Archive of Our Own ^beta

Shane would not necessarily consider himself a particularly pessimistic person, but he does believe that some days simply need to be survived instead of actually lived.

Today, much to his chagrin, is one of those.

He woke up in a mood — the sheets scratchy instead of familiar against his skin, the water pressure of his shower exactly the same but somehow all wrong, the lights too bright, too intense, too much — and he hasn’t yet managed to swallow down his irritation.

The jar holding that disgusting instant coffee he usually forces himself to enjoy in the morning was annoyingly empty, breakfast was forgone because Shane still had an underwear photoshoot later and already felt wrong enough in his skin, and his phone informed him that he spent too much time staring into space and was now running late, which was just…great.

It’s a coincidence, really, that Shane pulls over halfway to the rink. He just needs a minute. There’s static in his ears, pounding in his head, an itchy feeling in the back of his throat. Moisture in his eyes, from some new pollen, the annoying kind that has nothing to do with being tired and overwhelmed and one more slight inconvenience away from a small mental breakdown.

When he releases a breath, it comes out weak and uneven instead of carefully controlled — and when his gaze lands on the coffee shop across the parking lot, the little air left in his lungs locks itself in entirely, his body persisting on a fight Shane doesn’t know how to win.

He wants.

His eyes flick back to the clock on his dashboard, considering. It’s a bad idea, probably. If he’s not early, he is late — but if he shows up with nothing in his stomach but anxiety and dread, he might just lay down on the ice and never get up again, and that sounds like an even worse idea.

So, it’s not much of a choice at all.

Shane sighs, and gets out of his car.

The shop turns out to be pleasantly empty, most of the morning rush already having passed — which is great for Shane, who is, of course, in a bit of a hurry here. He squints up at the displayed menus, frowns at the clearly indecisive costumer in front of him. Releases a sigh of relief when he spots the second barista, unoccupied apart from spinning around on the swivel chair he is slumped on, looking idle, bored, and, quite frankly, stunning.

Shane steps up to him, politely clears his throat, and watches the man stop mid-swing to stare at him with wide eyes, swaying slightly from leftover vertigo.

“Hi,” Shane mumbles, glancing back up at the menu. “Could I get an Americano, please?”

“Yes,” the man says, very slowly, as if he’s not entirely convinced by his own agreement. His gaze flicks to the barista next to him, then back to Shane.

He nods, swallows, looks a little starstruck.

Must be a hockey fan, Shane guesses as he pulls out his phone, slightly uncomfortable. He just hopes he won’t get asked for a picture.

Twenty minutes ago, Ilya did not believe in love at first sight.

Twenty minutes ago, Ilya was not yet a changed man.

With his newest movie wrapped and a press tour on the far horizon, he has weeks to shake his head at boring projects and focus on trying to remember how a regular sleep schedule is supposed to work. For the first time in a while, he is minutely untethered, free to do whatever he likes — which means Ilya got himself a haircut and a new pair of sunglasses, took the first available flight to Ottawa to pester his oldest friend, and is now half-hiding behind a pastry display that held half a dozen more chocolate chip cookies before he came around.

Svetlana had narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion earlier, but Ilya, ever the actor, just smiled around a mouthful of sweet treat and shrugged as he brushed incriminating crumbs off his shirt.

In his defense: They’re really good. Half-baked.

Just not enough to keep him entertained.

“This is boring,” he complains, drawing out the word. He likes to be the center of attention, not treated like a mere afterthought, and although he is aware that Svetlana has a job to do here, he thinks she could at least pretend to be more enamored by his blessed presence. They haven’t seen each other in months — though that particular argument lost its strength on the third morning he woke up on her couch. Hard to please, this one.

“I am so sorry that some of us have to work minimum wage jobs,” Svetlana says, rolling her eyes.

She does not sound very sorry. Ilya tries — and fails — to kick his foot against her shin.

“Quit, then. I will pay you to spend time with me instead.”

“You could not afford me, darling,” she scoffs, which doesn’t make much sense honestly, given that this tacky coffee shop and its most definitely tighter budget can afford her, but Ilya graciously decides not to point it out. Instead, he reaches for another cookie — and Svetlana, still politely smiling at the indecisive customer in front of her, steps sideways to swat his hand away with dangerous precision.

“If you steal one more cookie,” she hisses under her breath, “we are going to have a problem.”

Ilya sighs long-sufferingly, and snatches himself a brownie instead.

It is hard, sometimes, to be so misunderstood.

Chewing his brownie, he goes back to spinning on his chair, which earns him another glare, but no further comment. He is half-consumed by dizziness when someone clears his throat behind him and Ilya suddenly becomes that changed man who believes in love at first sight.

“Hi,” says the prettiest guy he has ever seen, nervously glancing at the coffee menu with big brown eyes and a small frown. He has freckles. Ilya thinks he might die. “Could I get an Americano, please?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, immediately, on pure instinct, though he is not entirely sure. Is an Americano American exclusive? Because it kind of sounds like it, and they’re in Canada. Although, a Canadian costumer probably wouldn’t order something secretly unavailable, right? No, probably not, Ilya thinks. But what if this is a test?

He glances at Svetlana, at the coffee machine, back at the pretty man. He’s got his phone out now, lower lip pulled between his teeth as he taps away at it, entirely unbothered while he waits for his coffee, which Ilya has no idea how to make, because he does not actually work here.

But he can’t let him down. And surely, preparing a coffee can’t be that hard.

He nods to himself, quickly steps in front of the coffee machine, and hopes for some buttons.

There are no buttons.

This might be the end of the world.

But then Svetlana steps up next to him, her hands moving quickly as she stirs together a drink that seems to consist of only milk and syrup, and Ilya’s faith returns. Wrapping a hand around her upper arm, he pulls her close.

“How do I work the coffee machine,” he says tonelessly, more plea than question.

“You don’t work the coffee machine,” Svetlana tells him, words coming slowly. She looks confused, sounds bewildered, and Ilya does not have time for this.

“I need to make a coffee,” he hisses, gaze flicking back to the man at the counter, lost in his phone, “for the love of my life.”

Svetlana’s eyebrows jump up. “Excuse me?”

She finishes up the drink, hands it over with a smile while Ilya follows her like a threat.

“This man,” he huffs, impatiently gesturing at said man before pointing back to the mystifying coffee machine without buttons. “I need to make the best American exclusive coffee in all Canada.”

“What are you on about?” Svetlana whines. Still, she shoulders him out of her way, detaches something from the machine that looks like it should not be detached, and fills it with freshly ground coffee beans before glancing back up at him. “Did you hit your head?” Then, when realization strikes, “An Americano, you mean?”

Delighted, Ilya clicks his tongue. “Yes!” He reaches for the…thing, tries to pry it out of her hands. “But let me. It needs to be me.”

“When have you ever made a coffee by yourself?” Svetlana mutters, unwilling to let go. She hates him, Ilya thinks. The whole world hates him.

“I can learn!” he insists.

“You can stand here and look pretty,” Svetlana corrects, not unkindly, as she expertly flicks her wrist in circular motions.

“Is not enough,” Ilya mumbles miserably. He sneaks another look at the pretty costumer, has half a heart attack when their gazes accidentally meet, and quickly turns away again.

Unimpressed, Svetlana flicks the space between his eyebrows. “Stop swallowing your words,” she scolds him. She ignores his scoff, but hands him the detached coffee machine thing and smiles at his delighted noise of relief. “So, this is a portafilter. Very important. You tamp your grounds first,”—she reaches for what Ilya guesses to be a…tamper? and firmly pushes it down into the filter-thing twice—“and then reattach it here. Lock, pull, let it pour. Got it?”

Ilya blinks at her, then slowly nods. Acting, again.

Satisfied, Svetlana pats his hand and goes on about water temperatures, the importance of exact measurements, and roast differences. Ilya is only half-listening. They should definitely pay her more than minimum wage, he thinks as she guides him through topping off his complicated espresso shot with hot water. So many steps for such a tasteless drink. He wrinkles his nose, then carefully fastens a lid onto the cup.

“One Americano for you,” he says, like a professional.

The man gives him a lopsided smile, mumbles his thanks, and reaches for the cup. Their fingers brush. Ilya experiences a full-body reaction to that.

“That’ll be $3.94,” Svetlana says, very much not like a professional.

The man blinks at her, says something Ilya does not catch, and reaches back for his phone.

“Can’t we give it to him for free?” Ilya asks, switching to Russian.

Svetlana stares at him, appalled. “No.”

Ilya sighs, and watches the payment go through. What a waste, he thinks.

