Chapter Text
the faint, lingering smoke from last night’s fire pit.
Shane Hollander had always loved this place—his quiet riverside hideaway, far from Montreal’s crowds and the glare of arena lights. By NHL standards the house was downright humble: weathered cedar siding gone silver-gray, huge windows facing the water, and a wide wraparound deck that creaked underfoot like it was complaining about old age. Inside it was all warm wood, soft blankets, and the cozy, accumulated mess of too many lazy summers.
Ilya Rozanov had been coming here for three summers straight now, ever since that first tentative one when they finally stopped pretending their bed-partner arrangement was just “fooling around.” Three stolen off-seasons. Three pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist beyond these trees and this lake.
For three years Ilya had complained about Canadian bugs, Shane had mocked his terrible fire-starting skills, and basically nothing had changed: the two of them still fucked with the same manic, trophy-contending intensity they brought to the ice.
Yesterday had been one of those stupidly perfect, do-nothing days. They’d paddled the canoe out around noon, racing each other across the lake (Shane won by a hair), then spent the whole afternoon swimming, dunking each other like teenagers. When Ilya surfaced laughing—that wide-open, completely unguarded, ridiculous grin—water streaming down his face, wet blond hair plastered to his skull, Shane’s chest did that familiar, greedy squeeze. This is real. This is mine. He still caught himself thinking it with petty, victorious glee, like he’d gotten away with something.
Later Ilya sprawled on the dock in just his swim trunks, last rays of sunset pouring over him soft and golden, and very quickly the big Russian dozed off. Shane slipped away into the woods behind the cottage—just a walk, breathing damp earth, listening to wind move through the pines. His favorite way to decompress before Ilya started showing up every summer.
That’s when he found it.
A small black shadow among deadfall and wet grass under a birch. At first Shane thought wet leaves. Then it moved. Definitely something alive. He crouched, heart already doing something stupid, and used a stick to gently part the grass. The tiny mystery flinched, flapping pathetic little wings with everything it had, trying to look terrifying, and let out a soft, pained cheep.
A common loon chick.
Downy gray-black, barely bigger than Shane’s palm, maybe two weeks old. One wing twisted at a wrong angle, the other flopping uselessly against the ground. No parents in sight. Probably hit something, or fell from a nest too high. Abandoned, injured, alone. Basically the most pitiful thing on the planet.
Shane crouched there, heart twisting.
Every summer as a kid he’d listened to loons calling across the water. He loved them. Their cries were the soundtrack of his childhood—haunting, beautiful, somehow speaking for every calm, golden summer vacation in his memory.
He glanced back toward the dock. Ilya was still sprawled out, eyes closed, one arm flung over his face. Oh god. Shane sighed.
Ilya hated loons.
Not real hate—not the way he hated losing a face-off or a reporter asking something dumb and invasive. But that call made his skin crawl. Every time the loons started their long, eerie yodeling at night—like wolves with better pitch—Ilya would flinch, mutter “fucking ghost birds” in Russian, and yank the blanket over his head. Even on their second summer here, when a pair started up at 2 a.m., Ilya still bolted upright, convinced it was either a coyote in the yard, a cannibalistic ghoul, or a horrifying hybrid of both.
“Stupid Canadian wolf-birds,” he called them. Translation: the tough Russian was a little scared of waterbirds and refused to admit it.
So Shane debated for maybe two minutes and decided not to wake him. He’d just keep the chick overnight, then call wildlife rescue or whatever and hand it off. No need to give Ilya a full meltdown.
He scooped the trembling bundle up carefully. Tiny warm body shaking in his palms, fuzzy belly radiating adorable heat. He wrapped it in his own T-shirt, carried the injured little guy back to the cottage, and tucked it into the bottom of the guest-room closet (the one they barely used). Layered towels, added an old hoodie that still smelled like Shane. Improvised new-bird-mom logic. Set out a shallow dish of water, crumbled some fridge fish. Murmured nonsense: “You’re okay, little buddy. Just rest.” Watched with quiet pride as the shaking chick slowly relaxed under his voice.
Then he strolled back out like nothing happened. They lay on the shore until the air turned cool, grilled steaks, and Ilya dragged him to bed early. Slow, lazy sex, Ilya’s mouth against Shane’s throat, fingers tangled in each other’s hair, whispering the kind of sappy shit they only said here. Shane almost forgot about his afternoon crime.
Quiet night. Until morning.
Sunlight slipped through half-closed blinds in golden stripes. Shane lay on his back, one arm flung out, sheet tangled around his hips covering last night’s nakedness. Ilya was draped over him like a possessive weighted blanket, face buried in Shane’s neck, mumbling sticky Russian nonsense, one leg hooked around Shane’s thigh, morning hard-on pressed to his hip.
