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Everyone in the league knew the labels before they knew the people.
Ilya Rozanov — Alpha.
Shane Hollander — Omega.
It was listed on stat sheets, discussed by commentators like weather conditions, and debated endlessly online as if biology explained everything about a player’s character. Alphas were expected to be dominant, aggressive, leaders. Omegas were strategic, emotional, resilient in quieter ways. Betas filled the gaps, the glue of teams and locker rooms.
What nobody knew was how incomplete those assumptions were.
Ilya Rozanov, Boston Raiders’ star forward, played like an Alpha was supposed to play—hard hits, relentless pressure, teeth bared in every scrum. He wore his status like armor. It kept the press from asking questions he didn’t want to answer. It kept his teammates comfortable. It kept his family proud.
It kept him hidden.
Shane Hollander, Montreal Metros’ golden boy, was openly Omega and openly gay, and he made no apologies for either. He skated with precision and patience, reading the ice three steps ahead. Commentators liked to say he was “surprisingly tough for an Omega,” which Shane learned to ignore by the time he was twenty.
What they didn’t know was that Shane was a carrier—that his body held the rare ability to carry a pregnancy despite being male. The knowledge lived with his doctor, his medical files, and Shane alone. In a world that already scrutinized Omegas, it was safer that way.
The first time Shane and Ilya met on the ice, sparks flew in the worst way.
Boston versus Montreal always brought out the ugly kind of rivalry, but something about them sharpened it. Ilya checked Shane into the boards a second too late. Shane slashed back just enough to draw blood. They snarled at each other through visors, scent flaring, instincts clashing so hard the refs separated them before gloves could hit the ice.
Fans ate it up.
Analysts called it “chemistry.”
Their teammates called it tension.
What nobody expected was how that tension followed them off the ice.
It started with stolen looks during post-game handshakes. Lingering awareness in shared tunnels. The strange way Ilya’s Alpha instincts quieted instead of flaring when Shane was near—and how Shane’s Omega senses felt steady, anchored, instead of reactive.
The first time they slept together, it wasn’t romantic.
It was sharp and desperate and quiet, the kind of thing that happened in a hotel room hours after a game neither of them had won. No names, no promises, no discussion of what it meant. Just heat and familiarity that felt impossible and inevitable all at once.
They told themselves it was temporary.
They were wrong.
Two years passed like that—hotel rooms in neutral cities, careful scheduling, burner phones. The rivalry remained public, brutal, convincing. The secret stayed locked between them and the few teammates sharp enough to notice the pattern and kind enough not to say a word.
Ilya never stayed the night.
Shane never asked him to.
Somewhere along the way, Shane fell in love.
He noticed it in the quiet moments—when he saved articles about Ilya’s plays, when he worried about injuries more than his own, when the thought of losing him hurt worse than any check. Shane tried to fight it, but Omegas were nothing if not honest with themselves.
Ilya, meanwhile, buried it.
He buried it under routines and rules and silence. He told himself what they had was convenient, mutual, uncomplicated. He told himself he wasn’t bi, just… flexible. He told himself that loving an Omega—loving Shane—would fracture the life he’d built piece by piece.
So when Shane finally said it—soft, careful, vulnerable—Ilya panicked.
“I think I’m in love with you,” Shane had said, sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes steady even as his scent wavered.
“I know you’re not out. I know you’re scared. I’m not asking you to change everything. I’m just asking you to be honest—with me.” Shane continued.
The room felt too small. Too hot.
Ilya heard his agent’s voice in his head. His father’s. The press. Sponsors.
Ilya stood so fast the chair scraped the floor.
“No,” he said. “We can’t do this.”
“Ilya—”
“This was a mistake. This was never supposed to be serious.”
The words hit harder than any puck.
Shane didn’t yell. Didn’t beg. He just nodded.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
That was it. No yelling. No scene.
Shane stood, straightened his jacket, and walked out like his heart hadn’t just cracked clean down the middle.
The next morning, Ilya blocked his number.
He completely cut him off.
New number. New rules. No more shared cities, no more “accidental” meetings. He threw himself into hockey like it could drown out the echo of Shane’s voice.
It almost worked.
Almost.
A month later, Shane sent one message through an old contact they both still had.
Hey. It’s Shane. I know you asked for space. I just—there’s something important I need to tell you. Can we meet? Just once.
Ilya stared at the screen for a long time.
Fear twisted into anger. Anger into resolve.
Don’t contact me again, he typed. Then he blocked the number, hands shaking.
He told himself it was mercy.
He told himself it was necessary.
He told himself a lot of things.
-
In Montreal, Shane sat alone in his apartment, phone dark in his hand, the weight in his chest heavier than grief. He pressed a palm to his stomach—not visibly changed yet, but undeniably different—and let himself finally break.
The world still saw an Omega star.
The league still saw a rivalry.
The headlines still said nothing had changed.
But everything had.
And somewhere in Boston, Ilya Rozanov woke up in the middle of the night with Shane’s name on his tongue, unaware that the future he’d just rejected was already growing without him.
-
Two days had passed.
Two days since Ilya had blocked Shane’s number.
Two days since he’d convinced himself silence was the same thing as strength.
Today, the Raiders were training.
It wasn’t a game day, not a travel day—just another scheduled grind in the middle of the season. Drills in the morning, video review, then the weight room. Routine. Structure. The kind of day that was supposed to keep your mind on your body and nothing else.
The weight room was loud in the way Ilya liked—metal clanking, machines humming, grunts and curses echoing off concrete walls. It was controlled noise. Predictable. Something he could disappear into.
He was halfway through a set when the TV mounted high in the corner changed segments.
The volume was low, but the headline wasn’t.
BREAKING NEWS: SHANE HOLLANDER RETIRES FROM PROFESSIONAL HOCKEY FOLLOWING INJURY
Ilya’s hands slipped.
The bar crashed back into its rack with a sharp metallic bang that cut through the room. Every head turned.
On the screen, Shane’s face filled the frame. Not in a jersey. Not on the ice. He looked tired. Paler than usual. His shoulders were drawn in, posture careful, like his body was something he had to consciously manage now.
The ticker kept scrolling.
Montreal Metros confirm long-term injury… medical recommendation… effective immediately…
Ilya stared.
Retired.
The word didn’t fit. It didn’t make sense. Shane Hollander didn’t retire. He adapted. He fought. He outlasted.
“Hey,” someone said cautiously. “Rozanov?”
Ilya didn’t answer.
He couldn’t hear anything past the rush of blood in his ears. His Alpha instincts surged, wild and panicked, scent flaring before he could stop it. Loss. Threat. Mate—
No.
He clenched his jaw hard enough it ached.
Across the room, a couple of Raiders exchanged looks. These were men who had seen Ilya break fingers on the ice and stitch himself up without flinching. They knew his tells. Knew when something mattered more than he was willing to admit.
“Isn’t that your—”
“Your friend?” another corrected quietly.
Ilya finally looked away from the screen.
“No.” he said flatly. “We’re nothing.”
No one believed him.
He grabbed his towel and wiped his face like sweat was the problem, not the sudden hollow feeling in his chest. “People retire all the time.”
“Not like that,” his teammate Mark muttered. “He’s what, twenty-six?”
Silence stretched.
Someone turned the TV volume down further, mercifully, but the image stayed. Shane answering questions. Shane thanking fans. Shane saying the word grateful like it tasted bitter.
Another Raider, older, Beta, the kind who noticed everything and said very little, stepped closer. “Did you two fight?”
The word landed carefully. No accusation. Just concern.
