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Shane woke up already tired.
Not the kind of tired that had anything to do with sleep. It was the kind that sat in his chest like a fist and made every breath feel like it had to squeeze past something.
He blinked at the ceiling, waiting for the moment his brain would supply the reason.
It didn’t.
No nightmare. No missed alarm. No sick parent. No bad headline. No big conversation he’d been dreading. No secret he was protecting. The day ahead was…fine. Practice later. Groceries at some point. Maybe a movie they would pretend to watch on the couch until one of them inevitably falls asleep. Nothing that should have flipped his nervous system into full emergency.
And yet his body had decided: Something is wrong. Something is coming. Something is about to happen.
Shane swallowed against the dryness in his throat and forced himself to move. If he stayed still too long, it always got worse. The quiet gave his anxiety space to echo.
Beside him, Ilya slept on his back, one arm slung over Shane’s pillow like he’d been looking for him even in his sleep. His face was peaceful, mouth slightly open, eyelashes dark against his cheeks.
Shane stared at him for a second, and the feeling in his chest sharpened.
Not because of Ilya. Because of what Ilya represented: safety, steadiness, home. And Shane’s brain, cruelly efficient, had a habit of taking the things he loved and using them as targets.
What if you ruin this?
Shane sat up carefully, inch by inch, so the mattress wouldn’t shift too much. He moved like he was defusing a bomb.
His heart was already sprinting.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood on feet that felt oddly unreal, like he was balancing on the wrong point of gravity. The air felt too cool against his skin. His shoulders were tense without permission.
He exhaled quietly through his nose. Okay. Fine. You’re fine.
In the bathroom, he ran the tap and stared into the mirror while he brushed his teeth. His eyes were too alert for the hour, scanning his own reflection like he expected it to morph into something else.
He looked…normal.
That was the worst part.
He could be unraveling internally and still look like Shane Hollander: disciplined, calm, put-together. Someone who could take a hit and keep skating. Someone who didn’t panic for no reason.
Someone who definitely didn’t wake up on a random Tuesday with the sensation that the world was about to end.
The toothpaste foamed. He rinsed. His hands shook slightly when he reached for the towel.
Shane stared at his fingers until they steadied.
Don’t make this a thing, he told himself. Don’t drag Ilya into it. It’ll pass. It always passes.
He stepped out of the bathroom and paused in the hall, listening. The apartment was quiet. The sun was barely up, winter light peeking soft and pale through the curtains. It should’ve felt peaceful.
Instead, it felt like waiting.
He went to the kitchen, started the coffee machine, and arranged himself into usefulness, because usefulness was something he could control.
Mugs out. Grounds measured. Water filled.
His mind kept looping.
Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.
He didn’t even know what he was afraid of. That was what made it so unbearable. At least when he had a reason, he could strategize. Fix. Plan. Prepare.
But this?
This was just his nervous system flipping the table and screaming RUN at him while everything in front of him sat perfectly still.
Shane leaned on the counter and counted his breaths.
One. Two. Three. Four.
His heart didn’t care.
Behind him, the bedroom door creaked softly.
Shane straightened immediately, like he’d been caught doing something suspicious.
“Morning,” Ilya said, voice rough with sleep.
Shane didn’t turn around too quickly. Too quickly might look like panic.
“Hey.” He forced the word to sound casual. “Coffee’s on.”
A pause. Ilya was watching him, already gathering data with that quiet, predatory focus he had.
“Mm.” Ilya crossed the kitchen and pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder from behind. Warm lips. Familiar weight. His hands settled around Shane’s waist like they belonged there, like nothing could threaten it.
Shane’s chest tightened harder.
He smiled anyway, because he’d practiced smiling through discomfort for most of his life.
“You sleep okay?” Shane asked, keeping his voice light.
“Better than you,” Ilya murmured into his shoulder.
Shane’s spine went rigid.
Ilya’s arms tightened a fraction, not squeezing, but anchoring. “Shane.”
“I slept fine.” Shane reached for a mug. His hand betrayed him with a tiny tremor. He tightened his grip until the ceramic didn’t rattle.
Ilya’s hand slid up his side, steadying without calling attention. “Liar.”
Shane gave a small laugh that didn’t sound like him. “I’m not lying.”
“You are.” Ilya stepped back just enough to see Shane’s face. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp. “You are doing the thing.”
Shane’s stomach dropped. “What thing.”
“You think I can’t tell.” Ilya tilted his head slightly. “Your shoulders are up. Your jaw is locked. You are moving like you are… avoiding something.”
Shane swallowed. “I’m just tired.”
“Mm.” Ilya didn’t argue, which was worse. He just watched him a moment longer, gaze tracking Shane’s micro-movements like he was reading a language only he knew.