“Well, then,” the man says, curiously eyeing the two of them. His gaze lingers on the absence of Ilya’s name tag and Ilya shifts on the spot, uncomfortable. “Thanks. Have a good day.”

“You too,” Ilya echoes weakly, watching him leave.

When the door falls closed behind him, he swears the lights dim a little.

“Do you think he will come back?” Ilya wonders, chin in his hand, the corners of his mouth turned down.

Svetlana snorts, and throws a wet cloth at him.

He needs new friends. And some coffee tutorials, maybe.

Just in case.

So, Shane did not buy any new instant coffee. Which has everything to do with being busy and forgetful and exhausted, and nothing to do with the barista on the swivel chair. Not that he wasn’t ridiculously attractive with those soft curls and sharp cheek bones, the lopsided smile and the curious eyes, the slight slurring of his words and the way his gaze lingered with what almost seemed like intent; it’s just— Shane just forgot to buy new instant coffee. That’s it.

He went to the store yesterday, glanced down at his list, somehow skipped over the words instant coffee, missed the aisle even though he remembers walking through it, and drove back home without noticing. Mistakes happen; he’ll get it next time.

Maybe.

In the meantime, he’ll just hunt for his caffeine elsewhere. Namely, his newly discovered coffee shop of choice. And the coffee itself wasn’t even all that good — better than instant coffee, yes, but it’s still just black coffee, and it all kind of tastes the same to Shane — but there’s a strange need in his chest for another one. He hasn’t been sleeping well, which is connected to nothing in particular, of course, and he just needs a coffee.

Shane hasn’t yet decided if it’s a good or a bad thing to know exactly where to get one, now.

He might not even be working today, he thinks in the parking lot as he fixes his hair, which is also completely unrelated to the entire matter. A lot of coincidences out here — but the most pleasant one turns out to be the fact that the cute barista is indeed working when Shane pushes his way through the door.

Or, well. Working seems like a bit of a loose term here.

“Hello!” he calls out to Shane, one hand on the counter, the other impatiently waving the man in front of him over to the second register.

Shane smiles at the ground, quickly makes his way over, and thinks about how the act of walking is really very weird, especially when aware of it. If he stumbles and falls now, he hopes for a strong enough impact to be taken out for forever.

“Hi. Good morning,” he says once he has successfully arrived at the counter. Yesterday, the walk somehow felt shorter. And less weird.

“Very good indeed,” the man nods, smiling so widely it shows off his teeth, which causes a mysterious heat to bloom low in Shane’s stomach, and Shane himself to wonder whether he is going to get sick. God, he hopes not. The timing would be awful.

“How’s the shift going?” He forces a smile onto his face, but cringes as soon as the question leaves his lips — because is he supposed to make conversation here or is he being one of those annoying customers that hold up the line because they believe themselves to be the center of the world? — but there is no one behind him when he risks a glance over his shoulder, and the barista is grinning even wider now, to the point where it must be hurting at least a little. So. Whatever?

“Eh,” he shrugs, elbows on the counter, chin in hand, no care in the world, “you know. Pretty qui—”

“Don’t!” the second barista exclaims, stopping mid-pour to level her coworker with a glare so icy it might just cause hell to freeze over. “Don’t you dare say it, Ilya. I will throw you out onto the curb. I will.”

Shane’s gaze jumps back and forth between them just like last time, curious against his will. Or, dejected against his will, because he kind of thinks they might be dating. There’s…that comfortable air of familiarity between them that comes with shared intimacy. Not that Shane would know; shared intimacy usually just makes him more uncomfortable.

Anyway, the cute barista — Ilya — seems to declare her threat as harmless because he simply shrugs, rolls his eyes, and turns his attention back to Shane. “Svetlana is very superstitious,” he explains conspiringly, his accent rolling over the words. “Easy to rile her up.”

Shane, who knows a thing or two about superstitions and even more things about being easy to rile up, nods wordlessly.

“Do you want a cookie?” Ilya asks suddenly, eyeing the pastry display next to them with great interest. “They are very good.”

“No, thanks,” Shane says, swallowing. “Just a coffee.”

Hazel eyes snap back to study him, slowly, intensely, and now Shane feels on display. Weirdly enough though, he doesn’t not like it. Which…

“Americano again?” Ilya questions, one corner of his mouth rising into another one of those lopsided smiles.

Shane, oddly endeared that Ilya cared to remember his single order in a storm of what must be hundreds of others, mumbles something between a yes and a thanks, nods and shakes his head at once, and stares down at the counter in between them, silently begging its cool surface to get rid of the heat in his cheeks. He can’t tell whether this is going good or badly, and he doesn’t even know why he cares. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t.

“I love making Americanos,” Ilya tells him, which…seems like a bit of an odd statement, but who is Shane to judge. He is very familiar with odd statements. Less familiar with knowing what to reply to them.

“That’s good,” he says, which is bad. Briefly, he closes his eyes.

It causes him to miss Ilya’s pleased smile as he starts to work the espresso machine with practiced movements.

“Did you know,” he chatters, nodding his head at Shane for him to follow, “that it was the American soldiers who came up with Americano in the Second World War?”

“Huh,” says Shane, who did, indeed, not know that.

“Yes. They could not take the bitter Italian espresso, so they added a lot of water.” He looks up, grins. “Just like you now.”

Shane splutters, smiling against his will. “I like espresso. I can take it just fine.”

Ilya hums, his eyes slowly traveling up and down Shane’s body. “Sure you can.” He licks his lips — and Shane feels breathless. “Or maybe we just need to figure out what you really like. You cannot keep drinking boring Americano.”

“I can’t?”

Ilya shakes his head. “It is a crime. You need excitement in your drink, maybe then you will look less tired. Someone kept you up last night?”

Shane snorts out a laugh that morphs into a choked cough. “No! No. I’m just— I didn’t sleep well.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, nodding as if he understands. “Good coffee will help you. Exciting coffee will cure you.”

“Okay.” Shane laughs again. “What do you recommend, then?”

“Local drink. Canadiano, it is called — we are in Canada, after all.” He looks oddly proud of himself, and Shane hates to point it out but—

“It’s not on the menu.”

Unbothered, Ilya rolls his eyes. “I would still make one for you. Maybe next time, yes?”

Shane swallows. His stomach is doing the weird heat-thing again. “Yeah. Why not?”

“Good,” Ilya says, holding his gaze like a promise. Which is a stupid thing to think, honestly. It’s definitely not that deep.

Shane nods, swallows, and quickly looks away. He ends up looking right at Ilya’s coworker friend — Svetlana — who is watching the two of them with raised eyebrows and a small smile. So…maybe they’re not dating, after all.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” she states. Her tone is casual, but her stance is all business, and Shane is slowly starting to curse the discovery of coffee beans and his resulting craving for them. Why couldn’t he grow up to be a tea drinker?

“Oh, I— Well, usually I just drink coffee at home. But, uhm. I work nearby, and just thought I should, like, check out the shop, you know? Save the time in the morning. All that.”

He’s not making any sense. Does he have to make sense? Is this an interrogation? Should he be sweating this much?

“The things you do for good coffee, right?”

“Right,” Shane echoes weakly.

“So,” Svetlana continues, shoulders relaxing slightly as a twinkle of amusement enters her eyes, “how are you liking the service here so far?”

“Sveta,” Ilya mutters from behind the espresso machine. He shakes his head at her, then offers Shane a sympathetic grimace. “She gets bad reviews all the time. Fake friendly, they call her. Nosy, too. And they are right.”

“Oh?”

“He is lying,” Svetlana grumbles, turning towards the register — to ring Shane up, probably. She did it last time, too. Maybe Ilya doesn’t like that part of his job.

As if summoned, he appears by her side, fresh coffee in hand, nervous smile on his lips, eyes very obviously squinting down at Shane’s credit card as he pays, which Shane is sure is some kind of invasion of privacy policy — not that he minds. Actually, he finds himself oddly endeared.

“Well, Shane,” Ilya says pointedly, grinning as if he won something more than just a name, “here is your boring coffee.”

Shane huffs out another laugh as he takes his Americano. “You literally just said you love preparing it five minutes ago.”

“I do love it,” Ilya admits. “I really do.”

“I’m gonna go and do inventory or something,” Svetlana mutters.

Ilya pats her shoulder as she leaves, and Shane should really get going too, but.

“You’re not wearing a name tag,” he ponders.

Or a uniform, he adds silently.

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek and says, “I am a private guy.” He shrugs, then softens. “But it is Ilya.”