Ilya’s back stiffened.
“There is no ‘two,’” he said. “There never was.”
That did it.
The room went quiet—not awkward, not tense, just… respectful. Like a funeral where everyone knows better than to press. These were men who had watched Ilya circle Shane for two years like gravity itself had bent wrong. They’d seen the way Ilya tracked Montreal games even when they weren’t relevant. The way his scent changed when Shane was mentioned.
They knew.
And they also knew Ilya wasn’t ready to say it.
“All right,” Mark said easily, clapping his hands. “Back to work.”
The moment passed, but it left something behind. It always did.
Ilya finished his workout on autopilot. He added weight he didn’t need, pushed himself past burn into pain, welcomed it. Pain was simple. Pain made sense.
By the time he hit the showers, his body was exhausted and his mind was worse.
Retired.
Injury.
Effective immediately.
That night, in his apartment, the silence was unbearable.
Ilya paced. He checked his phone without realizing he was doing it, thumb hovering over a blocked contact like muscle memory. He told himself Shane would be fine. That Omegas were resilient. That Montreal had the best medical staff in the league.
He didn’t tell himself the truth.
The truth was that Shane wouldn’t have walked away unless something was wrong. Unless the ice—his ice—had become unsafe.
The memory hit him out of nowhere—Shane’s message from a month ago.
I have something important to tell you.
Ilya dragged a hand down his face.
No. He refused to go there. Refused to let regret rewrite history. He had done what he needed to do. He had protected himself. Protected his career. His family. His carefully constructed distance from the truth of who he was.
Still.
At three in the morning, he turned the TV back on.
They were replaying the interview.
Shane’s voice was steady, but his scent—imagined or remembered—was all wrong in Ilya’s head. Too muted. Too controlled.
“I loved this game,” Shane was saying. “I still do. But sometimes loving something means knowing when to let it go.”
Ilya swallowed hard.
“What’s next for you?” the interviewer asked.
Shane hesitated. Just a second. Enough that Ilya noticed.
“I’m taking time,” he said. “To heal. To focus on things that matter.”
The camera cut away before the words could settle.
Ilya sat there long after the screen went dark.
Two days ago, he had told Shane not to bother him.
Two days later, Shane Hollander was gone from the ice forever.
For the first time since he was a kid, Ilya Rozanov wondered if being strong had ever actually meant being brave.
And somewhere in Montreal, Shane lay awake with a hand resting protectively over his abdomen, the future quiet and terrifying and real—while the Alpha who should have been there had convinced himself it was already too late.
-
Five years passed.
Shane Hollander vanished.
No interviews. No sightings. No social media. Montreal traded his name like a ghost, and then stopped saying it altogether. Rumors flared—injury worse than reported, mental health, overseas leagues—but nothing stuck.
Every once in a while, a rumor surfaced.
He went overseas.
He couldn’t handle civilian life.
He got married—no, partnered—no, definitely alone.
None of them ever stuck.
There were no sources. No confirmations. Just absence.
Meanwhile, Ilya Rozanov became impossible to ignore.
Ilya became a legend.
Five Stanley Cups. Conn Smythe trophies. Captaincy that turned the Boston Raiders into a dynasty. Commentators stopped arguing whether he was one of the greats and started debating how high he ranked among them.
All-time favorite. Franchise legend. His face on billboards, his Alpha status polished into something invincible.
Ilya played like nothing could touch him.
He smiled for cameras now. Did charity work. Spoke calmly in interviews about leadership and legacy. He never corrected the assumption that he was straight. Never confirmed it either. The mystery only added to his myth.
Five years had hardened him in places trophies couldn’t soften. He slept alone. Lived alone. His apartment was pristine, impersonal, like a hotel suite he’d never checked out of. There were no partners photographed on his arm, no scandals, no heats gone public.
Alphas noticed. Omegas noticed more.
Something in him was… unfinished.
After his fifth Cup, a reporter finally asked the question everyone danced around.
“You’ve won everything there is to win,” she said. “What’s left for you?”
Ilya paused.
The crowd laughed softly, expecting a polished answer about records or mentoring the next generation. He could have given them that. He’d practiced it.
Instead, his chest tightened.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly.
The silence that followed was strange and reverent.
That night, alone in the locker room long after the celebration spilled into the streets, Ilya sat at his stall and stared at his phone.
He hadn’t unblocked Shane’s number in five years.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he was afraid of what he’d find—or wouldn’t.
He opened his browser instead, fingers moving on instinct. The same search he did once a year, sometimes more.
Shane Hollander whereabouts
Shane Hollander injury update
Former Metros omega Shane Hollander now
Nothing new.
Just archived articles. Old highlights. That retirement interview that still hurt to watch.
Ilya leaned back, head resting against cold metal, eyes closed.
Five years ago, he’d told himself Shane would heal and move on.
Five years ago, he’d chosen safety over truth.
Now he had everything he was supposed to want—and a hollow ache that never quite faded.
Across the continent, far from cameras and arenas, Shane Hollander woke up to morning light filtering through linen curtains.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and butter, sunlight spilling across the worn wooden floor as he moved around in socked feet. A pan sizzled softly on the stove, eggs just starting to set, toast warming in the old oven. It was peaceful. Ordinary. Safe.
On the counter sat a small plate with crumbs and a smear of jam where a muffin had very clearly lost the battle.
Shane smiled to himself as he turned from the stove.
“Luna?” he called gently.
The answer came in the form of rapid, joyful footsteps.
She barreled into him at full speed, he laughed as he bent automatically and scooped her up without hesitation. She wrapped herself around him like she’d been doing it her whole life, curls tickling his chin, arms tight around his neck.
“There you are, moonbeam,” he said fondly, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Did you save me one?”
She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes far too innocent to be believed. “I tried,” she confessed, giggling, “but the muffin was too yummy.”
Shane groaned theatrically. “Betrayed before breakfast. Tragic.”
She laughed harder at that, the sound bright and unrestrained, and he bounced her once on his hip before setting her down at the counter. She immediately reached for the plate, fingers already sticky with jam as she took another bite, humming to herself like the world had never known anything but kindness.
Shane leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with a soft smile he didn’t bother hiding.
This—this—was what his life had become.
No cameras. No roaring crowds. No ice beneath his skates. Just mornings like this, small hands stealing breakfast and a little girl who trusted him completely.
Luna glanced up at him suddenly. “Papa?”
“Yeah, moonbeam?”
She chewed thoughtfully. “Are you happy?”
The question hit him square in the chest.
Shane knelt in front of her, wiping a smear of jam from her cheek with his thumb. “Yeah,” he said honestly. “I am.”
She nodded, satisfied, and went back to her muffin like the matter was settled.
Shane stood there for a long moment after, letting the quiet settle around him, one hand resting unconsciously over his heart.
Far away, in arenas still chanting his name, the world remembered Shane Hollander as a hockey star who vanished.
-
The season ended the way it always did—with noise, confetti, interviews, and Ilya pretending the quiet afterward didn’t scare him.
Boston celebrated another Cup, another banner, another year cemented into history. There were parades, speeches, interviews that asked the same questions with different wording. Ilya smiled through all of it, did what was expected, said what was safe.
And then—suddenly—there was nothing.
No practices. No flights. No weight room schedules taped to locker doors. The abrupt stillness after hockey season always felt strange, but this year it pressed heavier than usual. Like the universe had decided to give Ilya time to think whether he wanted it or not.
That was how the vacation idea started.
“Somewhere hockey doesn’t matter,” Svetlana insisted, stabbing her phone screen with a manicured nail. “Somewhere no one recognizes your face or your scent profile or how stupidly famous you are.”
