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The drive back to the cottage was quieter than the drive there.
Not tense. Not awkward.
Just quiet in the way that comes after something monumental—after you’ve stepped off a cliff and realized you’re still standing.
The sky over the lake was streaked pink and amber, early evening settling in. Shane drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up on the console between them. Ilya’s fingers lay there, warm and solid, their knuckles brushing whenever Shane shifted gears.
They had done it.
They had sat at his parents’ table. They had said the words out loud. They had answered the questions.
They had survived.
Shane stole a glance at Ilya. He looked composed, gaze fixed out the window, profile sharp against the fading light. Anyone else would think he was fine.
Shane knew better.
When they pulled up to the cottage, the gravel crunched under the tires. The place looked the same as it always had—wood siding weathered by years of lake wind, small dock stretching into still water, pine trees hemming it in like a protective barrier.
Safe.
Shane cut the engine.
For a moment neither of them moved.
“Well,” Shane said softly.
“Well,” Ilya echoed.
They stepped out of the car together. The air was cooler now, brushing over Shane’s skin. He inhaled deeply, lake water and pine filling his lungs.
Inside, the cottage felt familiar in a way that grounded him instantly. The worn couch with the sag in the middle. The crooked framed photo of him and his mom when he was ten. The throw blanket that always ended up twisted around their legs when they fell asleep together on late nights.
“You hungry again?” Shane asked.
“I could eat,” Ilya replied.
Shane watched him take in the room again. Something in his chest tightened. Ilya had been here before, but now the place carried new weight. It wasn’t just their hidden refuge anymore. It was the place they’d returned to after telling his family the truth.
After David’s question.
Shane moved into the kitchen and started pulling things from the fridge. Leftover roast chicken. Vegetables. Bread. Something simple.
Ilya joined him without a word, washing his hands at the sink and reaching automatically for a cutting board. They moved around each other with the ease of long practice. Shoulder brushes, quiet murmured “behind you”s, a hand at the small of Shane’s back guiding him out of the way.
It felt domestic in a way that made Shane’s chest ache with something dangerously close to happiness.
“You cut like you are afraid of onion,” Ilya said mildly.
“I am not afraid of onion.”
“You are very gentle. Onion will not bite.”
Shane bumped his hip. “Shut up.”
Ilya’s mouth curved. “You are captain. You should cut with authority.”
“Authority is for the ice,” Shane shot back. “In here I am a peaceful man.”
“You are never peaceful man.”
Shane laughed, and just like that some of the tightness eased.
They cooked. They ate at the small wooden table near the window, knees knocking under it. The lake had gone dark now, the last of the sunset fading. Crickets started up outside.
Ilya listened as Shane talked about his mom cornering him near the sink after dinner, whispering fiercely that she loved him no matter what, that she wished he’d told them sooner. About Rose texting him a string of heart emojis underneath the table while David discussed hockey stats as if nothing earth-shattering had just been revealed.
“And Dad,” Shane finished, pushing a piece of bread around his plate. “He was… Dad.”
“Thoughtful,” Ilya said.
“Yeah.”
“And observant.”
Shane glanced up.
Ilya held his gaze for a beat, then looked down again.
There it was.
After dinner they cleaned up together. Ilya insisted on washing the dishes. Shane dried. It was quiet except for the sound of water running and the clink of ceramic.
They finished, turned off the kitchen lights, and moved into the living room. Shane lit the small fireplace—it wasn’t strictly necessary, but he liked the warmth, the glow. Ilya sank onto the couch and stretched his legs out, looking suddenly tired.
Shane sat beside him, close enough that their thighs pressed together.
For a while they just sat.
The fire crackled. The cottage creaked faintly as it cooled.
“You did not tell me,” Ilya said finally.
Shane’s stomach dipped. “Tell you what?”
“That you were nervous.”
“I wasn’t that nervous.”
Ilya turned to him fully now, one eyebrow lifting.
“Okay,” Shane admitted. “Maybe a little.”
“You were pacing,” Ilya said. “Like animal in cage.”
“That’s rude.”
“It is accurate.”
Shane huffed a quiet laugh. “I didn’t want it to go badly.”
“It did not.”
“No.” Shane’s voice softened. “It didn’t.”
Ilya leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “Your father,” he began slowly, “he is not cruel man.”
“No.”
“He was careful with his words.”
Shane’s shoulders tightened.
“He asked question,” Ilya continued. “Simple question.”
Shane closed his eyes briefly.
Where there no nice men in Montreal?
It hadn’t been said with anger. Not even with accusation. Just curiosity, maybe a little confusion. A father trying to understand why his son had chosen something complicated.
Shane shifted on the couch to face Ilya more directly. “You’ve been thinking about that.”
Ilya didn’t deny it. “Is fair question.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Ilya gave him a look. “You are from Montreal. You play for team in Montreal. You are handsome. You are—” He gestured vaguely. “You.”