“I know,” Shane admits, turning the cup of coffee in between his hands. “I overheard it, earlier. So.”

Ilya’s face breaks out into a smile, bright and warm and beautiful enough to give Shane the jitters. “Are you paying attention, Shane?”

“I am going to work,” Shane says, smiling down at the floor. “Thanks for the coffee, Ilya.”

“Anytime,” Ilya says, and somehow, he sounds like he means it in ways that go a tad beyond it being his job. Shane is not going to overthink it, though.

He has a rink to get to, a practice to push through, a team to lead — and a coffee to drink.

It is only in his car, that he finally catches sight of the little heart carefully drawn onto the paper cup. He presses his thumb over it, chews on his lower lip, and definitely overthinks that.

It takes a few days for them to meet again and when they do, it’s towards the end of a rush so bad Ilya finds himself considering to quit a job he never actually had. By now, he knows his way around the shop well enough to actually feel bad if he doesn’t offer his help — which means he is preparing his sixth weirdly specific latte with more spices than coffee in it when Shane steps through the door and momentarily pauses, probably thrown by the noise.

Ilya emphasizes. Ilya also immediately pushes his half-finished coffee towards a groaning Svetlana and steps away from the tumult to wave Shane over.

“I’ve never seen the shop this busy,” Shane states, side-eying the packed tables with a slightly scrunched nose. He looks caught between surprise and disgust, and Ilya fights the urge to pull him over the counter and behind himself.

“Not your usual time,” Ilya points out, wiping his hands on the apron he stole from someone else’s locker. He’s already violating enough codes here, one more won’t turn the tide. Probably.

Shane’s eyes follow the movement of his hands, then snap up again. “Yeah, it’s— Yeah.”

Ilya nods, then glares at the noisy row of customers. “They are buying all the pastries.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Shane ponders, cocking his head as he smiles, endeared. “For the sales?”

“I guess,” Ilya mutters. He cares less about the sales than about getting his own fair share of sweet treats, but that might not be the most appropriate thing to admit right now. Not that he particularly cares about appropriate behavior on a day to day basis. It’s the principle, though. “Well, speaking of sales: What can I get you, today?”

Shane’s face falls, briefly, before he hurriedly schools it into a neutral expression that looks more like a grimace. “I— Uh.”

Ilya stops counting the freckles on the bridge of his nose and wonders, “Do you want to try the Canadiano now?”

“Oh,” Shane blinks, lighting up like sunshine. “You remembered that?”

“Of course I did,” Ilya frowns. “It was my idea. Great one, too.”

Shane smiles, soft and pleased. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“And I like the sound of that.” Ilya nods slyly, then pauses. Considers. “It has been a while.”

“Yeah, I know,” Shane admits. He’s not meeting Ilya’s gaze. “I was out of town for a bit.”

Ilya hums. “Partying? Did you fall in love, Mr. Canadiano?”

“No,” Shane releases a quiet laugh. “It was a work thing. Happens quite often.”

“As long as you do not go and find other coffee shops,” Ilya says lightly.

He thought he might have spooked Shane away with the scribbled heart on his cup when he didn’t show up the next day — but now he is back, all combed hair and shy smiles and averted gazes and freckles. And Ilya just wishes he knew what to do.

“No,” Shane exhales. “Not enough time, even if I wanted to.” He looks up, catches Ilya’s gaze. It’s a bit of a rare occurrence. “Which I don’t.”

Ilya smiles to himself. “You are too busy. Every time you come here, you are tired.”

“Isn’t that what the coffees are for?”

“Coffee can only do so much,” Ilya says, very wisely, as he starts pouring espresso.

“I know,” Shane admits, massaging the bridge of his nose. “It’s just…a lot of pressure, I guess.”

“But you like it?” Ilya checks curiously. “Your work?”

“Most of the time.” He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “No, I— I love it, really. It’s like, the best thing in my life. It is my life.”

Ilya glances up at him. Softens his voice when he says, “You need work-life balance, Shane,” and tries to ignore the fact that he himself never really managed to have much of one, either. And that he is giving unsolicited advice to a stranger.

Shane, at least, doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah,” he sighs, a little wistful. “One day, maybe. It’s just that— God, I’m sorry. You’ve got a job to do.”

“I really do not,” Ilya laughs, bending down to retrieve the glass jar he brought here days ago.

Immediately, Shane narrows his eyes at it. “What is that?”

“Secret ingredient,” Ilya says proudly, clicking his tongue. “Called maple syrup.” He pours a generous serving of it into Shane’s cup, and feels his smile dissipate as soon as he catches sight of Shane’s expression. “You are not allergic, no?”

Is that even a thing? Maple syrup allergy? Because Ilya has no fucking clue, but he definitely should have thought about it before. He should have made sure, should have—

“No!” Shane calls out, a little too loud. A few people glance over, though Ilya just keeps staring at Shane, who says, ridiculously, “I love maple syrup.”

He sounds like he’s lying. And looks as if he’s in pain.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Shane says, which sounds more like no.

Unconvinced, Ilya narrows his eyes at him. “I can make you one without syrup.”

“You already made this one,” Shane weakly points out.

Ilya waves him off with, “And I will make a hundred more today,” which is a bit of a lie, but oh well. “It does not matter.”

“But it would just be an Americano then.”

“We won’t tell anyone.”

“No,” Shane states, decisive now. “I’ll take this one.”

Ilya is…still not convinced. “Really?”

“Yes.” He nods, then holds out his hand expectantly. “Give me my coffee, please.”

There is a smile growing on Ilya’s face, impossible to bite down. “If you die from maple syrup allergy…”

“I’m not allergic!” Shane insists.

“Just appalled?”

“Shut up.” He reaches for the coffee then, makes a point to hold Ilya’s gaze when he takes a large sip that surely burns his tongue — and groans. Loudly.

Ilya’s invincible smile wavers in tune with the strength of his knees.

“Oh,” Shane hums, a picture of closed eyes and parted lips. They’re slightly wet, and Ilya cannot look away.

“Oh?” he echoes.

“It’s like, really good. I didn’t— Wow.”

Satisfied, Ilya nods to himself. “It is the evil maple syrup.”

“Or maybe just the fact that you made it,” Shane states, entirely earnest before his own words catch up to him and his eyes widen in alarm. “I mean, I should—pay.”

It takes more will power than Ilya was even aware of having to keep control of his expression. Very casually, he nods towards Svetlana. “Come on, then.”

There are far less people around already, the line Shane skipped earlier diminished with practiced ease, the noise of the room relatively back under control. Ilya likes to tell himself that he is being a great help, but Svetlana has been doing this job long enough to get through far crazier rushes with her eyes closed and her brain logged off. While annoying customers still make Ilya consider manslaughter, she just rolls her eyes at them as soon as her back is turned.

Despite her constant complaining, she really does love working here. Admirable, thinks Ilya, who came for her, stayed for the pastries, and hopes to be leaving with Shane, the sooner the better.

And Ilya has a plan.

While Svetlana chats idly with Shane as she rings him up for a drink that does not officially exist, Ilya scrawls ten digits onto Shane’s receipt and ignores the way his fingers shake. It’s not a big deal, really. He just hopes he isn’t overstepping. He just hopes Shane will text and call and maybe meet him outside of this caffeine hellhole, too.

“Your receipt,” Ilya says, interrupting Svetlana mid-sentence. He does not apologize. Instead, he holds up the receipt like an offering, and holds his breath.

Next to him, Svetlana does the very same.

Opposite both of them, Shane makes a vague gesture with the hand that isn’t holding maple syrup coffee, and says, “That’s okay. I gotta go!”

He turns. The floor under Ilya’s feet turns, too.

“Your receipt,” Ilya repeats, more urgent now. His tone is high, his hand is waving the stupid paper now, and Shane is just smiling like an evil, unbothered man who hates him.

“You keep it,” he says, already halfway to the door.

“What about the taxes?” Ilya demands, a little frantic.

Shane laughs as if this is a joke, calls out, “Bye Ilya. Svetlana,” and leaves.

Just like that.

Ilya blinks. At the door, at Svetlana, at the woman appearing right in front of him, politely clearing her throat.

“Hi!” she says, for some reason. “Could I please get a large iced mocha with caramel sy—”

“No,” Ilya interrupts, still blinking. Any moment now, the world will make sense again. “Am on break.”

He sighs, turns, and falls onto the nearest chair in defeat, the stupid receipt still in hand.

What a disaster.

“I don’t have long,” Rose says, her pixelated face only half in frame as she climbs into what looks like her trailer, “but I’m here! What’s the emergency?”

