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The first sign that something was different was the way Irina cleaned the living room.
Not “picked up a hoodie and shoved it under the couch” cleaned.
Actually cleaned.
She vacuumed.
She lit one of Shane’s expensive candles that smelled like cedarwood and emotional stability.
She arranged throw pillows.
Shane stood in the doorway with a mug of coffee, watching his sixteen-year-old daughter fluff a cushion like she was staging a real estate listing.
“…Who are you and what have you done with my child?”
Irina didn’t look up. “Isaac’s coming over.”
Shane nodded slowly.
“Isaac,” he repeated, as if that explained the vacuuming.
Isaac Hayes. Son of Wyatt and Lisa. Practically raised at their lakeside cottage. He’d learned to skate holding Ilya’s finger. He’d eaten approximately nine thousand team barbecues’ worth of overcooked burgers. He had once cried because Irina scraped her knee.
Isaac.
“Just Isaac?” Shane asked mildly.
“Yes,” Irina said, too quickly.
Shane’s mouth twitched.
From the kitchen, Ilya called, “Is Isaac staying for dinner?”
“Yes!” Irina shouted back.
There was a beat.
Then Ilya added, “I will make extra.”
Shane leaned against the doorframe, studying his daughter.
“You seem… invested in this movie night.”
She shot him a look. “We always have movie nights.”
“Sure. But usually you do not deep clean beforehand.”
She hesitated.
Then shrugged.
“It’s just… we haven’t hung out alone in a while.”
Shane raised an eyebrow.
“Alone.”
“Dad.”
“Okay, okay. I’m just saying.”
She rolled her eyes and grabbed the remote. “You and Papa are not allowed to hover.”
“We don’t hover.”
She stared at him.
“You absolutely hover.”
He considered that.
“…We lovingly orbit.”
—
Isaac arrived fifteen minutes later.
He was taller than Shane remembered. Broader shoulders. Same easy smile. Same slightly nervous energy he’d had since childhood.
He brought snacks.
Shane immediately approved.
“Good man,” he said solemnly, clapping Isaac on the shoulder.
Isaac grinned. “Hi, Mr. Hollander.”
“Shane.”
Isaac laughed. “Right. Sorry. Habit.”
Ilya emerged from the kitchen wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“Isaac,” he greeted warmly.
“Coach,” Isaac replied automatically, then flushed. “I mean— Ilya.”
Ilya nodded approvingly.
There was a comfortable familiarity between them. Years of practices. Holidays. Inside jokes.
Irina bounded down the stairs.
“Hi,” she said, trying for casual and landing somewhere near breathless.
Isaac smiled at her.
And Shane felt something in the air shift.
Not dramatically.
Just… subtly.
Like static before a storm.
“Movie,” Irina announced quickly, grabbing Isaac’s wrist and dragging him toward the living room.
Ilya watched them go.
Then looked at Shane.
“…Did you see that.”
“Oh, I saw that.”
“They held hands.”
“That was wrist grabbing.”
“It was prolonged.”
Shane sipped his coffee. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You are not.”
“I am evaluating.”
Shane grinned. “You’re spiraling.”
“I am not spiraling.”
—
The movie started.
Some rom-com with suspiciously attractive teenagers and dramatic lighting.
Irina and Isaac sat on opposite ends of the couch at first.
Very normal.
Very platonic.
Shane and Ilya remained in the kitchen, pretending to prep dinner while absolutely eavesdropping.
“They’re laughing,” Shane murmured.
“Friends laugh,” Ilya replied stiffly.
“Isaac’s arm is on the back of the couch.”
“That is furniture adjacent.”
Shane bit back a smile.
Minutes passed.
The laughter softened.
The couch creaked.
There was whispering.
Shane leaned slightly to peek around the corner.
“Oh,” he said softly.
“What.”
“They’re closer.”
“How close.”
“Like… no daylight.”
Ilya’s jaw tightened.
“They have grown up,” Shane said gently.
“Yes,” Ilya replied.
“That happens.”
“I am aware.”
“You survived being sixteen.”
“That is irrelevant.”
—
Forty minutes into the movie, Ilya decided dinner was ready.
He wiped his hands, took a steadying breath, and walked toward the living room.
Shane followed, mostly for entertainment.
The lights were dim.
The TV cast flickering blue light across the couch.
Irina and Isaac were sitting very close now.
Very.
Irina’s hand was in Isaac’s.
Isaac was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room.
And then—
Isaac leaned in.
It was not dramatic.
It was not cinematic.
It was soft. Careful. Slow.
He kissed her.
A gentle, tentative, sixteen-year-old kiss.
Time stopped.
Irina froze mid-kiss.
Isaac’s brain visibly short-circuited.
Because Ilya was standing there.
Watching.
Silently.
Shane, behind him, clapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud.
Isaac pulled back so fast he nearly headbutted her.
Irina’s face turned a color usually reserved for emergency flares.
“Papa—” she squeaked.
Ilya did not blink.
He looked at Isaac.
Then at Irina.
Then back at Isaac.
The silence stretched.
Isaac opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Hi,” he tried weakly.
Ilya spoke, very calmly.
“Dinner is ready.”
Shane lost it.
He doubled over, shoulders shaking, barely muffling hysterical laughter.
Irina glared at him. “Dad!”
Isaac looked like he wanted to phase through the couch.