Scott snorted. “So… nowhere in North America.”
Kip leaned over Scott’s shoulder. “I vote beach. Somewhere small. Quiet. No paparazzi.”
Cliff, already halfway checked out mentally, just shrugged. “As long as there’s beer.”
Scott laughed from the couch, Kip half-curled against him, scrolling on his phone. “Somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet.”
“No cameras,” Kip added. “No fans. No jerseys.”
Ilya listened, arms crossed, gaze unfocused. He hadn’t suggested the trip, but he didn’t argue either. The idea of disappearing—really disappearing—settled into him like a slow exhale.
“Somewhere small,” he said finally. “Off-season tourist town. Ocean, maybe. Mountains. Doesn’t matter.”
Svetlana narrowed her eyes, a grin spreading. “Wow. Look at you, Rozanov. No luxury resort? No penthouse?”
“I just want quiet,” he said.
They all paused.
Scott tilted his head, studying him the way Betas did—soft but uncomfortably perceptive. “Then quiet it is.”
They picked a place that barely registered on celebrity radar: a coastal town tucked far from major cities, known more for hiking trails and farmer’s markets than nightlife. Flights were indirect. Accommodations modest but comfortable. No paparazzi incentive, no hockey culture to draw attention.
Perfect.
The day they arrived, Ilya felt something loosen in his chest for the first time in months.
No one stared. No one whispered. The woman at the rental counter didn’t blink twice at his name. The air smelled like salt and pine instead of ice and sweat. Waves replaced crowd noise.
They rented a house just outside town—weathered wood, wide windows, wraparound porch. Svetlana immediately claimed the room with the best light. Scott and Kip disappeared together. Cliff dropped his bag and went exploring like he’d been waiting for this exact freedom.
Ilya stood on the porch alone for a moment, hands braced on the railing.
This was what he’d wanted.
So why did it feel like something was waiting for him just beyond the horizon?
-
The first day they wandered the streets lazily, Svetlana stopping to peer into shop windows, Scott and Kip arguing about pastries, Cliff trailing behind with his phone mercifully forgotten.
Ilya hung back, breathing in the quiet.
They were halfway down a narrow street lined with shops when it happened.
A small tug on his sleeve.
Not hard. Just insistent.
He startled, looking down.
A little girl stood there, no more than five, dark curls bouncing around her face, eyes wide and curious. She stared up at him like she’d known him forever.
Ilya immediately crouched to her level, instinctive and gentle, a smile breaking across his face before he could stop it.
“Hey there,” he said softly. “Hi.”
Behind him, Svetlana melted.
“Oh my god,” she whispered loudly. “She’s adorable.”
“She looks like a mini Rozanov,” Scott added, grinning. “Ilya, she could be your twin.”
Cliff laughed. “Congrats, man. You missed five years of parenthood.”
Ilya chuckled, shaking his head, attention never leaving the girl. “What’s your name?”
She straightened proudly. “Luna.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” Scott smiled down at the young girl still holding Ilyas sleeve.
“Where’s your mommy, Luna?” Ilya asked gently, glancing around the street. A flicker of concern curled in his chest.
Luna frowned—just a little. Not sad. More confused by the question.
“I don’t have a mommy.”
The laughter behind him died immediately.
Scott’s smile vanished. Svetlana’s hand went to her mouth. Kip shifted uncomfortably, already bracing for grief.
Ilya softened his voice even more. “Oh. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Luna waved a hand like he’d misunderstood something obvious. “It’s okay. I have Papa.”
Relief flickered—then vanished when she continued.
“I don’t have a mommy like my friends,” she continued matter-of-factly, “’cause papa carried me in his tummy.”
“Papa says I’m special,” she smiled proudly.
Silence slammed down on the street.
Even the ocean seemed to hush.
Scott blinked. “Did she just—”
Kip’s mouth opened. Closed.
Svetlana’s eyes widened, sharp and calculating in a way that made Ilya glad she wasn’t looking at him.
Male pregnancy weren’t unheard of. Everyone knew they were possible. But carriers were rare. Successful births rarer. It was the kind of thing that made medical journals, not casual conversations with strangers’ kids.
Ilya kept his expression calm, his Alpha instincts soothing rather than probing. “That sounds like a very strong Papa,” he said.
Luna beamed. “He is!”
“Are you lost?” Ilya asked softly.
She shook her head. “Nope.“
Then she tilted her head, studying his face more closely.
“You’re tall Mr. Ilya.”
The world tilted.
Ilya’s breath caught. “—What?”
He hadn’t given her his name.
He was sure of it.
Scott stiffened.
Svetlana, wanting to ease the tension laughed. “He gets that a lot.”
Ilya forced a calm smile, heart pounding. “How do you know my name, Luna? Do you know who I am?”
She shook her head again. “No.”
Something in him relaxed.
“But,” she added, brightening, “you’re in a picture with my papa.”
Ilya stilled.
Kip frowned. “A fan photo?”
“A picture?” Ilya echoed carefully.
“Mhm.” Luna nodded, then leaned closer, dropping her voice like it was a secret. “You’re kissing.”
The word echoed.
“What?” Scott whispered.
“Kissing?” Svetlana repeated faintly.
Ilya’s breath stalled in his lungs.
Luna nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! Papa keeps it in his room. You’re kissing like this.” She pressed her fingers together dramatically. “I wanted to say hi.”
Ilya’s heart lurched—not fear, not panic. Just… disorientation.
Before anyone could ask another question, Luna leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Ilya’s neck in a quick, fierce hug.
“Bye!” she chirped, already pulling away.
Before anyone could react, she turned and bolted down the street, curls bouncing, sandals slapping pavement.
“Wait—!” Ilya stood abruptly, scanning the crowd.
Too late.
She vanished between two buildings, swallowed by the easy anonymity of the town.
Ilya stood there, heart pounding so hard it made his ears ring.
No one spoke.
Finally, Cliff broke the silence. “Okay,” he said slowly. “What the hell was that?”
Svetlana stared down the street Luna had disappeared into, her expression unreadable. “Did she just say… kissing?”
“Kids say weird things,” Kip offered weakly.
-
Two days later, the town had worked its way under their skin.
They slept in. Ate slow breakfasts. Learned which café burned the espresso and which one made it perfect. Cliff had stopped checking his phone entirely. Scott and Kip had fallen into an easy rhythm that made the rest of them quietly jealous. Even Ilya felt… lighter. Like the weight he carried everywhere had loosened its grip.
So the beach felt inevitable.
Wide stretch of pale sand, rocky edges, water cold enough to keep tourists away. No vendors. No music. Just wind, waves, and the low murmur of locals who treated the place like a shared secret.
They dropped their bags and kicked off shoes.
Ilya peeled his shirt off without thinking, stretching as he faced the water. The sun was warm, the breeze sharp. For once, he didn’t feel watched.
Svetlana smirked. “You ever notice you only relax when you’re horizontal or half-naked?”
“Beach science,” Cliff said solemnly.
They spread out—Scott and Kip near the water, Cliff already digging an ambitious hole, Svetlana laying back with her sunglasses on.
Ilya stood at the shoreline, letting cold water lick at his ankles, when something tugged at him again.
Not his sleeve this time.
Instinct.
He turned.
A familiar head of dark curls was bent intently over a sandcastle a few yards away. Buckets, shells, careful little walls. The girl from the street. Luna.
Ilya stopped without realizing it.
Svetlana noticed immediately. “Is that—”
“Yes,” Ilya said quietly, already moving.