“Your reception is awful,” Shane says, squinting down at his phone. “I can barely see you.”

“Or hear me, apparently,” Rose grumbles, tapping her screen until the quality stabilizes and Shane can actually make out more features than just a single eye. “Better? I asked what the emergency is.”

“Better,” Shane confirms, playing with a thread of his sweatpants. He is perched on his couch, fighting the urge to pace and panic and, maybe, pretend to be dead. “How’s the shoot going?”

“Shane.”

“Rose,” he echoes, feigning confusion. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you just fine, yeah.” She moves in close to the camera as if to make sure Shane catches her glare. “Believing you, on the other hand…”

Shane sighs. He knows that the shoot is going well, of course; they’re wrapping up the set, and Rose is flying out in just a few days. It’s just…

“It’s not really an emergency,” he admits. “More of a…situation.”

Rose pulls away from her phone again to consider Shane in earnest. “Do you need a lawyer?”

“What?” he laughs, taken aback. “No. I have a lawyer.”

“Good,” Rose nods, all business. “Okay. Do we need to get rid of someone?”

Shane blinks at her. “Why are you starting with the worst possible scenarios?”

“I’m trying out the Shane-Hollander approach,” she grins. “Also, you didn’t say no just now.”

“No, you don’t need to kill anyone,” Shane emphasizes. He’s trying very hard to stay serious, but the dejected breath Rose lets out makes it a little hard. Which is, of course, exactly her goal. It is awful, sometimes, to be known so well.

“I’m just saying,” she mumbles.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Wiggling her eyebrows, Rose asks, “And? Is it working?”

“It’s not not working,” Shane admits, running a hand over his face. He feels ridiculous. And also unreasonably emotional.

There’s a pause. Then, “Shane. Hey.”

Swallowing, Shane shakes his head.

“Look at me,” Rose says gently, waiting for Shane to follow suit, and kindly not pointing out his red-rimmed eyes once he does. “Hey. Did someone do something? Did someone say something? Your team?”

“No,” Shane exhales. “No. Nothing like that. I promise.”

She considers him for another few seconds, then nods. “Okay. I’ll just keep listing things then.” She thinks for a moment, then clicks her tongue. “You need a wing-woman.”

It is so obviously a joke.

It is so obvious that Shane freezes.

“Oh my god,” she exclaims. “Oh my god, your face just did a thing!”

“No it didn’t,” Shane argues weakly. “It was a lag.”

“’It was a lag,’” Rose scoffs in a horrible imitation of him. “Shut up, oh my god. You met someone! Tell me everything.”

Groaning, Shane slides further down his couch. Maybe he could become one with it, if he tries hard enough. “There’s nothing to tell. That’s the situation.”

“Come on, Shane,” Rose begs. “Give me something. Where did you meet?”

“Coffee shop. He’s a barista. A…very hot barista.”

Rose screeches.

“We, uhm. When I come in, we talk a little. It’s nice. He’s nice.” Shane fixes his gaze on the wall opposite of him and tries to ignore the heat rushing into his cheeks. “He made me a coffee with maple syrup.”

“And you drank it?” Rose gasps. “Damn, it’s serious. Did you give him your number yet?”

“No,” Shane mutters, appalled. He throws Rose a look.

“Well, why not? Are you waiting for him to make the first move?”

Shane frowns. “No. But I can’t just give him my number. I don’t even know if he likes guys.”

“Then ask him if he likes guys, and give him your number if he says yes,” Rose advises, as if it were that easy.

“No,” Shane groans.

“Shane,” Rose says, very fondly, and very gently.

“What if I’m reading into things? Like, maybe I’m getting it all wrong, and he’s not interested at all. Maybe he’s just being friendly — that’s his job. And…what if I embarrass myself?”

“Then you will get the hell out of there, applaud yourself for being brave enough to try, and we’ll both drink three bottles of expensive wine each.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna do that.”

“I forget,” Rose teases. “You only drink calories when your soulmate barista boy wants you to.”

Weakly, Shane smiles. “I feel stupid.”

“You’re never stupid,” Rose insists, her thumb caressing the edge of her camera as if she’s trying to reach Shane’s cheek. “I have like, ten more minutes. Let’s sort out that mess in your brain so you can stop catastrophizing, okay?”

“Okay.” Shane sniffs. “Let’s go.”

Ilya may or may not be in way over his head at this point.

Svetlana calls him insane, but Ilya simply sees himself as committed. He’s not a quitter. He fought his way, tooth and nail, through the film scene, did shitty jobs for meagre opportunities, took risks and chances and criticism. Kept steady even when he wanted to quit, showed up for himself when he knew no one else would — and when he came out on the other side, it was worth it.

“I think this is different though, don’t you?” Svetlana had muttered, days ago, when she found Ilya wreaking havoc in her kitchen at three thirty in the morning and rightfully questioned his sanity.

“Not really,” Ilya had shrugged, not even looking up.

Because it wasn’t. Ilya had a goal, and he would reach it. He just…exchanged the movie scripts for coffee tutorials. And his career for a crush. Same thing, basically.

So what if he’s had enough cans of red bull to trigger withdrawal symptoms by now? He needs the extra hours to read up on the history of coffee culture and commit fun facts to memory. He practices coffee orders day and night — and it would be a waste, really, not to drink them. Plus, he needs to know they’re good. Because what if Shane comes in and wants to try something new?

Last night, he spend four hours trying his hand at latte art. Shane hasn’t ordered a single latte so far. Ilya doesn’t even know if he drinks milk. Which is fine, of course. He is simply considering every possible possibility.

Ilya did not, however, consider that Svetlana does not actually work every day.

“What do you mean, you are sleeping in,” Ilya groans, already fully dressed. He sags against the doorframe, squints at the lump of blankets that may or may not be suffocating his best friend. “What about the coffee shop?”

“I’m not getting up at the crack of dawn to watch you make heart eyes at some rando for five minutes when I could be sleeping,” Svetlana says, muffled through the blankets over her head. “Even when I am on shift, I am not getting paid enough for that. It went from cute to embarrassing real quick.”

“Nine thirty is not the crack of dawn,” Ilya argues, deciding to ignore the rest. “Also, you sound very awake.”

“Because you just woke me up!”

“So!” Ilya gestures around wildly, and wishes Svetlana could actually see it. Stupid blankets. “We go to the coffee shop now. Is on me.”

“I get the coffee for free there anyway.”

“It’s on you, then,” Ilya waves her off. “I do not care. Come on.”

“I don’t want coffee,” Svetlana whines. The blankets move, though not to reveal her but to contort themselves into a smaller lump, turning even the vaguest hint of human unrecognizable.“I want peace.”

Ilya hopes the stupid blankets eat her.

“And I want to go see the hot customer with the freckles again but apparently we do not always get what we want,” Ilya grumbles.

When a pillow lands in his face, he is too startled to even try and fight it off.

“How did you do that?” he asks, bending down to pick up the offending thing — and to hold it hostage. It’s quite soft, and the couch is not winning any prizes on the comfort competition. He’ll take what he can get. “You did not even move.”

“Let me sleep, Ilya,” the blankets grumble. “Troy’s on shift today. Go turn yourself into his problem, for all I care.”

Ilya frowns down at his new pillow, cocks his head in thought, and turns without another word.

“Svetlana isn’t on shift today,” Troy tells him carefully, fifteen minutes later. His expression is slightly pinched, somewhere between alarmed and worried, and Ilya can’t quite resist to punch a fist against his shoulder.

“Come on, Troy,” he grins. “We are friends too, yes?”

“I don’t know,” Troy says, glancing around the coffee shop as if he hopes for two dozen costumers to magically appear and demand his full attention. “Are we?”

Ilya just laughs.

Troy Barrett is an interesting man. Tall, striking, more than just slightly intimidating if he’d level up on the confidence front. He is quiet, a little reserved, a little lost inside his head, sometimes. Certainly too pretty to work in a coffee shop, and definitely too sweet for an asshole like that Dela Cruz guy.

Ilya never particularly liked that idiot, but when he caught wind of the mess that went down between him and Troy, he logged into his burner account and left stings of bad reviews on every single episode of his stupid superhero show. It didn’t help, of course, but at least he felt really accomplished. Svetlana told him that Troy chuckled when she read them out loud to him — which had been quite the achievement, those first few weeks after the breakup.

“To me, we are besties,” Ilya tells him, delighted when Troy mutters something between a curse and a prayer under his breath. Ilya grins, then glances at the clock. “And as your bestie, I have come to help you at work. Am I not the best?”

