see me, but it’s embarrassing.” He huffed out a breath.
Ilya stayed quiet.
“I’m a thirty-two-year-old man,” Shane added, finally looking up at him. “If I want to smoke, I will. I don’t need you to speak for me.”
“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, running his thumb gently over Shane’s knuckles. “I should’ve checked with you.”
“I just need you to remember I’m not fragile,” Shane sighed.
“I know you’re not,” Ilya said immediately. “You’re stubborn.” A pause, then softer, “And I know you. I didn’t want you to do something you’d regret.”
He hesitated, then added more quietly, “And I love you, so sometimes I get a little overprotective.”
The words settled between them, warm and honest, and Shane let out a slow breath—leaning back into Ilya, not because he needed to be held, but because he chose to be.
Shane was quiet for a long moment, listening to the hum of the road, the steady rhythm of Ilya’s breathing beside him.
"I’m glad I tried," he said finally, the weight of the moment settling between them. "I just... I don’t think I need to do it again."
Ilya nodded without a second of hesitation. "Okay."
"I love you, too," Shane added. He tried to tuck himself closer into Ilya’s space—a clumsy maneuver given the seatbelts and the centre console—but he needed the contact. He needed to feel grounded. "And I like it when you look out for me. Truly. But I need you to remember that you can’t actually read my mind. You have to communicate with me."
Ilya offered a small, crooked smile. "I get pretty close, though." He paused, his expression softening into something more sincere. "But I promise. I’ll talk to you next time."
"Good," Shane murmured. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive whisper against Ilya’s ear. "Now let’s go home so you can suck me off as an apology."
His arm slid around Shane, slow and deliberate. Shane leaned into it without hesitation this time, letting the warmth settle, the tension ease.
"You're staring at me," Shane murmured, eyes already heavy.
"Always."
"Asshole."
Ilya smiled, pressing his temple lightly to Shane's.
By the time they reached home, Shane was half asleep, breathing steadily against Ilya's side, trusting him to carry them the rest of the way.
Inside, the quiet wrapped around them the moment the door closed. Shane sagged as his strings had finally been cut. Anya bounced at their feet, nails clicking against the floor.
“Hi, baby,” Ilya murmured to her, fond but distracted. He didn’t bend to pat her—his attention stayed firmly on Shane.
“Bed or food?” he asked.
“Bed,” Shane decided immediately. “I still feel like I’m floating.”
Ilya smiled, nodding. “Ок, мой сладкий мальчик.”
They moved through the house slowly, Ilya matching Shane’s pace without comment, guiding him by instinct more than pressure. Once they reached the bedroom, Ilya sat Shane gently on the edge of the bed and crouched to deal with his sneakers.
“They don’t need to be untied,” Shane said vaguely.
“I know,” Ilya replied, calm and unbothered. “But you will complain later if I don’t.”
Shane hummed, conceding the point. He watched with heavy-lidded eyes as Ilya worked, fingers sure and practised, the normalcy of it all finally pulling him down out of that floaty space.
Eventually, Shane tipped forward, forehead landing against Ilya’s shoulder.
“Hey,” Ilya said softly, steadying him. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” Shane murmured. “I’m just… very done.”
Ilya smiled to himself, standing once the shoes were off and guiding Shane back onto the bed properly. He helped him out of his jacket, tugged the covers up, and pressed a brief, gentle kiss to his temple.
Ilya moved around the room quietly, the quiet you only learn when you love someone who’s half asleep and easily startled. He shed his jacket, kicked off his shoes, and checked the thermostat out of habit. Normal things. Anchors.
Shane was already curled on his side, breathing slow and even, one arm flung across Ilya’s pillow like a placeholder. Anya had claimed the space behind his knees, a warm, solid weight.
Ilya paused at the edge of the bed, just watching him for a second.
Shane looked peaceful in that loose, boneless way he only ever did when he’d let himself be taken care of all the way through. No armour. No vigilance. Just trust.
Ilya slid in beside him carefully. The mattress dipped, and Shane stirred immediately, mumbling something unintelligible as he scooted closer on instinct.
“There you go,” Ilya murmured, barely above a breath.
Shane’s hand found him, fingers curling into the front of Ilya’s shirt. “You stayed,” he said, eyes still closed.
“I said I would.”
A faint smile tugged at Shane’s mouth. “Good.”
Ilya wrapped an arm around him, palm resting flat against Shane’s back—steady, grounding, exactly where it belonged. He felt the last of the tension ease out of Shane’s body, felt the moment sleep really took him.
The house was quiet. The night was done.
Ilya stared up at the ceiling for a while longer, listening to the two most important beings in his life breathe in sync, and thought—not for the first time—that caring for someone wasn’t about control.
It was about staying.