Then, very gently, he reached out and took Shane’s wrist.
Shane froze.
Ilya’s thumb pressed against the inside of Shane’s wrist, feeling the frantic pulse there. His eyebrows drew together.
“There,” Ilya said softly. “Your heart is going too fast.”
Shane tried to pull back with a little joke. “Maybe I’m excited about coffee.”
Ilya didn’t smile. “No.”
The word landed heavy, not angry. But certain.
Shane’s breath caught, and his body reacted. A wave of dizziness rolled through him, like his brain suddenly remembered it was allowed to panic.
He set the mug down too fast. The ceramic clinked against the counter.
Ilya’s other hand came up, and now he was holding both of Shane’s wrists, steadying them.
“Look at me,” Ilya said.
Shane stared at the counter.
“Shane.”
His throat burned. He didn’t want to do this. Not like this. Not when he didn’t even have a reason.
If he admitted he was anxious for nothing, that made him feel weak. Broken. Dramatic. It made it feel like he couldn’t trust himself.
Ilya’s grip didn’t tighten, but his presence did. He stepped closer until Shane couldn’t pretend he was alone with it.
“Hey, hey,” Ilya murmured, voice lower, softer. “You are safe.”
Shane flinched like the words hit a raw nerve.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Shane said quickly, like if he said it fast enough it wouldn’t count. “I’m fine. It’s just…”
He stopped because his voice cracked.
That was the moment Ilya’s face changed. Something in him shifted from analysis to instinct.
“Oh, Moya lyubov,” Ilya whispered.
Shane hated how relieved that made him.
He hated even more that his eyes stung.
“It’s stupid,” Shane said, too harshly. “There’s no reason. Nothing happened. I just… woke up like this.”
Ilya released one wrist so he could cup Shane’s face. His thumb brushed gently under Shane’s eye, like he was already prepared for tears even if Shane wasn’t.
“It is not stupid,” Ilya said. “It happens.”
Shane shook his head, a sharp, frustrated movement. “Not like this.”
Ilya leaned his forehead against Shane’s. Warmth. Pressure. Grounding.
“You are not in trouble,” Ilya murmured. “I am not mad. I just want to help.”
Shane inhaled shakily, and the inhale turned into something too big, his lungs snagging on panic. He clenched his teeth to stop it from turning into a full spiral.
Ilya felt it immediately.
He slid his hands down to Shane’s shoulders and pressed firmly. “Sit.”
Shane blinked. “What?”
“Sit down,” Ilya repeated, calm like he was giving a simple instruction at practice.
Shane obeyed automatically, because Ilya’s voice like that was hardwired into him. He lowered into the kitchen chair, hands gripping the edge.
His legs bounced once, twice.
Ilya crouched in front of him immediately, blocking the open space of the kitchen like he was creating a contained world. He put both hands on Shane’s knees to stop the bouncing.
“Okay,” Ilya said. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” Shane snapped, then winced, ashamed.
Ilya didn’t flinch. He just nodded once. “Yes. But we do it together.”
He inhaled slowly, exaggerated it, making it obvious.
Shane tried to match him. The first inhale was too shallow. The second got caught halfway. His chest felt locked.
Ilya reached behind him and pulled his own shirt off over his head in one fluid motion.
Shane blinked, distracted despite himself. “What are you…”
Ilya took Shane’s hands and pressed them flat against his bare ribs. Skin. Heat. The steady rise and fall.
“Here,” Ilya said softly. “Feel me. Follow.”
Shane’s hands trembled against Ilya’s sides. But he could feel him: solid, calm, and alive.
Ilya breathed in. Shane forced himself to breathe in too.
Ilya breathed out. Shane tried to let his breath follow.
Again.
And again.
The panic didn’t disappear, but it loosened just slightly, like someone had unhooked a claw from his ribs.
Shane swallowed hard. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to…” Shane’s voice faltered. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Ilya’s eyes softened in a way that made Shane’s throat close again.
“I see you like this,” Ilya said, voice low and firm, “and I love you anyway.”
Shane made a small noise that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a sob.
Ilya’s hands stayed steady on his legs. “Tell me what it feels like.”
Shane stared at Ilya’s collarbone, because meeting his eyes felt too intimate right now. “Like… something bad is going to happen.”
“But you don’t know what.”
Shane shook his head.
“Like you are waiting.” Ilya sounded sure, like he’d been here before with Shane more times than Shane wanted to admit.
“Yes.” Shane’s voice came out whisper-thin. “And it’s everywhere. In my body. Like I’m vibrating.”
Ilya nodded slowly. “Okay. That makes sense.”