Troy blinks at him, then narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Is this about that guy you have a crush on? Shane? Svetlana told me about it.”

“Do not listen to Svetlana,” Ilya advises, pushing away from the counter. “She lies for fun.”

“So do you, though.”

Ilya shrugs. “Semantics. Now, what do you say?”

“I say… No?”

Another glance at the clock; he is running out of time already. Ilya clicks his tongue. “Wrong. Again: What do you say?”

“I’m still saying no, Ilya,” Troy sighs. “There’s like, laws and regulations and a health code for this, you know?”

Ilya does know, of course — but he could not care less about laws and regulations and health codes when he suddenly spots Shane outside, climbing out of a black Land Rover and running a hand through his hair.

“Barrett,” Ilya says, more threat than anything else. “Give me your apron.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Troy states, looking slightly uncomfortable. He takes a careful step towards the backroom and raises one hand as if to soothe him — or fight him off. “You don’t even work here, Ilya.”

“I will get you an autograph. Anyone’s! Mine, even.”

“I don’t want an autograph,” Troy says, rudely, only to add, even more rudely, “Especially not yours.”

“It could make you rich,” Ilya insists, which is, truthfully, a lie Troy sees right through.

He lowers his hand and sighs. “It could get me fired.”

“Fired from this friendship,” Ilya mutters, irritated beyond reason. “Okay, what about—ah! I will get you Harris’ number!”

“I have Harris’ number,” Troy points out, a little pained.

Ilya waves him off, his gaze frantically darting back and forth between Shane, the door, and the counter Ilya needs to get behind right fucking now. He starts to move. Quickly. “I will teach you, then. Flirting 101. You have not texted him, yes?”

“Ilya.”

“Troy!” he groans, now right in front of him. He tugs on Troy’s apron. “Please.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“But I need yours!”

Troy looks at him, his expression a mixture of amusement and apprehension, and Ilya is two seconds away from either dropping to his knees or throwing a well-aimed fist at him — but then Troy sighs, and finally shrugs out of his ugly apron.

“I am in love with you,” Ilya tells him. “I will kiss you on the mouth.”

“Please stop threatening me,” Troy sighs, throwing the offending fabric over Ilya’s head and making his way towards the backroom. “Go get your man, then.”

The small bell above the door jingles. Ilya grins as if he just won a prize. He fastens his apron and thinks, give me luck.

“Ilya,” Shane says, his smile audible even before Ilya turns to catch it. “Hi.”

“Hello, favorite costumer,” Ilya beams, his own heart rate picking up at the sight of Shane’s responding flush. He has a lot of thoughts about the flecks of red that dust his cheeks, and none of them are workplace appropriate. Ilya is very glad he does not actually work here.

Shane looks down as if to hide his blush and smile and curiosity, and wonders, “Are you, like, working every day?”

“I am very dedicated to supplying you with coffee,” Ilya tells him earnestly, which isn’t even a lie.

Shane’s smile grows along with his blush. Ilya wants to lick both.

“Well, you’re very good at that.”

“I am master of many things,” Ilya promises, because he can’t quite resist. But then Shane swallows, sucks in a breath, fiddles with the neckline of his sweater, and Ilya is kind enough to remind himself of workplace appropriate behavior and changes the topic back to safer grounds. “So, what will you get today? Another Americano?”

Shane glances up at the menu, uncertain. He smacks his lips. “I was thinking, maybe something else today? Nothing fancy, and no milk. Just…caffeine?” He winces. Ilya might be in love.

“Great place for caffeine,” Ilya tells him with a wink. “How about…” He scans his mind, considers the options, finds himself slightly annoyed that there aren’t a lot of them. “Cold brew? More caffeine, more flavor, more sweet.” He pauses. “No maple syrup.”

“Sure,” Shane nods, laughs, and looks very much like he couldn’t care less about what kind of coffee comes his way. “I’ll try that. Thanks.”

Ilya smiles, then spends the next few minutes mentally preparing himself to ask Shane out, with questionable success. He pops the lid onto the cup, mutters you got this under his breath, turns towards Shane with a big smile — and immediately loses the little courage he had.

He’s not even sure why; he’s pulled his fair share of people in his life. It’s easy to the point of second nature, turn up the charm, batter your eyelashes, say exactly what wants to be heard. It’s foolproof, usually, but this is different. He does not want to coax Shane into his bed, he wants to slither his way into his heart instead. And Ilya is, apparently, entirely out of his depth on that front.

“There you go,” he says through slightly gritted teeth.

“Looks good,” Shane remarks, taking his drink. Their fingers brush, again.

Ilya opens his mouth, then closes it. Like a fish.

“Also,” he says, heart hammering, hands growing clammy, his own face heating, “I wanted to…give you this brownie.”

“Oh?” Shane hums, eyebrows scrunching together. “Thanks?”

“Yes.” Mentally kicking himself into oblivion, Ilya packs up a brownie and slides it over. He cannot take another brush of fingers right now. “Is on the house. Coffee, too.”

By now, Shane is starting to look confused. “You sure?”

Nodding, Ilya gestures at nothing in particular. He needs this to end. He also, maybe, needs to figure out how the register works. “Have a great day!”

Shane picks up his brownie, his thumb running over the edges of the bag as if in wonder. He glances up, smiles shyly, and mumbles, “You too, Ilya. See you.”

Ilya watches him go and hopes for the ground to swallow him up. But the ground must hate him, because he stays right where he is, staring after the man he fumbled so badly he might never be able to fall asleep again. This is hell.

“Flirting 101,” Troy says tonelessly from behind him.

Ilya throws him an unamused look. “He throws me off my game.”

“He turns you into a loser,” Troy coos, clearly delighted. Ilya wishes he would have stayed in the backroom for forever. He should have locked him in there while he had the chance, really.

“I am not a loser.”

“That’s what a loser would say.”

Scoffing, Ilya throws the ugly apron towards him. “I will not kiss you on the mouth anymore.”

“And everyone was relieved,” Troy sighs around his grin, then sobers a bit. “Can’t even say I blame you, honestly. Except for not telling me who he is, I guess. It’s not like I would have said something.” He rolls his eyes, wipes at the counter.

Ilya stares at him, a frown building on his face. “Sveta told you his name, yes? Shane.”

“Yeah, Shane Hollander.”

Troy laughs.

Ilya does not.

“You know him?” His frown deepens; he does not like where this is going — especially when Troy’s eyebrows jump up in what must be earnest surprise.

“You don’t?”

Obviously, Ilya thinks, annoyed.

“What does he do, then?” he asks out loud, stepping closer. “Porn?” There’s an undertone to his voice that is audibly a tad too hopeful — but a man can dream. And hope. And imagine.

Troy releases a startled laugh first, then an answer second. “Hockey,” he says, and Ilya cocks his head. Hm.

“Is he good?”

“Dude. He’s like, the very best.”

Ilya hums, momentarily lost in thought. He turns slightly, stares outside, considers the space that still held Shane Hollander, moments ago. A star hockey player, apparently. He wonders if that changes things.

“You know you need to pay for his order though, right?” Troy questions hesitantly, unaware of Ilya’s mental gymnastics — or maybe just uncaring. He’s a dreadful human being. Ilya is very fond of him.

He shakes his head, levels Troy with a flat glare, and darkly states, “So you support capitalism. Wow.”

“Cold brew review,” Ilya says sternly as soon as Shane steps through the door, his elbows hitting the counter in between them with a loud thump. “Give it to me.”

“It was…cold,” Shane offers.

“Ah,” Ilya hums, only marginally dejected.

It is Wednesday morning, their usual time, and Ilya is alone again. The three customers spread at different tables barely shoot him a second glance, the pastry display seems suspiciously empty, and Shane feels weirdly…settled, despite being out in public.

“You did not like it,” Ilya deduces, disappointment showing after all. He takes a large bite of cookie and sighs.

“It was okay!” Shane argues. “It’s coffee. It doesn’t have to taste good.”

Ilya blinks at him, visibly thrown. “That is like saying sex is only about orgasms,” he states, entirely serious.

“I—uhm. Excuse me?” Because what?

Ilya sighs once more. “Shane. Do you finish in two minutes and just roll over? What about the build-up? The intimacy? The power of connection and the joy of sensation?”

“I think— Weren’t we just talking about coffee?”

“We are,” Ilya insists. “Coffee is sex. You have to treasure it. Every sip is relaxation, self-care. If you gulp it down, you get heart attack. If you savor it, you get true inner peace.”