He didn’t know why. Only that the pull was there again, steady and undeniable, like gravity reminding him which way was down.
He crouched a respectful distance away. “Hey, Luna.”
Her head snapped up.
Her face lit up so fast it stole his breath.
“It’s you!” she squealed, scrambling to her feet and launching herself at him.
Ilya caught her without thinking, one arm wrapping around her small back as she hugged him tight. She smelled like sunscreen and salt and childhood.
“Hi,” he said softly, surprised at the warmth spreading through his chest.
“You came back!” she said, pulling away just enough to look at him. “I hoped you would.”
“I did,” he replied. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
She nodded seriously. “It’s a castle. For important people.”
“Important people deserve help,” Ilya said. “Want some?”
Her eyes went wide. “Yes!”
Behind them, the others approached slowly, curiosity winning out over caution.
Svetlana squatted down first. “That’s a strong foundation you’ve got.”
Scott grabbed a shell. “Needs decoration.”
Kip smoothed sand along one side. “Structural integrity is key.”
Luna giggled, directing them with all the authority of a seasoned architect. Soon they were all crouched in a loose circle around the castle, hands sandy, laughing quietly. Cliff pretended to mess up a wall just so Luna could scold him.
Ilya watched her—how easily she commanded the space, how comfortable she was with them, how she kept drifting back toward him, knees brushing his arm, small hand occasionally resting on his forearm like it belonged there.
Something in his chest ached.
Not painful. Just… full.
Then Luna’s head snapped up.
Her entire body changed in an instant—joy sharpening into excitement.
“Papa!” she shouted.
She was on her feet and running before anyone could react.
Ilya straightened slowly, eyes following her.
At the edge of the beach, a man had just stepped out from behind the dunes.
Shane Hollander.
He wore a tank top, hair wind-tousled, skin sun-kissed. Still fit—still him. Muscle memory recognized him instantly, painfully. His body bore the years well.
The air left Ilya’s lungs.
Shane dropped to one knee just in time for Luna to crash into him. He laughed, the sound easy and real, and scooped her up effortlessly.
“There’s my moonbeam,” Shane said, pressing a kiss into her curls.
Ilya didn’t hear the rest.
The world narrowed to the sight of Shane’s hand resting protectively at Luna’s back. To the way Luna’s fingers curled into Shane’s hair. To the scar that explained everything the child had said.
No one spoke.
Svetlana went very still.
Scott’s jaw tightened.
Kip inhaled sharply.
Cliff swore under his breath.
Shane looked up then.
His smile faltered.
Recognition hit—not slow, not uncertain. Immediate. Devastating.
Their eyes met across the sand.
Five years collapsed into a single heartbeat.
Shane straightened, Luna still in his arms. His expression shuttered—not cold, not angry. Guarded. Careful. Like someone who had learned exactly how much of himself to show.
Luna’s hands tugged at Shane’s chest. “Papa, we were building a sandcastle! Look! They were helping me!”
Shane’s brow furrowed slightly. “Yes, I see that…” His eyes scanned the group behind Ilya, landing on him briefly. He adjusted his hold on Luna, subtly turning her away from Ilya, creating distance without raising his voice. “But… what did we talk about?”
Luna tilted her head, unsure.
Shane’s voice softened just enough, but the words cut deeper than anything physical could. “We do not talk or play with strangers.”
The word landed like a blow.
Strangers.
Ilya felt it in his chest, sharp and immediate.
He took a half-step forward before he could stop himself. “Shane—”
Shane’s eyes flicked to him. Brief. Controlled.
“I appreciate you keeping her company,” Shane said, polite and distant, his tone the same one he used with parents at the rink or neighbors at the market. “But she shouldn’t wander off with people she doesn’t know.”
Ilya’s heart cracked open.
He wasn’t a stranger.
Not to Shane.
Not to Luna.
Not when her eyes were his eyes. Not when her laugh echoed something that lived in his memory. Not when every instinct in him was screaming mine in a way that terrified him.
Svetlana shifted uncomfortably. Scott looked like he wanted to say something and knew better. Kip squeezed his hand. Cliff stared at the sand.
Luna, blissfully unaware of the heartbreak she’d just witnessed, giggled and swung her little legs, holding tight to the only parent she knew.
“Can we finish the castle?” she asked, bright-eyed.
Shane hesitated, about to shake his head, but then his lips curved, just slightly. He set her down carefully, hands still hovering, protective. “Yes,” he said softly.
Luna’s eyes brightened. “Help us?”
Shane chuckled quietly, shaking his head as if the idea itself embarrassed him. He bent down and sat on the sand beside her, letting her small hands guide him in smoothing walls and shaping towers.
The group formed a loose circle again, curiosity winning out over hesitation. Small shells were handed over, little pointers offered, questions murmured.
“So… she’s yours?” Scott asked cautiously, not wanting to overstep.
Shane straightened a fraction, brushing sand from his knees, expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said quietly. “She’s mine.”
The silence that followed was thick, reverent.
Svetlana’s voice was low, careful. “She said… you carried her.”
“I did,” Shane admitted simply. No pride, no show. Just the bare truth.
“And you survived,” Cliff said, awe lacing every syllable.
“We did,” Shane replied, smiling faintly at Luna. She grinned, proud, sand between her fingers, oblivious to the adults around her being utterly floored.
Something deep inside Ilya cracked. Five years of longing, missed opportunities, and unanswered questions swirled into a painful knot in his chest.
He swallowed, voice rough. “I… I didn’t know.”
Shane’s gaze met his, cool, controlled, unreadable. “You didn’t want to,” he said simply.
It hurt sharper than anger ever could.
Ilya lowered his eyes, clenching his fists in the sand. He watched Shane guide Luna’s hands on the castle, her fingers brushing against his, and it hit him all at once—the truth, undeniable and raw.
Five years ago, Shane had said he loved him.
Five years ago, Ilya had turned away.
And now… now Shane stood infront of him.
Ilya sat on his knees beside the castle, pretending to help, but every shell he placed, every finger tracing the sand, was a reminder of what he had lost—and what he had never truly had.
The group circled around them, aware but quiet. Respectful. Witnesses to something fragile and sacred.
Luna giggled, oblivious to the tension radiating from the adults around her. “Papa, build the tower taller!”
Shane’s smile softened just for her. But when his gaze flicked to Ilya again, the distance remained. Protective. Polite. Guarded.
Ilya realized something with a gut-punch clarity.
He wasn’t a stranger to Luna.
He wasn’t a stranger to Shane.
But Shane was choosing to see him that way.
And no one—no one—was going to tell him otherwise.
For now.
-
The sandcastle was finally finished, towers standing proudly, walls carefully smoothed, moats dug with precision and flair. Luna clapped her little hands, beaming at their creation. “It’s perfect!”
Shane looked at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It is.” He crouched to dust off a handful of sand from her knees. “You did most of the work.”
Luna shook her head vigorously. “No! We all did!”
Ilya smiled, though it was bittersweet. He stayed a respectful distance away, watching Shane and Luna move together, laugh, and argue playfully over whose tower was the tallest. Every so often, Luna would glance at him, her small smile bright and trusting, and his chest ached in a way he couldn’t name.
“Can we stay longer?” Luna asked suddenly, tugging at Shane’s hand.
Shane glanced at her, then at the group standing a short distance away. He hesitated just a fraction. Then he chuckled. “Alright, we’ll stay a little longer.”
They did. Hours slipped by unnoticed.
They played new games—one involving carefully stomping on imaginary tides, pretending to defend the castle from invading crabs.
