Chapter Text
The apartment smelled faintly of black tea and something savory simmering on the stove, a scent that clung to the air in a way that made it feel inhabited, lived-in, unmistakably Ilya. Shane paused just outside the door for a moment longer than necessary, his hand hovering near the handle, his reflection faintly visible in the polished brass—jaw tight, shoulders squared, eyes already bracing for something he could not quite name but felt all the same.
Inside, he could hear voices.
One of them was Ilya’s—low, steady, threaded with that familiar cadence Shane knew as well as his own heartbeat. The other voice, lighter but edged with something sharper, carried a tone that seemed almost amused, like it was perpetually on the verge of laughter that wasn’t entirely kind.
Svetlana.
Shane exhaled slowly, forcing his fingers to unclench before he finally turned the handle and stepped inside.
The apartment was warm, almost too warm, the kind of heat that wrapped around him immediately, and in the center of it stood Ilya, sleeves rolled up, one hand resting on the counter, the other holding a glass of wine he hadn’t yet drunk. He looked up the second Shane entered, and something in his expression shifted—softened, opened, like a door Shane alone knew how to unlock.
“Hey,” Ilya said, and it was quiet, almost careful, like he understood exactly how much this moment mattered.
Shane nodded, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey.”
And then there was her.
Svetlana stood near the window, framed by the dim light of the city outside, one hand curled loosely around her own glass, her posture relaxed in a way that suggested she belonged here just as much as Ilya did. She was striking, undeniably so—dark hair falling over one shoulder, eyes sharp and assessing as they landed on Shane.
“So,” she said, her accent still thick despite the years, her lips curving into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t for the edge beneath it, “this is Shane.”
Not a question.
A statement.
Shane stepped further inside, shrugging off his coat, hanging it with deliberate care as though the simple act could ground him. “Yeah,” he replied evenly. “That’s me.”
There was a brief pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to feel intentional.
Svetlana tilted her head slightly, studying him in a way that felt uncomfortably thorough. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Something in her tone made it clear that what she had heard—and what she had chosen to believe—were not necessarily the same thing.
“Good things, I hope,” Shane said, forcing a lightness he didn’t quite feel.
Her smile deepened, but it didn’t warm. “Depends who you ask.”
Ilya set his glass down with a soft clink that cut through the tension like a blade. “Svetlana,” he said, a warning threaded into the single word.
She only shrugged, as though the tension in the room amused her rather than unsettled her. “What?” she said lightly. “I’m just being honest.”
Shane moved further into the kitchen, drawn instinctively toward Ilya, toward the familiarity of him, the steady presence that had always been enough to anchor him even in the most chaotic moments. He brushed his fingers briefly against Ilya’s wrist—a small, grounding touch—and Ilya responded immediately, his hand turning just enough to catch Shane’s, to hold it for a second longer than necessary before letting go.
It should have been enough.
It usually was.
But tonight, under Svetlana’s watchful gaze, it felt different.
Dinner began without ceremony, plates set out, wine poured, the three of them settling around the small table that suddenly felt too intimate, too enclosed. The conversation started harmlessly enough—travel, hockey, the differences between Boston and Moscow—but it didn’t take long for the shift to happen, subtle at first, almost imperceptible.
“So,” Svetlana said at one point, swirling her wine thoughtfully, “Ilya tells me you two have been together for a while now.”
Shane nodded. “Yeah.”
“How serious,” she continued, her eyes flicking between them, “would you say it is?”
There was something deliberate in the way she asked it, like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear Shane say it anyway.
Shane felt Ilya’s gaze on him, steady, reassuring.
“Serious,” Shane said simply.
Svetlana hummed softly, as though considering that. “Interesting.”
Ilya’s fork paused midway to his mouth. “Why is that interesting?”
She met his gaze, unbothered. “Because,” she said, her tone still light, still casual in a way that felt anything but, “you’ve never been serious about anyone before.”
Shane felt something tighten in his chest.
Ilya set his fork down. “That’s not true.”
Svetlana’s lips curved. “No?” she said, leaning back slightly. “What about me?”
The air shifted, the temperature dropping in a way that had nothing to do with the room itself.
Shane kept his expression neutral, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly around his glass. He knew about Svetlana—of course he did. Ilya had told him, in that quiet, careful way of his, about the years they had spent circling each other, about the way it had been easy, uncomplicated, something that had never demanded more than either of them had been willing to give.
It hadn’t bothered Shane then.
It did now.
“That was different,” Ilya said, his voice firmer.
Svetlana raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”
Ilya hesitated, just for a second, but Shane felt it like a crack forming beneath his feet.
“Because it wasn’t this,” Ilya said finally.
Her gaze flicked to Shane again, slow, deliberate. “No,” she agreed softly. “It wasn’t.”
And then, with a small, almost absent smile, she added, “But we were very… close.”
Shane’s jaw tightened.
“I’m sure you were,” he said, keeping his tone even, controlled.
Svetlana’s smile sharpened. “You don’t have to sound so polite,” she said. “I’m not a stranger to him. There’s not much about Ilya that I haven’t—” she paused, just long enough to make the implication land, “—experienced.”