Shane, who is as far from inner peace as anyone can possibly get at this moment, just stares at him, momentarily at a loss for words.

“Did you, like, prepare that speech beforehand?”

“Came up with it on the spot,” Ilya says proudly, and yeah, Shane kind of got that impression, too.

“Alright.” Vaguely, he gestures towards the coffee machine. “Convince me, then. Do your worst.”

Ilya frowns, affronted. “I will do my best,” he corrects, and Shane…

Shane softens. “I know.”

Because he does.

Or, at least he does until a dangerous glint enters Ilya’s eyes and he says, “I will give you a whole cup of maple syrup and watch you drink it.”

“Please don’t do that.”

Ilya grins. “Why do you hate poor maple syrup?”

“I don’t hate it.”

Ilya raises his brows.

“Well, it’s just pure sugar.”

A hum, then a nod of understanding. “And you are sweet enough.”

“I did not say that,” Shane splutters, caught somewhere between endeared and embarrassed.

“No, I did,” Ilya points out, eyes intently focused on Shane’s heated face. “You are still sleeping?”

“Maybe. Someone won’t make me a coffee.”

Ilya’s eyes light up. Finally, he pushes away from the counter. “I can choose which one?”

Shane shrugs. It’s not like Ilya hasn’t been choosing his coffees. “Just tell me.”

“Flat white,” Ilya says, immediately. Shane is pretty sure he had prepared that, at least. Which…

He huffs out a breath, hesitantly glances up at the menu. Because it’s not like he’s going to say no, but… “There’s milk in it, right?”

“Oat milk,” Ilya says, proudly reaching for a milk carton and holding up. “No sugar!”

Unprompted, he turns the nutrition table towards him, doesn’t even make fun of him as Shane reads it over.

“Good?” he asks, and he sounds so earnest, Shane kind of wants to cry a little bit.

He nods, a little shy. “Yeah. Okay.”

Ilya rubs his hands. Like a fucking cartoon villain.

“So,” he says, drawing out the word as his hands take apart the espresso machine, for some reason, “A hockey player who does not like cold coffee.”

Immediately, Shane’s heart sinks. He straightens, fixes his relaxed expression into one of the masks he reserves for interviews and photoshoots and sponsorships. And it’s not like he forgot that he was Shane Hollander, but it was…nice, to just be Shane for a while. As stupid as that sounds.

“You are disappointed,” Ilya states.

“No.” Shane shakes his head, lying for no reason at all. He glances around the shop, weirdly nervous — though it’s not like Ottawa’s citizens care all that much about the few celebrities among them, especially out here. “How long have you known?”

Ilya considers him, then smirks. “Not long enough to sell your coffee order to the tabloids. Yet.”

Against his will, Shane laughs. “Are you that desperate for cash?”

“I have to secure my retirement.” Ilya shrugs, eyes twinkling. He stops steaming oat milk and stirs his espresso instead. Shane watches, enthralled by the movement of his hands.

“Coffee shops don’t pay well, do they?”

“Wish I knew,” Ilya mumbles, returning to lean over the counter once more. “So, how will you buy my silence, Shane Hollander?”

“Buy your silence?” Shane repeats, still smiling. “To protect the privacy of my inconsistent coffee order that literally no one cares about?”

Ilya hums in affirmation.

“Uhm… I could force you to sign an NDA.”

“Naughty.” Ilya grins.

“Or…” Shane’s heart rate picks up. “I could give you some tickets to one of my games. Bribe you.”

“Oh?”

“They’re great seats. Lower bowl, clear view. Close to the ice.”

Ilya watches him carefully, catching the things Shane can’t put into words just yet. “And you would want me there?”

Shane shrugs, trying for nonchalant while he’s pretty sure his heart is going to give out. “I mean. If you want to come.”

He can hear the joke Ilya so clearly wants to make in his silence — but he can see the exact moment he decides against it, too. His gaze drops down to Shane’s lips, then slowly travels back up again to hold his gaze like a caress. “I would be honored,” is what he says in the end. “I have never seen a hockey game before.”

“About time then,” Shane says bravely. “I think you’d like it. It’s a bit like sex, too.”

Smirking, Ilya moves away, stirring coffee and milk together. “The game? Or the after game celebration?”

“Depends on the crowd, I guess,” Shane ponders. Is he flirting? He thinks he’s flirting. But is it working?

“I will see for myself then,” Ilya hums — which tells Shane nothing.

“We could. Uhm. Like, if you want to, we could, maybe—”

“Go for a drink?” Ilya asks, eyes flicking up. He, too, looks nervous. “After your sexy game?”

Shane releases a strangled laugh of relief. “Yeah. Yes. If you want.”

“I want,” Ilya says, even quicker than Shane would have expected. He tips his chin. “And if you win, I will even buy you a drink.”

“I don’t know if you know,” Shane smiles, giddy with the idea, “but we’re a pretty good team. So.”

“So prepare to be spoiled,” Ilya says with a shrug. His tongue pokes out as he pops a lid onto Shane’s cup. “You are going to practice now, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane sighs. He holds up his card in question, frowns when Ilya shakes his head. “You sure?”

Humming, Ilya pushes the coffee towards him. “Taste test,” he demands.

When he dutifully takes a sip, Shane makes sure to hold Ilya’s gaze, which has the realtime benefit of seeing Ilya’s eyes darken.

His knuckles are white around the edge of the counter, his voice lower when he asks, “And?”

“Your best one yet, I think,” Shane states, and it’s the truth. The coffee is rich and strong, the milk sweet enough to turn the whole drink into liquid velvet. There’s just the barest hint of maple syrup, and Shane is half-convinced he’s hallucinating; but not entirely.

“Good,” Ilya finds, reaching for a towel. “Hope it will keep you warm.”

“I’m sure it will.” If it doesn’t, remembering the look in Ilya’s eyes will do the trick.

“Come back if it doesn’t,” Ilya says — which is an even better idea, actually.

Shane looks up at him from under his lashes. “Is a refill on the house, too?”

“You will find out.”

Ilya’s smile is as intoxicating as his presence. Sometimes, Shane thinks he will go into withdrawal in between visits.

“Bye, Ilya.”

“Bye, Shane,” Ilya echoes. “Do not slip on the ice. And do not forget my tickets.”

Shane laughs, freer than he thought would be possible. “I won’t.”

Every time, it gets a little harder to leave.

The poets would say, maybe, that all good things must come to an end.

Ilya is not a poet though.

He is just pissed.

Shane is supposed to come back into the shop with tickets, not a woman on his arm, so Ilya’s day is ruined even before her presence officially becomes his downfall. It takes him barely a second to recognize her, then another for everything to go to shit. He doesn’t even have time to prepare himself for the incoming blow.

“Ilya?” Rose Landry says with audible surprise, and Ilya knows this is it even before he risks a careful glance at Shane’s confused expression.

“Rose.” Ilya smiles through clenched teeth and hopes to die. Because it’s not even that he doesn’t like her — because he does! — it’s just that she has impeccably bad timing, and it currently wrapped around Shane’s side. Her hand is on his arm. Ilya doesn’t like that, but now might not be the best time to point that out. “How lovely to see you again.”

Thrown, Shane glances back and forth between them. “You two know each other? How?”

“Wait,” Rose says, realization dawning. “This is your barista boy?”

Shane nods, frowns, and looks at Ilya for help.

Ilya, rather helpless, and still slightly caught up on your barista boy, says, “Rose and I, we met…at work?”

“At work?” Shane echoes, even more confused. “Like, did you bring coffee to set?” He turns back to Rose. “When were you even filming in Ottawa?”

Rose blinks, Ilya bites his lip, and Shane’s frown evens out into a mask of careful neutrality. “What am I missing.”

“We’re holding up the line, darling,” Rose says gently. It’s a bit of a lie since there is barely anyone else in here — except Svetlana, who watches the situation unfold with wide eyes and a visible urge to chew some popcorn — but Ilya appreciates her trying. Kind of.

“It’s fine,” Shane all but snaps. Judging by Rose’s rising brows, this is a rare occurrence, which does not bode well, Ilya thinks. “Just tell me.”

“Different work,” Ilya says, mind reeling. He really did not think this through. “Making coffee is… I am on side quest, here.”

“A pistachio latte,” Rose hums, looking up at the menu with forced intrigue. “Wow. Is that one any good?”

“If you are not allergic to pistachios, yes,” Ilya says tonelessly. Here, he is telling the truth at least; he’s had three of them yesterday and may or may not have become slightly obsessed.