In a nearby dune, Ilya watched. The way Luna’s laughter rang out—pure, untamed, entirely unselfconscious—made his chest ache. Shane moved beside her, responding to her gestures and giggles with ease. He was patient, attentive, always a step ahead, always shielding her from the little bumps and tumbles without ever touching her roughly. Protective, careful, steady.
It was beautiful to watch. And it hurt.
Ilya caught himself smiling a few times, warmth spreading in his chest at the sight of the pair. But then Shane’s glance would flick toward him—brief, measured, controlled—and the smile would falter. Protective, but not physical. Always just enough to remind Ilya that he was still… an outsider in this little world.
Every laugh, every shouted “Papa!” sent a pang through him. Every triumphant stomp on a wave of sand made him wish he could step forward, to be part of it. And every time Shane looked up, alert and calculating, Ilya’s chest tightened again—the reminder that even here, even now, Shane’s instincts were first and foremost to protect.
But there was no anger. No confrontation. No raised voices. Just a careful, steady presence that spoke louder than words ever could.
Hours passed in that way. Sunswept sand, salty air, the faint rhythm of waves lapping at their feet. Luna ran between towers, guided by Shane’s steady hand, squealing with delight at every collapsing wall. Shane’s laugh was low and calm, careful, and Ilya couldn’t stop thinking how much he had missed seeing that side of him.
The day faded slowly into afternoon. Shadows stretched across the sand. Shane finally stood, brushing sand from his knees. “Alright, moonbeam. Time to head home.”
Luna’s face fell. “Do I have to go?”
Shane knelt and scooped her into his arms, pressing a kiss into her curls. “Yes, sweet pea. It’s getting late, and you haven’t had dinner.”
She sighed, shoulders slumping—then her eyes shifted past him. She spotted Ilya.
“Can Mr. Ilya eat with us?” she asked softly.
Shane’s answer was already forming—instinctive, protective—when Luna suddenly brightened.
“I can show him my room!” she added excitedly.
Shane froze.
Slowly, he looked up, meeting Ilya’s gaze across the stretch of sand.
In that instant, he saw everything he had spent years refusing to acknowledge—the vulnerability, the longing, the quiet ache in Ilya’s eyes. The way he stood there, not demanding, not reaching, just hoping.
Ilya didn’t speak. He simply mouthed one word.
Please.
Shane exhaled, a quiet, tired sigh. He leaned down and whispered something in Luna’s ear.
Her face lit up.
She wriggled free and ran straight to Ilya, grabbing his hand with unfiltered joy.
“Papa says you can come,” she announced happily. “If you want.”
Ilya didn’t move at first.
For a heartbeat, he just stood there, stunned, Luna’s small hand wrapped confidently around his, her fingers warm and trusting. His brain lagged behind the moment, trying to catch up to what his heart already understood.
“Yes,” he said finally, voice quiet but steady. “I’d like that.”
Luna beamed, squeezing his hand like she’d won something important.
Shane watched him closely as they started walking, every step measured, every instinct alert. He said nothing, but his shoulders stayed squared, his presence subtly protective as Luna skipped between them, swinging their joined hands without a care in the world.
They left the beach together.
Ilya barely registered his friends behind him—their stunned silence, Svetlana’s knowing look, Scott’s barely restrained questions. None of it mattered. His world had narrowed to the rhythm of Luna’s steps, to the quiet sound of the surf fading behind them, to Shane’s steady presence just within reach.
Every so often, Luna would chatter excitedly, pointing out shells she wanted to bring home or telling Ilya about the castle she planned to build tomorrow. Ilya listened to every word like it was sacred.
He stole glances at Shane when he thought he wasn’t looking.
Shane walked with his gaze forward, jaw set, but there was something softer there too—an uncertainty that mirrored Ilya’s own. Five years of distance walked between them, heavy and unspoken, yet here they were, moving in the same direction at last.
Ilya’s chest felt tight, full in a way that scared him.
This wasn’t a victory. It wasn’t forgiveness.
But it was a beginning.
And as the three of them disappeared down the path together, Ilya knew one thing with terrifying clarity—
For the first time in years, he wasn’t walking away.
-
The house was small, quiet, and warm in a way that felt lived-in rather than styled.
Not a rental. Not temporary. A home.
The moment the door closed behind them, Luna kicked off her sandals and immediately grabbed Ilya’s hand again. “Come on! I have to show you everything!”
“Everything?” Ilya asked, smiling despite the knot in his chest.
“Yes! Papa, we’re giving Mr. Ilya the tour!”
Shane paused by the door, watching them for a moment. “Alright,” he said calmly. “Just—slow down.”
Luna nodded solemnly and immediately ignored it, tugging Ilya down the hallway.
The first thing he noticed wasn’t the furniture or the soft hum of the ocean through open windows.
It was the walls.
They were covered.
Crayon drawings taped unevenly, some crooked, some overlapping. Finger paintings. Construction-paper hearts. Stick figures with exaggerated smiles.
Ilya stopped short.
Luna pointed proudly. “That’s me and Papa at the beach.”
She moved a step. “That’s me when I was little.”
Another step. “That’s Papa with me in his tummy!”
Ilya’s breath caught.
He stared at the drawing—a round-bellied figure in bright marker, hands resting protectively over a large stomach. A much smaller figure beside it, heart drawn between them. Above it, in wobbly letters, were the words me and papa.
Further down the hall were photos.
Real ones.
Luna as a newborn, bundled in soft blankets, impossibly small. Shane in a hospital bed, exhausted and pale but smiling, one hand resting protectively over his stomach, the other curled around his baby’s tiny fist.
Another photo—Shane standing in front of a mirror, heavily pregnant, one hand bracing the counter, the other cradling his belly. His face was calm. Strong. Terrified and brave all at once.
Ilya’s chest tightened painfully.
He hadn’t imagined it. The scar. The truth. It was all here, framed and unhidden, woven into the fabric of their lives.
“That’s when Papa was big,” Luna said matter-of-factly, peering up at him. “He says I was heavy.”
Ilya swallowed hard. “You were worth it,” he said without thinking.
Luna grinned. “Papa says that too!”
Behind them, Shane had gone still.
Ilya turned slowly, guilt flickering through him like a warning—but Shane didn’t look angry. Just quiet. His eyes followed Luna as she bounced ahead into her room, chattering excitedly about toys and books and the very important stuffed animal collection.
The hallway felt heavy now. Sacred.
“I didn’t know,” Ilya said again, softer this time. Not as a defense. As a truth.
Shane didn’t look away from the photos on the wall. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Steady.
“I tried to tell you.”
The words settled between them—not sharp, not accusing. Just honest.
Ilya’s breath caught.
The memory hit him with brutal clarity: the message, the careful wording, the hesitation he’d felt even then.
Can we meet? I have something important to tell you.
His chest tightened painfully.
Pregnant.
Shane had been pregnant.
That was what he’d tried to say. That was what Ilya had turned away from. Blocked. Buried under fear and denial.
“I thought—” Ilya started, then stopped. There was no excuse that didn’t sound hollow. He shook his head slowly. “You were trying to tell me you were pregnant.”
Shane’s jaw tightened just a fraction. He nodded once.
“Yes.”
The word was quiet. Devastating.
Ilya dragged a hand down his face, guilt flooding him so hard it made his vision blur. “I would’ve been there,” he said hoarsely. “I swear. I just—”
“You didn’t want to hear it,” Shane interrupted, not unkindly. “And I couldn’t afford to beg.”
The words weren’t angry.
They were boundaries.