Shane snorted. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you could have anyone,” Ilya said simply.
Shane stilled.
“You have whole locker room of men who understand your life,” Ilya went on. “You have teammates on the Montreal Metros. You have city full of people who do not play against you every night. Who do not hate you in headlines. Who do not complicate your career.”
“You don’t complicate my career,” Shane said sharply.
Ilya’s eyes flickered. “No?”
Shane opened his mouth, then closed it.
There had been complications. Trade rumors. Media scrutiny. The rivalry that had defined both of them before it had turned into something else.
“That’s not the same thing,” Shane said more quietly.
Ilya leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The firelight caught in his hair. “Your father was not wrong to wonder. Why choose enemy?”
“You’re not my enemy.”
“On ice?”
“That’s different.”
Ilya’s jaw flexed. “You could have chosen someone easy.”
Shane stared at him.
Someone easy.
Someone who didn’t come with years of bad blood and stolen glances and hotel room doors closing softly at midnight. Someone who didn’t make his heart race every time they lined up across from each other for a faceoff.
“You think I want easy?” Shane asked.
“I think,” Ilya said carefully, “that easy would make your life simpler.”
Shane let out a slow breath.
“I don’t want simpler,” he said. “I want you.”
Ilya’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You say that now.”
“And I meant it when I said it in front of my parents.”
“That was emotional moment.”
Shane’s temper flared. “You think I was just caught up in the vibe of family lunch?”
Ilya flinched slightly at the sharpness.
Shane exhaled, forcing himself to soften. He reached out and caught Ilya’s hand, threading their fingers together.
“I meant every word,” he said.
Silence settled again, heavy but not suffocating.
“I know there are nice men in Montreal,” Shane continued. “I’m sure there are. Some of them are probably better adjusted than you.”
Ilya shot him a glare.
“Hey,” Shane said quickly. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
Ilya huffed but didn’t pull his hand away.
“But I didn’t fall in love with someone because they were convenient,” Shane went on. “I fell in love with the guy who made me furious and then made me feel alive. The guy who pushed me harder than anyone else ever has. The guy who saw me—really saw me—even when we were pretending to hate each other.”
Ilya’s throat worked.
“You think I didn’t have chances?” Shane asked quietly. “You think there weren’t guys in Montreal? Or on the road? Guys who flirted? Who would have made it easy?”
Ilya’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly.
“I never wanted them,” Shane said.
The words were steady, deliberate.
“I wanted you.”
Ilya looked away.
Shane shifted closer. “Look at me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Ilya did.
“There is no one else,” Shane said. “There was never going to be anyone else. I didn’t choose you because you were the only option. I chose you because you’re the only one who ever felt right.”
Ilya’s expression flickered—hope warring with something darker.
“And if there are nice men in Montreal?” Shane added softly. “Good for them. They can go be nice somewhere else.”
That got a faint, unwilling smile.
“I am not nice?” Ilya asked.
“You’re a menace.”
“Ah.”
“But you’re my menace.”
The smile grew, small and fragile.
Shane leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to his mouth. It wasn’t heated. It wasn’t desperate. Just warm and grounding.
When he pulled back, Ilya rested his forehead against Shane’s shoulder.
“I did not like question,” he admitted in a low voice.
“I know.”
“It made me think.”
“I know.”
Ilya inhaled shakily. “In Montreal, you are star. Captain. Golden boy. You are loved. I am… outsider. Rival. Russian who hits you too hard.”
“You don’t hit me too hard.”
“Sometimes.”
Shane snorted softly, then sobered. “You’re not an outsider to me.”
“Maybe not to you,” Ilya said. “But to your world.”
Shane leaned back so he could see him clearly. “My world is not just hockey.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“It’s not,” Shane insisted. “Yeah, it’s a huge part. But you’re part of it too. You always have been.”
He hesitated, then added, “You think I didn’t imagine this? You think I didn’t picture bringing you here? Sitting on this couch with my family knowing?”
Ilya’s eyes widened slightly.
“I’ve thought about it for years,” Shane admitted. “Even when it felt impossible.”
“You never said.”
“Because I didn’t think we’d get here,” Shane said honestly. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”
The fire popped softly.
Ilya swallowed. “Your father,” he said after a moment, “he was worried for you.”
“Yeah.”
“He does not know me.”
“He will.”
Ilya let out a quiet breath. “I want him to see that I am good for you.”
Shane’s chest tightened. “You are.”
“But he does not know that yet.”
“He’ll figure it out,” Shane said. “He’s stubborn, but he’s not blind.”
Ilya was quiet.
Shane studied him for a long moment, then nudged his knee. “Come here.”
“I am here.”
“Closer.”
Ilya rolled his eyes but shifted, straddling Shane’s lap with an ease that made Shane’s breath catch. He settled there, hands resting on Shane’s shoulders.