Still, Rose ignores him, nudges Shane instead. Gently, familiar. At one point, she has to remove her hand from his arm, right? “What are you gonna get, sweetie? Just black coffee again?”

“Shane is not getting black coffee,” Ilya says, mostly automatic. He tries not to scoff, but fails. This is going so well.

Rose raises a brow at him, amused. “He’s not?”

“I’m not getting any coffee,” Shane says, tone low and heated. “Before one of you starts making sense. Ilya. What do you mean, you’re here on a side quest?”

Very carefully, Ilya places his hands onto the counter. “We met, briefly, in…Vancouver, I think? Two years ago?”

“Three,” Rose corrects quietly, nodding. “Same city, different projects.”

“Different projects?” Shane echoes, realization dawning. He looks, oddly enough, as if he’s going to get sick.

“We had lunch together once or twice,” Rose continues, her voice still soft as if to soften the blow of Ilya’s stupidity, her hand still on his arm as if to touch what Ilya cannot. “I think I even mentioned it to you in passing, back then.”

“You’re an actor?” Shane demands, expression pinched with emotion.

Ilya shrugs, nods, fights the urge to say something stupid like, surprise.

“I can’t believe— Then what was this? Method acting? A game?”

“Shane, no—”

“Why are you here?” He sounds so accusing, so disgusted, so hurt when he runs a hand over his face, finally shaking off Rose’s touch with the motion. Ilya can’t even be happy about it.

He frowns instead, thrown by the question. “Visiting Sveta.” He gestures towards her weakly, catches her worried gaze. She no longer looks entertained, and Ilya’s stomach drops another few feet.

“Not in Ottawa,” Shane scowls. “I mean here. In a coffee shop. Serving coffee.”

“You—” Ilya scrambles for words, for an explanation. “You wanted a coffee, and I was…starstruck.”

“Starstruck,” Shane echoes, voice disbelieving. “Are you kidding me? You were behind the counter!”

“Eating cookies,” Ilya admits.

“My god,” Shane groans, hand fisting his hair until it stands up in wild strands. “I feel like an idiot.”

“Hey, no,” Ilya hurries, talking over Rose’s immediate identical assurance. “You are not. This is—”

“Embarrassing,” Shane finishes. He’s looking up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. “Okay. Wow. I really…can’t do this right now.” He wraps his arms around his chest, fingers digging into his biceps as if to tether himself to the present, even though he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I need to get to practice.”

“What about your coffee?” Ilya says, dumbly.

“I really couldn’t care less about some stupid coffee right now, Ilya. I just…” He trails off, shakes his head. Won’t look at anyone. “I just can’t.”

And as if to prove a point, he turns around and leaves without another word.

It’s kind of a fact, that coffee shops don’t go quiet. There’s always someone in there making noise, a screech, a groan, a laugh. Loud groups and even louder headphones, gossiping baristas, stalling costumers. Even in rare moments of near emptiness there is no silence; it’s all rumbling machines and running water and the rhythmic swipe of a broom, out of tune with some mindlessly hummed melody. Coffee shops don’t go quiet.

And yet.

Ilya swears there is not a single noise left in Shane’s absence. He must have taken it all with him, must have left only the static in Ilya’s ears. Helpless, he turns towards his best friend, an unsaid plea in his eyes. Svetlana swallows, noiseless, then moves towards him, and the volume of life snaps back into reality.

Music coming from the speakers, cars driving past the slowly closing door. Someone is talking on the phone, quiet but insistent, someone else is scribbling on their iPad almost aggressively, the pen scratching against the display like it might just leave a mark.

The guy in the corner clears his throat, fiddles with his headphones, and kindly pretends to not have just witnessed a reality tv show performance of Ilya’s heartbreak while Ilya himself fights the overwhelming urge to sink to the floor and never get up again. All these days of practicing and nights of planning and moments of overthinking. He had good intentions, really. Not pure ones, but good ones.

“I’m so sorry,” Rose mumbles belatedly, as if she, too, had to come back to herself at first. Her lower lip wobbles as she considers Ilya with more grace than he deserves, then she is turning, leaving, hurrying after Shane.

And Ilya is sorry, too.

“Should I run after him?” he whispers. His hands return to the edge of the counter, holding on for dear life. Below it, there’s the maple syrup, and the oat milk, and the plan he had.

“Not yet,” Svetlana sighs softly, her hand on the back of his neck like an anchor, like a life line. “Give it some time. Now come here.”

Ilya goes easily when she wraps him into her arms, folding as if he was never really meant to stand. He stays there, breathing her in, mumbled Russian words washing over him like a tide, and afterwards, he does not touch the espresso machine even once. There’s no point to it anymore.

At four in the morning, @ilyarozanovofficial follows @shanehollanderhockeyplayer on Instagram.

Instead of following him back, Shane turns off his fucking phone.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Rose says with a bright grin.

The cat, Ilya guesses, would be Svetlana. She allowed him a single day of supportive patience, then kicked him out of her bed and started talking business while Ilya pretended to understand neither Russian nor English. Her most compelling argument seemed to be that, “It can’t get worse, right?” which didn’t work very well — but somehow, he is still here. So.

“Thanks for this,” Ilya mumbles half-heartedly, presenting a paper cup to Rose, who coos.

“For me?” she asks unnecessarily, already taking the gift from his hands. Ilya kind of misses when Shane used to do that, and briefly closes his eyes. Pathetic.

“Is that pistachio latte,” he says tonelessly. “You did not get to try it, back then. So I brought it here.”

Back then is four days ago now, even though Ilya keeps replaying the whole mess on repeat as if it just happened. Here is Ottawa’s famous ice hockey arena, which will be housing Ottawa’s most famous star player in an hour, because Rose, unlike Ilya, has Shane’s promised tickets. Because Rose, unlike Shane, followed Ilya on Instagram and slid into his dm’s, unwilling to be ignored.

And Ilya tried.

Delighted, Rose presses a hand to her chest. “You went out of your way to make me one?”

“Not really,” Svetlana states drily. She is dressed to the nines, with flawless makeup and a plunging neckline, and she smiles self-satisfactory when Rose’s gaze noticeably lingers. “The movie star quit, due to recent events.”

Rose cocks her head, then grins. “So it’s made by a professional, then.”

“You could say that,” Svetlana says coyly. “I am Svetlana. We did not get the chance to be introduced yet.”

“And what a shame that is,” Rose says, earnestly shaking first her head, then Svetlana’s hand. “Rose. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Svetlana.”

And Ilya thinks it’s great that only one of them is suffering through the worst days of his life, but he also thinks that their timing is a little shit. And very on-the-nose.

“Did you talk to Shane?” he grumbles, following the girls as Rose leads Svetlana towards the nearest staff entry. She nods at the man hurrying to let them through without question but with a double take, and Ilya pulls the ugly Canada cap he bought earlier lower into his face. Ottawa is great for flying under the radar in a half-dead coffee shop at the outskirts of town, but Ilya would rather not have his face plastered onto some stupid gossip sites because he showed up to Ottawa’s arena with red-rimmed eyes and three-day old stubble.

“Well, I saw him,” Rose says over her shoulder, grimacing while Ilya fiddles with the sunglasses in his pocket. “He wasn’t very talkative — but he usually isn’t, before a game.”

“Maybe he was tired,” Ilya muses, forehead creasing with unease. “Did he have coffee?”

Rose’s expression softens. “I don’t know. You can just ask him later.”

“He will not want to see me,” Ilya points out, only slightly petulant.

Unconcerned, Rose waves him off. “Sometimes, Shane just needs a gentle push in the right direction. And he does want to see you, trust me.”

“What if you are wrong,” Ilya ponders darkly. He has, much to Svetlana’s loudly voiced annoyance, been embracing all the possible worst case scenarios.

Now though, Ilya only gets a playful hit on his arm in response. “I’m never wrong about these things. And now,” she grins, winding her arms around both Ilya’s and Svetlana’s shoulders as they step into an arena that is already much louder than Ilya would have expected it to be, “let’s go watch a hockey game.”

Shane is coping. Not particularly well, but he is coping.

The locker room is packed and loud, pre-game adrenaline making the air feel tacky and tight, and for the first time in a while, Shane feels uncomfortable with overwhelm. His skin itches, his ears ring, and he loves his teammates, really, but he would love for them to shut the fuck up right now even more.

“Hey Cap,” a voice says, too close, too loud, too expectant. Shane wants to scream — but he is, indeed, the captain, so instead of wailing out his frustration, he slowly looks up, first at Hayes, then at the cup of coffee in his hand.