Luna’s laughter drifted from down the hall, light and oblivious, and the contrast made Ilya’s chest ache even more. He looked again at the photos—at Shane standing alone, strong and terrified, carrying a life he should never have had to carry by himself.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, the words small but real. “For all of it.”
Shane studied him for a long moment, something conflicted flickering behind his eyes.
“I know,” he said quietly. “But sorry doesn’t change what happened.”
No—but it acknowledged it.
And for the first time since they’d met again, Ilya understood the truth fully:
Shane hadn’t shut him out.
He had survived without him.
And if Ilya wanted any place in this life now, it wouldn’t be through regret—but through patience.
Just then Luna ran down the hallway tugging the two with her, cheerful and oblivious. “Kitchen!” she announced, dragging them the rest of the way.
The kitchen opened up suddenly—warm light, worn counters, the smell of garlic already in the air. It felt like a different world from the hallway heavy with memories. Alive. Present.
Luna climbed onto the counter immediately, legs swinging as Shane handed her a wooden spoon like it was ceremonial. “Your job,” he told her, “is to supervise.”
“I’m very good at that,” she said seriously.
Ilya hovered for a second, unsure of where he fit, until Shane wordlessly nudged a cutting board toward him. “You can chop,” he said. Neutral. Practical.
Grateful.
They moved around each other carefully at first—passing ingredients, opening drawers, avoiding touching when it would’ve been easy to brush hands. The domesticity of it felt unreal. Ilya had spent years in spotless apartments that never smelled like food or laughter. This kitchen smelled like garlic and warmth and something dangerously close to belonging.
Luna chatted nonstop from her perch.
“Papa burns the onions sometimes.”
“That was one time,” Shane replied dryly.
“And Mr. Ilya is tall.”
“So I’ve been told,” Ilya said, smiling.
She laughed at that, kicking her heels against the cabinet.
At one point Shane leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching Luna dramatically instruct Ilya on how to stir properly. He looked relaxed in a way Ilya had never seen before—soft, unguarded, fully himself.
It made Ilya ache.
Dinner came together slowly. Nothing fancy. Pasta. Vegetables. Bread still warm from the oven. They ate around the small table, Luna between them, chattering about the beach and the castle and how tomorrow’s would be even bigger.
Halfway through, she went quiet.
Too quiet.
Ilya noticed immediately.
She looked back and forth between them, brow furrowed, clearly working something out in her head.
Then, casually—like she was asking for more water—she said,
“Mr. Ilya… are you my daddy?”
The world stopped.
The clink of cutlery seemed impossibly loud. Shane froze, hand still around his glass. Ilya’s breath left him all at once, chest tightening so sharply it almost hurt.
Shane turned slowly toward Luna. “Luna,” he said gently, carefully, “what made you ask that?”
She shrugged. “My friend says her mommy and daddy kiss. And I only ever saw Papa kiss you in the old photos.” She shared. “And… and I have your eyes. And my hair curls like yours. And I laugh like you do. That’s why.”
Ilya’s heart stopped.
He didn’t know what to say. How could he explain that the connection she was pointing out—the resemblance, the laughter, the small, quiet inheritance of himself—was something that had existed for years, unseen and unspoken?
“I… Luna,” Ilya said softly, voice breaking slightly. “That’s… very observant of you.”
She leaned forward a little, eyes wide, dark and shimmering with curiosity and hope. Her small hands clasped together in front of her plate.
“Do you… want to be?” she asked quietly, hesitant but earnest.
Ilya froze for the briefest second. Then he looked at her, really looked, and something in him settled—a certainty he hadn’t felt in years. His voice came low, steady, full of conviction.
“More than anything,” he said.
Luna’s face lit up instantly. A grin spread across her features, and she leaned over to hug him tightly, giggling into his chest.
Shane watched quietly from across the table, the tension in his shoulders easing by degrees he hadn’t realized were possible. He said nothing, didn’t interrupt, didn’t correct her or pull her away—because some truths didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be real. They simply existed, reflected in the way Luna clung to Ilya and the way Ilya held her like he’d been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.
Ilya hugged her back, careful not to overwhelm her, but steady—grounded—in a way that told her she was safe. That he wasn’t going anywhere. For the first time in years, he felt something inside him settle. A bridge forming. Fragile, tentative, but real. One that connected regret and loss to something living and warm and laughing in his arms.
For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was missing the most important part of his life.
Shane looked at them, really looked, and felt something unexpected bloom beneath the ache he’d carried for half a decade.
Relief.
Because no matter how hurt he had been—no matter how alone he’d felt when he carried Luna, when he brought her into the world, when he learned how to be everything for her—this moment wasn’t about him anymore.
It was about her.
And Ilya, standing there with tears in his eyes and love written plainly across his face, wasn’t a stranger. He never had been. He was Luna’s father. The other half of her. The part Shane had never truly wanted to erase, only to protect her from losing twice.
Shane exhaled slowly, setting his glass down. “Luna,” he said gently, grounding the room again, “finish your dinner.”
She nodded enthusiastically, still smiling, and climbed back into her chair, swinging her legs like nothing monumental had just happened.
But everything had.
Shane met Ilya’s eyes across the table—not accusing, not cold. Just honest.
As long as Ilya wanted to be there—truly there—Shane would never take that away from his daughter.
Some love was bigger than heartbreak.
And some choices, once made, were worth trusting again.
-
The rest of the evening unfolded gently, like everyone was learning a new rhythm together.
They moved through the small house without rushing—Luna bouncing between rooms, dragging Ilya by the hand to show him things she’d forgotten earlier. Her favorite book. A chipped mug Shane always used. A crooked picture frame she insisted was “perfect like that.” Ilya followed willingly, laughing softly, answering every question she threw at him, soaking in moments he hadn’t known he was allowed to want.
Shane stayed present but not hovering. Always within sight, never in the middle. He leaned against doorframes, washed dishes, folded a blanket on the couch that didn’t really need folding. He watched Ilya learn Luna in real time—the way she liked her hair brushed slowly, the way she hummed when she was happy, the way she instinctively reached for Ilya’s hand without thinking.
It hurt.
But it also felt… right.
When the sky outside darkened and the house grew quiet, Luna’s energy finally ebbed. She yawned once, twice, rubbing at her eyes as she curled into Ilya’s side on the couch.
Shane checked the time. “Alright, moonbeam. Bath time.”
She groaned dramatically but didn’t protest when Shane scooped her up. The routine was clearly well-worn—warm water, bubbles, giggles echoing down the hall. Ilya lingered nearby, unsure of his place, until Luna peeked around the corner, hair plastered to her forehead.
“Daddy! You can help if you want!”
The word still sent a small shock through him, but he smiled and nodded, stepping closer. He handed Shane towels, helped rinse shampoo, listened as Luna narrated every single step like it was a grand production.
Afterward came pajamas. Toothbrushing. Careful detangling of curls. Luna stood between them on a small stool, watching her reflection as Ilya brushed her hair with deliberate care, hands gentle, almost reverent.
When it was finally time for bed, Luna climbed under her blankets—but her smile faltered when Ilya stepped back.
Her face fell immediately. She looked at Ilya, then at Shane, lip wobbling just slightly. “Does daddy have to go?”
Ilya’s chest tightened. He shifted, already preparing to stand. “I—yeah, sweetheart. I should—
Shane saw it then. The disappointment in Luna’s eyes. The way Ilya tried not to show his own.
He spoke before he could overthink it.
“Do you want Daddy to stay?” Shane asked, tone calm, casual, like the answer didn’t matter—like it wouldn’t change everything. “Tuck you in?”