Ilya’s chair scraped softly against the floor as he shifted, tension coiling in his posture. “Svetlana,” he said again, more firmly this time.
But she didn’t stop.
“You know,” she continued, as though this were all perfectly normal conversation, “he used to call me at odd hours, couldn’t sleep, needed someone to come over. I always did.” Her eyes flicked to Shane, measuring, probing. “We understood each other.”
Shane set his glass down carefully, too carefully, his fingers lingering against the stem as though anchoring himself there.
“That’s great,” he said, his voice tight despite his efforts.
It wasn’t great.
It was suffocating.
It was the way she said it, like she was staking a claim, like she believed that history gave her some kind of ownership that couldn’t be undone.
“And you think you understand him now?” Svetlana asked, tilting her head.
Shane met her gaze, something sharper flickering beneath the surface now. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “More than I did?”
Ilya exhaled sharply. “This isn’t a competition.”
“No?” Svetlana said lightly. “It feels like one.”
“It’s not,” Shane said, more forcefully than he intended.
The room went quiet.
For a moment, no one moved.
Svetlana watched him, her expression unreadable now, and Shane could feel it—the crack in his composure widening, the carefully constructed calm he had brought with him starting to fracture under the weight of everything she was implying, everything she was pushing toward.
“I’m not trying to compete with you,” Shane continued, his voice lower now, strained. “Whatever you and Ilya had—that’s in the past.”
Svetlana’s eyes gleamed faintly. “Is it?”
Something snapped.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t dramatic.
But it was enough.
“Yes,” Shane said, the word sharper than he intended, cutting through the room with a force that made even him flinch. “It is. Because he chose me.”
The silence that followed was heavy, charged.
Svetlana’s smile faded, just slightly, replaced by something cooler, more calculating.
“And you’re sure that’s permanent?” she asked softly.
Shane pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor in a harsh, jarring sound. “What is your problem?” he demanded, the restraint he had been clinging to finally slipping. “You keep bringing this up like you’re trying to prove something. What? That you slept with him? Congratulations. I’m aware.”
“Shane—” Ilya started, but Shane shook his head.
“No, because this is ridiculous,” Shane continued, his voice rising despite himself. “You keep acting like that means you still have some kind of claim on him, like I’m just—what? Temporary? A phase?”
“I didn’t say that,” Svetlana replied coolly.
“You didn’t have to,” Shane shot back.
The tension in the room snapped taut, stretched to its limit.
And then—
“Enough.”
Ilya’s voice cut through everything, sharp and final in a way Shane had never heard before.
Both of them fell silent.
Ilya stood slowly, his expression hard, his gaze fixed on Svetlana. “You need to leave.”
For the first time that evening, she looked genuinely surprised.
“Ilya—”
“I said leave,” he repeated, his tone unyielding.
A flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or anger—crossed her face, but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by that same composed exterior.
She stood, setting her glass down with deliberate care. “Fine,” she said lightly. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, searching, as though expecting him to waver.
He didn’t.
Finally, she turned, grabbing her coat, moving toward the door without another word.
The apartment felt different the second she was gone.
Quieter.
Heavier.
Shane stood there for a moment, his chest still tight, his pulse still racing, the echoes of everything he had said—everything he hadn’t meant to say—lingering in the air.
“I shouldn’t have—” he started, but the words faltered.
Ilya crossed the room in two quick steps.
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice completely different now, all the sharpness gone, replaced by something warm, steady, grounding.
Shane shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I lost it,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that. This was important to you and I just—”
Ilya reached out, catching his hand, holding it firmly.
“Stop,” he said gently.
Shane looked up, his expression tight with guilt.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Ilya stepped closer, close enough that Shane could feel the warmth of him, the steady presence that had always been his anchor.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Ilya said quietly.
“I snapped at her.”
“She deserved it.”
Shane huffed out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and something heavier. “Still.”
Ilya lifted a hand, brushing his fingers lightly along Shane’s jaw, a touch that was both grounding and impossibly soft.
“Listen to me,” he said, his gaze steady, unwavering. “There is no competition. There never was.”
Shane swallowed, the tightness in his chest easing just slightly under the weight of those words.
“She doesn’t have any claim on me,” Ilya continued. “Not now. Not ever again.”
Shane hesitated. “But you—”
“I didn’t love her,” Ilya said simply.
The words landed with a quiet certainty that left no room for doubt.
“I cared about her,” he added. “She was important to me. But it wasn’t this. She was easy, familiar.” His thumb brushed lightly against Shane’s knuckles. “But she wasn’t you.”
Something in Shane’s chest shifted, the tension loosening, unraveling.
“You’re the only person I’ve ever loved like this,” Ilya said, his voice softer now, but no less certain. “The only one I ever will.”
Shane let out a slow breath, the last of the tightness easing from his shoulders.
“Yeah?” he murmured.
Ilya nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
And then Shane stepped forward, closing the distance, resting his forehead briefly against Ilya’s, the contact simple but grounding in a way that steadied everything.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
Ilya’s hand tightened slightly around his.
“I love you too,” he answered.
And just like that, the tension that had filled the apartment began to fade, replaced by something quieter, steadier—something that belonged only to them.