Shane frowned. “How does that make sense.”
“Because your brain is trying to protect you,” Ilya said, simple. “It thinks there is danger. It sends alarms.”
“But there’s no danger,” Shane said, frustration rising again. “There’s nothing.”
Ilya’s gaze didn’t waver. “Sometimes your brain is wrong.”
Shane stared at him.
Ilya reached out, tugged Shane forward, and then pressed a kiss to his forehead.
“Sometimes,” Ilya murmured against his skin, “you just have a bad brain day. Like when I am sad.”
Shane huffed a shaky breath. The phrase, bad brain day, was so stupid and gentle that it cracked something in him. It gave the anxiety a place to sit without becoming a moral failure.
“I don’t want a bad brain day,” Shane muttered.
“I know.” Ilya’s hands slid up Shane’s arms, rubbing slow circles into the tense muscle. “But you are allowed. Happens to everyone sometimes.”
Shane’s vision blurred unexpectedly.
He blinked hard, furious at himself.
Ilya noticed anyway. Of course he did. He always did.
He stood and sat in the chair beside Shane, then pulled him into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. He wrapped both arms around him, one hand cradling the back of Shane’s head, fingers threading gently through his hair.
Shane resisted for half a second. Then the fight drained out of him so fast it was almost scary.
He curled into Ilya’s warmth, forehead pressed to his shoulder. His breath shuddered.
“There,” Ilya murmured. “Yes.”
Shane’s hands clutched at Ilya’s shirt like he needed proof that he was real.
Ilya held him tighter, firm pressure, the kind Shane’s body responded to without debate.
They stayed like that for a while, the coffee machine gurgling in the background like it belonged to another universe.
Eventually, Shane’s heart slowed enough that he could feel it. His muscles stopped buzzing like live wires.
The anxiety wasn’t gone. It sat quieter now. Still present, but less sharp.
Shane swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him. “For what.”
“For being… like this,” Shane said, and hated himself for it.
Ilya’s eyes hardened, not at Shane, but at the idea behind his words. “No.”
Shane blinked.
“No,” Ilya repeated, voice stern now. “You do not apologize to me for having feelings.”
“It’s not even feelings,” Shane muttered. “It’s just… chemicals. Misfiring.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. “Then you do not apologize for having a brain.”
Shane let out a weak, shaky laugh.
There it was, just a tiny crack in the panic. A place air could get in.
Ilya kissed his temple. “Do you want to talk about anything specific? Or do you just need… help until it passes.”
Shane closed his eyes, considering.
His anxiety wanted him to do something. To solve it, to fix it, to justify it. But there was no justification.
All he could do was ride it out.
“I don’t know,” Shane admitted quietly. “I just… feel wrong.”
Ilya nodded slowly, accepting. “Okay. Then we do simple things.”
“Like what.”
Ilya’s voice softened into something almost domestic. “First we drink coffee.”
Shane snorted, small and real. “Okay.”
“Then we eat something.” Ilya pressed another kiss to Shane’s hair. “Toast. Eggs. I make something. You sit.”
Shane hesitated. “I can make…”
“No.” Ilya gave him a look that brooked no argument. “You sit.”
Shane exhaled, letting himself be cared for. “Okay.”
Ilya stood, but didn’t move away right away. He kept a hand on Shane’s shoulder, like he was leaving an anchor behind.
“Also,” Ilya added casually, “I will stay near you at practice today. Just in case.”
Shane looked up sharply. “I don’t want everyone to know.”
“I know.” Ilya reached for the coffee pot, pouring carefully. “They don’t need to know the why. But I will be there if you need me.”
Shane swallowed. His instinct was to protest. I’m fine. I can handle it. I don’t need…
But the truth was, he did need.
So he nodded once. “Okay.”
Ilya set the mug in front of him. Then another mug for himself.
He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Shane’s lips. The kiss was slow, not asking for anything but connection.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against Shane’s again.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” Ilya whispered.
Shane’s eyes burned again.
“I know,” he managed.
“You can try,” Ilya added, lips twitching, “but you are bad at it.”
Shane let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Shut up.”
Ilya smiled, satisfied like he’d just won something small and precious. He brushed his thumb over Shane’s cheekbone.
“Drink,” he said softly. “We take it minute by minute. I am here.”
Shane wrapped both hands around the mug. The heat seeped into his palms. It was something real. Something present.
The anxiety still buzzed faintly in his blood.
But now, it had to share space with something stronger.
Something safe.
Shane took a sip of coffee and let himself breathe.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Ilya kissed his forehead again. “Good.”
And for the first time that morning, Shane believed, just a little, that it really would pass.