Luna’s face lit up instantly. She nodded hard enough her curls bounced. “Yes! Please!”
Ilya froze, turning to Shane, shock written all over his face.
Shane met his gaze, steady. Not unkind. Not distant. Just… resolved. “If you want to,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to stop you.”
An offering. A test. A door left open.
Ilya swallowed, emotion rising thick in his throat. “I’d like that,” he said. “Very much.”
Ilya sat beside her, book open, voice low and steady as he read. Luna curled toward him, fingers tangled in his sleeve, eyes growing heavy with every page.
Shane lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching. Then quietly retreated to his own bedroom, giving them the space.
By the time the story ended, Luna was fast asleep.
Ilya closed the book gently. He leaned down, pressing a careful kiss to her forehead, lingering just a second longer than necessary.
“Goodnight Luna,” he whispered.
He slipped out of the room quietly and pulled the door closed behind him.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft glow spilling from Shane’s bedroom.
Ilya glanced over—
And stopped cold.
Shane stood inside, shirtless, having just set something down on the dresser. The light traced every familiar line of him—strong shoulders, defined muscles—and then lower, where the truth lived in stark clarity.
The scar.
Clean, unmistakable. A pale line across his lower abdomen.
Shane froze when he noticed him. Neither of them spoke.
Ilya’s breath left him in a shudder.
Without thinking—without permission from his brain—his body moved. Slowly, reverently he crossed the space between them dropping to his knees in front of Shane like it was instinct, like his body had made the decision before his mind could catch up.
His hands hovered for half a second, asking permission without words.
Then he pressed his forehead to Shane’s stomach.
A broken sound left his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya whispered. Once. Then again. “I’m so sorry.”
Tears spilled freely now. He kissed the scar—once, twice, over and over—each one an apology he hadn’t been there to give five years ago. Each one a grief he hadn’t known he was allowed to feel.
“I should’ve been here,” he choked. “I should’ve listened. I should’ve stayed. I—”
Shane’s hands trembled at his sides. He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t prepared for it.
Slowly, carefully, he rested one hand in Ilya’s hair, fingers threading into Ilya’s hair.
Ilya clutched him tighter, forehead pressed to his stomach like a prayer. “I didn’t know,” he whispered. “But I do now. And I swear—I’m not leaving again.”
Shane’s hand slid from Ilya’s hair to his face, fingers warm, steady. He cupped his jaw and gently—but firmly—pulled him up until Ilya was standing again, their bodies close, breaths mingling.
Ilya’s eyes were red, wet, unguarded. He didn’t try to hide it.
Shane leaned in just enough that their foreheads almost touched. His voice was barely above a whisper, meant only for the space between them.
“You’re here now,” he said. Not accusing. Not forgiving everything all at once. Just stating the truth as it was. “I’m trusting you.”
Ilya nodded immediately, almost desperately. “I won’t waste it,” he said, voice rough. “I swear. I’m not going anywhere. Not again. Not from you. Not from her.”
Something in Shane’s chest finally loosened.
He smiled—not wide, not bright—but real. Earned.
Then he leaned in and kissed him.
Ilya’s arms came around Shane without hesitation, lifting him with an ease that made Shane laugh softly into the kiss. Shane’s legs wrapped around Ilya’s waist by instinct, familiar and grounding, as if his body remembered before his heart could catch up. The kiss deepened—not frantic, not consuming—just full. Full of everything they hadn’t said.
Ilya carried him a few steps and carefully laid him back against the bed, hovering over him as if afraid of putting too much weight on something fragile. Shane’s hands slid into Ilya’s hair, anchoring him there, reassuring.
Ilya broke the kiss only to press his forehead to Shane’s, breathing him in. Then he lowered himself, slow and reverent, placing gentle kisses along Shane’s stomach—around the scar, never careless, never taking. Just honoring. His hands traced softly, like he was memorizing proof that Shane had survived something monumental.
Shane’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. He let it happen. Let himself be seen.
After a moment, Ilya came back up, wrapping his arms around Shane and pulling him close, chest to chest. Shane curled into him without resistance, head tucked beneath Ilya’s chin, their legs tangled comfortably together.
No rush. No expectations.
Just warmth. Just presence.
They lay there in silence, listening to each other breathe, the world narrowed down to this small, steady space.
Down the hall, Luna slept peacefully, unaware that something fundamental had shifted—that the two people who loved her most were finally standing on the same side of the bridge.
Not healed.
Not finished.
But here.
Together.
-
Morning came softly.
Ilya woke to warmth—too much of it to be accidental. He was fully clothed, one arm slung over something solid, legs tangled with another body. For a disoriented second, he thought he was back in some half-forgotten hotel room on the road.
Then he breathed in.
Clean soap. Familiar. Shane.
His eyes opened properly just as the door burst open.
“PAPA!”
A small body launched itself onto the bed like a tiny hurricane, all elbows and laughter and unrestrained joy. Luna climbed right over Shane and onto Ilya, planting herself squarely on his chest.
“Good morning, Daddy!” she announced, proud and loud and completely unapologetic.
Ilya laughed, the sound bubbling out of him before he could stop it. He wrapped his arms around her automatically, still half-asleep. “Good morning, moonbeam.”
Shane stiffened for half a second.
Just long enough for Ilya to notice.
Then Shane exhaled—and let it happen.
He shifted closer, one arm coming around both of them, grounding the moment instead of stopping it. Luna wriggled happily between them, curled against Ilya while Shane pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
It was small. Ordinary.
And it felt monumental.
That morning they fell into rhythm.
The rest of the break passed in a way that felt almost unreal.
Ilya stayed.
Not as a guest. Not as a visitor passing through. He stayed as Luna’s father—walking her to the market, carrying her on his shoulders, letting her fall asleep against him on long car rides. His friends and teammates joined them on outings, quickly falling into step with the rhythm of this small town and its quiet, sun-warmed days.
Svetlana taught Luna card games and let her win. Scott and Kip became her willing victims in endless rounds of tag. Cliff built things—kites, sand toys, a ridiculous fort that took up half the living room. They all adored her. And they adored Shane too, in that quiet, respectful way that came from seeing what he’d built on his own.
But more than anything, they watched Ilya.
This was the happiest they had ever seen him.
Not the polished, victorious joy of a Stanley Cup win. Not the roar of a crowd chanting his name. This was softer. Deeper. A joy that settled into his bones and stayed there. He smiled without thinking. Laughed without checking who was watching. He looked… whole.
When the end of the break crept closer, it hit Ilya harder than any playoff loss ever had.
One night, after Luna was asleep and the house had gone quiet, Ilya sat beside Shane on the couch, fingers laced together. The words came out before he could second-guess them.
“Come home with me.”
The moment they left his mouth, panic flared.
“I mean—I—” he rushed, hands lifting helplessly. “This is a home. Here. I didn’t mean it like—”
Shane turned toward him, gently but firmly cutting him off.
“Ilya,” he said, calm and steady. “Stop.”
Ilya went still.
“Our home,” Shane continued, voice sure, “is wherever we are together.” He smiled faintly. “This place gave us space. Time. But home is wherever Luna is. Wherever you are.”
Ilya’s breath hitched.
“And,” Shane added after a pause, “I talked to her.”
Ilya blinked. “You… did?”
Shane nodded. “Privately. About what it might mean to travel more. To move. To have you there all the time.” His lips curved faintly. “She was more than happy to.”
Ilya stared at him, overwhelmed. “She was?”