Ilya’s hand moved first. Lazy, sleepy exploration. Fingers drifting over Shane’s chest, circling a nipple, thumb brushing until it peaked. Shane hummed, still half-dreaming, arching just enough to say more. Ilya got the message—gentle kneading, then a firmer pinch, exactly the pressure Shane liked. A low, needy sound slipped from Shane’s throat. He turned his head, chasing Ilya’s mouth.
And then.
A faint, pitiful whimper from the closet in the other room. Barely audible. Could’ve been wind, a distant bird, or—
Ilya froze. Hand still on Shane’s chest. Shane’s heart lurched with sudden guilt. He cracked one eye. “Mm?”
Ilya lifted his head slowly. Eyes narrowed. “What the fuck was that sound?”
Shane swallowed. Voice rough. “Bird. Probably outside.”
Ilya stared at him for several long seconds. Shane’s cheeks were already pinker than usual—cute as hell. Ilya huffed, decided to ignore the maybe-imagined noise, and dove back in, thumb and forefinger rolling Shane’s nipple, tugging lightly. Shane gasped, arched into the touch, hips shifting.
Another whimper. Louder. Clearer.
Ilya stopped again, brow creasing with actual concern. “Hollander.”
“It’s nothing,” Shane mumbled. “Just… nature. Don’t worry about it. Loons come ashore this time of year to, uh, stretch their legs.”
Ilya muttered something rude in Russian but didn’t quit. He worked Shane’s now-hypersensitive nipple harder—another sharp twist that made Shane suck in a breath and arch off the bed. Heat pooled low in Shane’s belly. Ilya’s mouth found his collarbone, then lower, closing over the nipple, teeth grazing, Shane let out another loud moan—
The closet exploded.
Not literally, but close enough. A sudden, gut-wrenching wail—raw, throat-scraping, like a baby wolf with laryngitis trying to learn how to howl. High, desperate, piercing. The exact sound that snaps every primate’s instincts to full red alert.
Ilya’s fingers clamped down reflexively.
Shane yelped for real—his nipple felt like it had been caught in a duck-bill vise. He jerked. “Fuck, Ilya—!”
Ilya shot upright, sheet sliding off, eyes wide, chest heaving.
“That sound definitely came from inside the fucking house!”
Shane sat up slowly, one hand cupping his throbbing (probably soon-to-be-bruised) nipple. Face burning with embarrassment and guilt. Without a word he found clothes, pulled Ilya toward the guest room.
Ilya stared at the closed closet door—and the commotion behind it—like it had just personally insulted his mother.
Shane sighed, arms crossed, head tilted in resignation.
“Okay, so the story is—”
Ilya’s look was pure exasperated terror plus defeat.
“You have five seconds, Hollander, or I burn this entire cottage down.”
Shane scratched his neck awkwardly and eased the closet door open.
There, nestled in a nest of towels and hoodie, was the chick. Tiny body trembling, huge black eyes glassy with stress. Beak open. Another weak whimper—then a hiccuping little cheep.
Ilya stared.
Then stared harder, like his brain was blue-screening.
“You… kidnapped a baby loon.”
“Rescued,” Shane said quickly. “It’s hurt. Wing’s messed up. Couldn’t just leave it.”
“You hid it. In our closet. From me.”
Shane hunched his shoulders. “You’re scared of loons.”
“I am not scared of loons!” Ilya hissed through his teeth. “I just hate them screaming like something’s getting murdered at three in the morning! Hate! And now there’s one in my bedroom screeching right before I fuck you!”
Right on cue the chick let out another long, quivering wail. Less wolf, more asthmatic heartbroken kitten.
Ilya gave Shane the world’s most I told you so look.
Shane shot him a glare, then crouched, voice softening. “Hey, little guy. He’s not gonna hurt you. You’re okay. You’re okay.” The chick quieted at Shane’s voice.
Ilya watched Shane talk like a new mom to an infant and felt something weird twist in his chest, but he still dragged both hands down his face in agony.
“We are not keeping a screaming bird.”
“It’s injured.”
“It’s loud.”
Shane looked back at him—stubborn, slightly sheepish, already dug in. “Just until the wing heals, or tomorrow I’ll find a wildlife center. I’m already looking. A few days max. I can’t let it die, Ilya.”
Ilya glared at the chick.
The chick blinked huge eyes at him. Cheep. Weak. Pitiful.
Ilya’s shoulders dropped maybe half a centimeter.
He muttered something in Russian. Definitely filthy.
Shane gave a hopeful, pleading little smile.
“Fuck your Canada…” Ilya rubbed his temples.