“You are clingy today,” Ilya observed.
“Deal with it.”
Shane slid his hands up Ilya’s back, feeling the solid muscle beneath his sweater.
“I’m not going to wake up one day and decide my dad was right,” Shane said quietly. “I’m not going to trade you in for someone easier.”
“You cannot trade me,” Ilya said automatically. “I am not asset.”
Shane huffed a laugh. “You know what I mean.”
Ilya searched his face again, as if looking for cracks.
“You’re it for me,” Shane said. “There isn’t some imaginary nice Montreal guy waiting in the wings. There’s just you.”
Ilya’s fingers tightened in Shane’s shirt.
“You promise?” he asked, and this time there was no bravado. No teasing.
Just vulnerability.
Shane’s throat tightened.
“I promise,” he said firmly.
Ilya closed his eyes briefly, leaning down to press their foreheads together. For a moment they just breathed the same air.
“I am not easy,” Ilya murmured.
“I don’t want easy.”
“I am jealous. Competitive. Stubborn.”
“Yeah,” Shane said softly. “I know.”
“I fight with you.”
“You also fight for me.”
Ilya opened his eyes.
“And you love me,” Shane finished.
The words hung there, heavy and undeniable.
Ilya exhaled slowly. “Yes.”
“Then that’s enough.”
They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped around each other in front of the fire. Eventually the tension in Ilya’s shoulders eased, his weight settling more fully against Shane.
“Tomorrow,” Shane said after a while, “we’re not thinking about any of it.”
“About what?”
“Parents. Questions. Montreal. None of it.”
“And what we think about?”
Shane smiled. “Us. Lake. Maybe pancakes.”
“Pancakes,” Ilya repeated thoughtfully. “You will burn them.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
Shane grinned and kissed him again.
—
The next morning sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, bright and unfiltered. Shane woke slowly, warm and disoriented for a second before he remembered where he was.
Ilya was sprawled half on top of him, one arm slung over his waist, leg tangled with his. His hair was messy, his face relaxed in sleep.
Shane watched him for a long moment.
This. This was what he had chosen.
Not because there weren’t other options.
But because there was no other person who felt like this.
Ilya stirred, blinking awake. “You are staring,” he mumbled.
“Maybe.”
“Creepy.”
“You love it.”
Ilya huffed softly and tucked his face against Shane’s chest.
They stayed in bed longer than they meant to. When they finally dragged themselves up, Shane insisted on making pancakes.
“You are too confident,” Ilya warned from the doorway, arms crossed as he watched Shane pour batter into the pan.
“I’ve done this before.”
“Not successfully.”
The first pancake came out slightly uneven.
“Shut up,” Shane muttered.
“I say nothing.”
“You’re thinking it loudly.”
But when Shane flipped the second one perfectly, Ilya clapped slowly. “Ah. Improvement.”
They ate at the table, maple syrup sticky on their fingers. Shane laughed more that morning than he had in days.
After breakfast they walked down to the dock. The lake was calm, glassy under the clear sky.
Ilya sat at the edge, feet dangling over the water. Shane sat beside him, their shoulders touching.
“It is peaceful here,” Ilya said.
“Yeah.”
“I understand why you like it.”
Shane glanced at him. “You’re part of it now.”
Ilya looked at him, something soft in his eyes.
They talked about nothing and everything—about offseason training plans, about a new stick Ilya wanted to try, about Roses' upcoming movie. Normal things. Future things.
At one point Ilya nudged him. “If nice Montreal boy tries to flirt with you,” he said casually, “I will break his nose.”
Shane laughed. “Good luck explaining that to the league.”
“I will say he fell.”
“Onto your fist?”
“Many times.”
Shane shook his head, smiling.
“You are mine,” Ilya added, quieter now.
“Yeah,” Shane said easily. “I am.”
“And I am yours,” Ilya said.
Shane reached over and laced their fingers together. “Yeah.”
They sat there like that until the sun climbed higher and the day warmed.
Later, back inside, they stretched out on the couch with the windows open, a breeze drifting through. Ilya dozed with his head in Shane’s lap while Shane absentmindedly ran his fingers through his hair.
The question from the night before lingered faintly at the edge of his mind.
Where there no nice men in Montreal?
He looked down at the man asleep against him.
Maybe there were.
But none of them were Ilya.
None of them had looked at him across a rink full of hatred and made his pulse stutter. None of them had learned the exact cadence of his breathing. None of them had stood at a dinner table, facing his father’s steady gaze, and stayed.
Shane bent and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s temple.
Ilya stirred but didn’t wake.
“You’re the only one,” Shane murmured quietly, more to himself than anything.
Outside, the lake shimmered in the afternoon sun.
Inside, the cottage felt steady. Solid. Like something built to last.