“She said,” Shane continued, voice warm, “‘As long as Papa and Daddy are there, I don’t care where we live.’”
Ilya covered his face with his hands, emotion crashing over him all at once. Shane leaned in, resting his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder, letting him feel it.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” Shane murmured. “We already built something here. We can build it anywhere.”
Ilya dropped his hands and pulled Shane into his arms, holding him like a promise.
This wasn’t about fixing the past.
It was about choosing the future.
Together.
They waited until the next morning to talk to Luna.
Shane made pancakes. Ilya cut fruit into uneven stars that Luna insisted were perfect. When they finally sat at the table, Shane glanced at Ilya, who nodded—steady, ready.
“Moonbeam,” Shane said gently, brushing syrup from her cheek, “remember when we talked the other day about maybe moving?”
Luna’s eyes widened instantly. “Is it real now?”
Ilya laughed softly. “It’s real,” he said. “But we wanted to ask you together.”
She didn’t hesitate for even a second. “Yes!” she blurted out, bouncing in her chair. “When do we go?”
Shane laughed, reaching out to steady her. “Soon,” he promised. “We’ll take our time. But we’d be moving in with Daddy. At his home.”
Luna gasped like she’d just been told the best secret in the world. “I get to live with you every day?” she asked Ilya.
Every day, he thought, and nearly broke all over again. “Every day,” he said, smiling.
She launched herself at him, arms around his neck, already talking about which toys she’d bring first and whether her bed would fit and if she could paint the walls purple. Shane watched them with a soft smile, heart full and steady.
The move happened quietly—but nothing about it stayed that way for long.
By the time they arrived at Ilya’s house, Luna’s room was already finished. Ilya had worked with a designer for weeks, sending photos, measurements, details Shane hadn’t even realized he’d been paying attention to. The door opened to a space that felt like her—soft colors, moon-and-star motifs, shelves for her books and drawings, a reading nook by the window.
Luna stood frozen for half a second.
Then she screamed.
She ran through the room, touching everything, laughing so hard she tripped onto the bed and bounced. “This is mine?” she asked, breathless.
“All yours,” Ilya said.
She tackled him in a hug so fierce he nearly fell over.
Shane watched from the doorway, one hand over his mouth, overwhelmed in the quiet way he’d learned to be. He hadn’t expected this—this care, this attention to detail. This love, woven into walls and light and space.
It didn’t take long for the world to catch up.
Photos surfaced. Ilya at the market with Shane and Luna. Shane laughing while Luna sat on Ilya’s shoulders. A kiss caught at the wrong angle—but the right moment. The truth assembled itself faster than either of them expected.
The media exploded.
Headlines shifted. Speculation turned to certainty. Fans connected the dots and then something unexpected happened—
They supported them. Loudly. Fiercely.
Messages poured in. Stories from other omegas. From carriers. From families who saw themselves reflected in the three of them. Love drowned out the noise more often than not.
The paparazzi, however, crossed lines.
Too close. Too intrusive. Too careless with a child who hadn’t asked for any of this.
Ilya shut it down immediately.
He adjusted schedules. Changed entrances. Put security in place not for himself—but for Shane and Luna. He held Shane’s hand tighter in public, stood between Luna and cameras without hesitation, his body a shield without being aggressive.
“This is my family,” he said once, flat and unyielding, when someone pushed too far. “Back off.”
And they did.
Because this wasn’t just a hockey star anymore.
This was a father.
And nothing mattered more than that.
-
Being home with Ilya felt surreal.
Magical, in the quiet, steady way magic sometimes worked—no flash, no spectacle. Just warmth. Just belonging. Shane woke up every morning beside Ilya, made breakfast while Luna padded into the kitchen half-asleep, spent afternoons helping with homework or walking the neighborhood while Ilya trained.
He was happy.
But he was also… restless.
Shane had never been good at standing still. He loved caring for his family—packing lunches, walking Luna to school, keeping the house running smoothly—but there was a part of him that missed the rhythm of work, of purpose beyond the walls of the house. He’d spent his whole life moving, training, competing. Providing. Even after retiring, even with more than enough money tucked safely away, the itch remained. The need to do something that was his.
He didn’t need the money. Neither of them did.
He needed the movement. The doing.
He missed the ice. Missed the structure, the burn in his muscles, the way the world narrowed down to a puck and a goal and breath frosting the air.
Ilya noticed.
He always did.
One afternoon, Ilya told Shane to come with him.
No explanation. Just a smile that made Shane suspicious.
In their living room laid a large box, unmistakably branded with the Boston Bears logo. Shane stopped short, blinking.
“What’s this?” Shane questioned already making his way to the box.
“Open it.” Ilya said trying—and failing—to look casual.
Shane raised an eyebrow but did as he was told. He unzipped the bag and immediately burst out laughing.
Bears gear.
A lot of it.
A hoodie. A jacket. A practice pullover. A knit beanie. Even a ridiculously soft scarf in black and gold.
“Oh my god,” Shane said, pulling out the hoodie and holding it up. “Are you trying to turn me into a walking PR campaign?”
Ilya grinned. “Something like that.”
Shane snorted. “You already have enough cameras on us, Rozanov. I don’t need to give them matching outfits. I fully support you, I don’t think I need merch to show it.”
Ilya stepped closer, expression suddenly serious. “I’m not asking you to support me.”
Shane frowned. “Then what—”
“I’m asking you to play with me.”
The words hung in the air.
Shane stared at him, sure he’d misheard. “Ilya…”
“Not as a favor,” Ilya continued. “Not as a publicity stunt. The team wants you. The league cleared it. Medical signed off. You’re still one of the best players there was.”
Shane’s breath caught.
“And,” Ilya added, voice softening, “they want you as my co-captain.”
Shane laughed then—but it came out shaky, disbelieving. “You’re serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” Ilya said. “I don’t want you on the sidelines feeling like you left part of yourself behind. I want you beside me. Where you belong.”
Shane swallowed hard, eyes burning. Hockey had taken so much from him—but it had also been his first love. His constant. The thing that made sense when everything else didn’t.
“You don’t have to say yes,” Ilya added quickly. “You don’t owe anyone anything. I just— I want you happy.”
For a long moment, Shane couldn’t speak. His hands trembled slightly as he reached out, brushing his fingers over the familiar fabric.
“I thought that part of my life was over,” he said quietly.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Ilya replied.
Shane looked up at him, eyes bright with something between fear and hope. “If I come back,” he said slowly, “it’s not because of you. It’s because I want it.”
Ilya smiled. “That’s the only way I’d accept.”
For a long moment, Shane said nothing.
Then he smiled—wide this time. Bright. Alive.
He stepped forward and pulled Ilya into a tight hug, pressing his face into his shoulder, holding on like he needed to feel the truth of it—solid, real, not something he’d wake up from.
“Co-captain, huh?” Shane teased, voice muffled but warm.
Ilya’s arms wrapped around him instantly, strong and sure. He grinned against Shane’s hair. “Couldn’t think of anyone else I’d trust with it.”
Shane pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes bright. “You realize I’m going to argue with you in every meeting.”
Ilya laughed, the sound easy, genuine. “Good. Just like old times.” His grin softened into something steadier, surer. “Only difference is we’re playing as one now. Together. Not against one another.”
Shane studied his face for a moment, like he was committing this version of Ilya to memory—the man who had learned, who had chosen, who was finally standing beside him instead of running. Then he nodded once, decisive.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I like that better.”
They stood there for a beat longer, arms still around each other, the weight of everything they’d survived settling into something lighter—something hopeful.
Same ice.
Same fire.
But this time, the same side.