It smells good, familiar. Shane’s stomach cramps in discomfort.

“We,” Wyatt continues hesitantly, glancing sideways at Evan Dykstra, who stands next to him, nods in support, and even gives a shy thumbs-up, “got you something!”

“A coffee,” Dykstra points out. Unnecessarily — because Shane can see that. Still,

“A coffee?” Shane questions.

“A coffee,” Hayes confirms.

Shane stares at them.

Wyatt shifts on his feet. “Well, you look a little…”

“Dejected,” Evan finishes helpfully. Shane is starting to have questions he does not actually plan on asking.

“And you’re always smiling in the morning, when you bring your coffee to practice.”

At that, Shane frowns. “I am?”

“So,” Evan ignores him, “we thought this might cheer you up. Disperse that pre-game anxiety.” He gestures towards Wyatt, who pushes the cup right into Shane’s face.

“It’s probably not very good,” he admits, apologetic. “Facility shit, you know.”

“That’s okay,” Shane mumbles mechanically. “Coffee’s not supposed to taste good.” He feels like he’s lying. He feels like he’s lost the fucking plot, somewhere. “Thanks, guys. That’s very nice of you.”

“Anytime!” They exchange a proud grin, then knock their fists against his shoulder, and Shane tries not to feel unsettled. He wanted a coffee, yeah. But he kind of wanted the conversation that usually comes with it more.

It’s fine, though. Pre-game anxiety. Bad sleep. The fucking moon phases, maybe.

He gets up, cradles the cup to his chest. Pretends it’s exactly what he wants.

And goes to play hockey.

Shane inside the coffee shop was already enough to have Ilya temporarily embrace a change of careers. Shane Hollander on the ice makes him consider some altogether different life-altering decisions.

He is…breathtaking. A vision, truly. Ilya knows little to nothing about hockey except that the little plastic thing is supposed to go into one of the goals at some point, but even he does not need to be told that Shane is exceptional in what he does.

Under the roar of the crowd, all his shyness evaporates. He holds himself differently with a stick in his hands, as if he knows exactly who he is and where he belongs. Every move is instinct, every pass muscle memory. He glides over the ice as if he is flying, faster than everyone else — not just bodily, but also mentally, always three steps ahead of the game. It is addictive to watch — and also quite arousing, honestly. Ilya may or may not have a thing for competence.

“He is so good,” Ilya states, more to himself than anyone else.

Svetlana laughs, unsurprised. Rose sighs, pleased. “I know, sweetie,” she says, petting his arm.

During first period, Ilya is transfixed. During second, he promotes himself to hockey fan, and decides to buy a jersey.

During third, Shane finally looks at him. Ottawa is leading 4 - 1, Rose just told him they’re simply playing for time now, letting the brutality of the game die out in between slipping seconds — and Shane, for once, focuses on something else than the puck. He’s skating slowly, breathing heavily, and Ilya can see the anxiety in his shoulders — Shane was right; those seats really are quite amazing — when he glances up into the stands.

His gaze does not travel, does not search. With terrific aim, it settles right onto Ilya — who waves, and pretends to remember how breathing works.

Time does not suspend, even though to Ilya, it feels like it. It’s a single moment, a passing second, over too fast to really linger on it.

Shane swallows, nods, and turns back towards the game. It is pure luck that Ilya manages to catch his small smile of relief, but it is enough for something heavy to unfurl in his chest.

“Told you so,” Rose sing-songs.

Ilya releases a choked laugh, and lets Svetlana squeeze his knee.

“So,” Shane states, voice carefully neutral as he steps out into the deserted hallway. “You are not a barista.”

If the game was a blur, then everything after entirely passed him by. He skipped post-game interviews, shook his head at good-natured invitations for celebratory drinks, texted his parents who are watching his games even when they’re on vacation in a different time zone. He must have showered, because his hair is still wet, and his clothes lie meticulously folded in his bag.

He must have made the conscious decision to come out here and find Ilya, and he must want to talk. Or, at least he tries to calmly tell that to his rapidly beating heart, because he is definitely too young for the heart attack he can feel coming.

“Not legally,” Ilya agrees. He is leaning against the wall, head tilted, smile on his lips. “But at heart.”

“This isn’t funny,” Shane reminds him, angry that he even has to. “Or a joke. You were lying to me—”

“I did not lie.” Ilya frowns. “Not once. I just…did not correct your assumption.”

Shane scoffs, even as he moves to stand next to Ilya, their shoulders just shy of brushing. It is easier, that way. To stare at the flaking wall instead of Ilya’s infuriating face. “Omitting something isn’t all that better than outright lying.”

“You did the same,” Ilya points out, slightly annoyed now, too. “You did not come in and say, ‘Hello I am Shane Hollander, star hockey player of Ottawa.’”

Well, Shane thinks. “But I didn’t go out of my way to keep it a secret!”

“Neither did I,” Ilya states calmly. He turns slightly, stares at Shane’s profile as if willing him to look back. “I would have told you, if you had asked.”

“So it’s my fault?” Shane scoffs, glancing sideways. “Why the hell would I ask if the job you’re pretending to have is actually your real one? Of course I’m gonna assume you’re a barista when you are literally selling me coffee.”

“Shane,” Ilya sighs, the back of his head hitting the wall behind him. “We are going in circles and it is making me dizzy. I am sorry that my trying to ask you out made you feel embarrassed instead of flattered, but I cannot change that anymore. I would do it differently now, of course, but—”

“Wait,” Shane interrupts, anger dissipating. “Your…trying to ask me out?”

“Yes, I just said that.”

“You were trying to ask me out?”

“Did you hit your head during game?” Ilya asks, concerned. He straightens, his eyes searching Shane’s as he moves to stand in front of him, crowding him in. “What day is it?”

Belatedly, Shane realizes that they have never been closer. There’s no counter in between them anymore. Metaphorically speaking, he guesses, there never even was one.

“Ilya.”

“Thursday,” Ilya corrects, alarmed now. He curses, brisk and sharp. “Does your team have a doctor? Are they here? Maybe we should—”

“Ilya,” Shane says again, louder this time. He puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, forces his attention even though it always comes easily. “I did not hit my head.”

Unsure, Ilya’s gaze flicks all over Shane’s face. By his sides, his fists open and close rapidly. “Okay.”

“But you were trying to ask me out? Really?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, still slightly bewildered. “Of course I was.”

Shane leans further into the wall, follows the line of Ilya’s throat with his eyes. He smells heavenly. Tastes even better, probably. “I didn’t realize.”

Ilya swallows, then shrugs half-heartedly, as if to hide the patches of color climbing up high onto his cheeks. “Well, I was not doing a very good job at it, I think.”

“You learned how to make coffee,” Shane softly points out.

A glance, a hint of a grin, of gleaming eyes. “And I am very good at it now.”

“You are.” Shane smiles. “And I think— I think I am flattered. After all.”

Ilya’s face lights up. “Not embarrassed?”

“Well, also embarrassed.”

“No,” Ilya whines, closing the distance between them slowly, as if he’s ready to be stopped, then gently pushing at Shane’s shoulders until he finds himself pressed more firmly against the wall. “We cannot have that. Tell me how to fix it.”

“I’m sure you can come up with something,” Shane mumbles, half-lidded eyes studying Ilya, waiting him out. He reaches up, ghosts his thumb along Ilya’s cheek, buries his fingers in his hair, nails slightly scratching over his scalp.

Ilya’s eyes flutter closed, then open again. They are darker now, softer still. “A coffee, maybe?”

“Too late for caffeine.”

“A drink, then.” The words ghost over Shane’s skin, more breath than proposal.

He shakes his head. “Not thirsty.”

“Ah.” A hum of understanding, a hand traveling down his side until it settles on the curve of his hip like a missing piece. Goosebumps and gentleness and gusto. Ilya lowers his voice. “Are you hungry, Shane?”

“For what?” he whispers. He thinks the question leaves his lips at least, but he’s not sure. Feels untethered, riding a high that has nothing to do with the excitement of a won game and everything to do with what this could be, if he lets it. And he will. Of course he will.

Ilya smiles. Leans in close. Catches Shane’s jaw in his hand to lead their gazes together, black pools of desire connecting into an ocean of want. “Can I?” he asks.

Anything, Shane thinks. Please.

So he nods, closes his eyes, and lets himself be kissed by Ilya Rozanov. Which, he quickly comes to realize, is just as addictive as caffeine.

The taste, however, is infinitely better.

Like forever, one might say, and Shane might just get used to the idea of it — if he isn’t, already.