Ilya stepped forward slowly.
“How long,” he asked.
Irina’s brain left her body.
“What?”
“How long has this… been happening.”
“It hasn’t!” she squeaked. “That was just— that was just—”
Isaac swallowed hard. “First time.”
Ilya’s gaze sharpened.
“First time.”
“Yes, sir— I mean— Ilya—”
Shane wheezed behind him.
Ilya inhaled slowly through his nose.
“You are sixteen.”
“Yes.”
“You have known each other since infancy.”
“Yes.”
“You are in my house.”
“Yes.”
“And you are kissing my daughter.”
Isaac’s voice cracked. “Yes.”
Irina covered her face with both hands. “I am moving to Antarctica.”
Shane finally straightened, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Okay,” he said cheerfully. “Well. That happened.”
Ilya turned to him, scandalized. “Shane.”
“What?” Shane said, still grinning. “They’re teenagers.”
“He is Wyatt’s son.”
“Yes. And?”
Ilya’s eyes darkened. “I will kill Wyatt.”
Irina groaned. “Please do not murder Uncle Wyatt because I have lips.”
Isaac nodded frantically. “Yes. Please.”
Shane stepped between them, resting a hand on Ilya’s chest.
“Breathe,” he murmured.
“I am breathing.”
“You’re calculating body disposal.”
“…Maybe.”
—
Dinner was… tense.
Irina avoided eye contact.
Isaac stared at his plate like it held life-altering secrets.
Shane tried, valiantly, to make normal conversation.
“So. School.”
“Good,” Irina mumbled.
“Sports,” Shane tried again.
“Fine,” Isaac said.
Ilya watched Isaac like a hawk assessing prey.
Finally, Isaac set down his fork.
“I really like her,” he blurted.
Irina choked.
Shane’s eyebrows shot up.
Ilya went very still.
“I have always liked her,” Isaac continued, voice shaking slightly. “She’s my best friend. And I would never— I mean— I respect her. A lot. And I would never hurt her.”
Irina stared at him, wide-eyed.
Ilya studied him carefully.
“You hurt her,” Ilya said quietly, “and I will ruin you.”
Shane sighed. “Okay, maybe less mafia.”
“I am serious.”
“I know you are.”
Isaac nodded earnestly. “I would never.”
There was something genuine in his voice.
Something steady.
Ilya saw it.
And it made this worse.
Because he trusted the kid.
He liked the kid.
That did not mean he wanted the kid kissing his daughter.
Irina reached under the table and squeezed Isaac’s hand.
Ilya saw that too.
He inhaled sharply.
Shane squeezed his knee under the table.
“Remember,” Shane murmured softly. “We were young once.”
Ilya gave him a look.
“We were not kissing under our parents’ roof.”
Shane coughed.
“Technically—”
“Shane.”
“Okay.”
—
After dinner, Isaac prepared to leave.
He hovered awkwardly near the door.
“Thanks for dinner,” he said.
Shane clapped him on the back again. “Anytime.”
Ilya crossed his arms.
There was a long pause.
Then Ilya stepped forward.
Isaac stiffened.
“You will text when you get home,” Ilya said.
“Yes.”
“You will not drive recklessly.”
“No.”
“You will not break her heart.”
Isaac swallowed. “I won’t.”
Ilya held his gaze for a few seconds longer.
Then, surprisingly, he pulled Isaac into a brief, firm hug.
Isaac blinked in shock.
Irina looked like she might faint.
“Goodnight,” Ilya said.
Isaac nodded, stunned.
“Goodnight.”
He left.
The door closed.
Silence.
Irina slowly turned toward her fathers.
“I hate everything,” she announced.
Shane laughed. “Oh, sweetheart.”
She covered her face again. “You saw.”
“Yes.”
“Kill me.”
“No.”
Ilya studied her carefully.
“Are you… happy?” he asked quietly.
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Yeah.”
He exhaled.
And something in his posture softened.
“You are still my маленькая девочка,” he said gently.
“I’m sixteen,” she protested weakly.
“Still.”
Shane wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“Your papa is dramatic,” he said fondly. “But he loves you.”
“I know.”
“And,” Shane added with a grin, “that was actually very sweet.”
She groaned. “Dad.”
“What? It was!”
Ilya looked scandalized. “You are encouraging this.”
“I am acknowledging it.”
He muttered something in Russian.
Irina looked between them.
“You’re not… mad?”
Ilya considered that.
“…I am adjusting.”
Shane laughed softly.
“She’s growing up.”
Ilya sighed heavily.
“Yes.”
Irina leaned into them both.
“You’re still embarrassing,” she informed them.
“Correct,” Shane said proudly.
“That is our job,” Ilya added.
She smiled despite herself.
Upstairs, her phone buzzed.
Isaac: I am so sorry.
Irina: It’s fine.
Isaac: Your dad looked like he was evaluating burial sites.
Irina: That’s normal.
She laughed quietly.
Downstairs, Shane nudged Ilya.
“You handled that well.”
“I threatened him.”
“Gently.”
Ilya watched the stairs where their daughter had disappeared.
“She is not a child anymore.”
“No,” Shane agreed softly.
They stood there together in the warm glow of the kitchen lights.
And after a moment, Ilya huffed.
“I still declare him under surveillance.”
Shane grinned.
“Of course you do.”