Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
Rain tapped softly against the kitchen windows.
Not the violent kind that rattled the glass and swallowed the sky whole, but gentle spring rain that is steady and patient, turning the evening outside silver and soft around the edges. Beyond the wide kitchen windows, the pine trees swayed lazily beneath a cloud heavy sky, their branches blurred by mist.
The Hollander-Rozanov house sat just outside the city, tucked into a quiet stretch of land where the city felt close enough to reach and far enough away to forget.
It was a beautiful house, though neither Shane nor Ilya had ever called it that.
They called it home.
That was different.
It had been built over years rather than decorated all at once from a catalog. Nothing about it felt overly polished or untouched. There were signs of life everywhere.
Books stacked beside armchairs.
Throw blankets draped carelessly over sofas.
A pair of Shane’s reading glasses abandoned near the coffee machine.
And photographs.
So many photographs.
The kitchen had always been Shane’s favorite room.
Warm pendant lights glowed above the marble island, casting soft gold across copper cookware hanging near the stove. The air smelled of garlic slowly roasting in olive oil, rosemary crushed between fingers, fresh bread warming in the oven, and tomatoes simmering down into sauce.
The room felt alive.
Like memory.
Like family.
Picture frames crowded the countertops and shelves.
A younger Shane and Ilya holding the Cup with bruised smiles and missing playoff teeth.
Charity galas.
Fundraisers for the Irina Foundation.
Vacations.
One terrible photograph of Ilya asleep in an airport chair with sunglasses hanging halfway off his face and his mouth slightly open; a picture Shane refused to take down despite twenty years of protests.
But most of the photographs belonged to one person.
Mikhail Rozanov-Hollander.
Misha for short.
Their son.
Shane stood at the kitchen island whisking vinaigrette with quiet concentration.
At forty seven, Shane Hollander had aged in a way that still occasionally caught strangers off guard.
Time had not dulled him.
It had settled him.
His dark hair was shorter now, soft silver threading near his temples and above his ears. Black glasses rested low on his nose while he worked, and the sleeves of his cream knit sweater were pushed to his elbows, exposing narrow forearms lightly dusted with dark hair.
His face had grown leaner with age, cheekbones more pronounced than they had been during his playing years, but warmth still lived openly in him.
Especially in his eyes.
Brown and expressive.
Still impossible for Ilya to ignore.
He moved easily around the kitchen, humming quietly beneath his breath while he whisked dressing.
Behind him, pasta sauce simmered.
And beside the stove, Ilya sulked.
He would deny this accusation if presented with it.
Aggressively.
But he was absolutely sulking.
At forty three, retirement had somehow made him more intimidating rather than less.
He was still broad shouldered and tall enough to crowd a doorway without trying, his body maintained through years of coaching and sheer stubbornness. Dark blond hair, threaded generously with silver now, brushed the collar of his charcoal henley. His face had sharpened with age, jaw still strong, nose still slightly crooked from old breaks, and fine lines gathered around eyes that remained startlingly blue.
Those eyes were presently narrowed at the stove.
And at the tomatoes.
And perhaps at fate itself.
“I do not trust him.”
Shane didn’t look up.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“You haven’t even met him.”
“That is exactly problem.”
Shane set the whisk aside and glanced over his shoulder.
Ilya stood with one hand braced on the counter and the other stirring sauce roughly with a frown on his face.
The sight made affection bloom warm and familiar in Shane’s chest.
“You know,” Shane said mildly, “you have to meet someone to learn how to trust them.”
Ilya made a dissatisfied sound.
“You are too calm.”
“I’m excited.”
“You should be worried.”
Shane laughed softly.
“Our twenty year-old son is bringing his boyfriend to dinner,” he said. “He’s not joining some gang.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh my god.”
Ilya pointed at him with the wooden spoon.
“You joke now.”
“You’re freaking out for no reason.”
“No.” His expression stayed perfectly serious. “I am being father.”
That made Shane smile wider.
God.
He loved him.
Still.
Always.
It had been decades and sometimes Shane still looked at his husband and felt the same quiet disbelief he had when he was younger.
Ridiculous man.
Beautiful man.
Impossible man.
“You know you’re being dramatic, right?”
“I am not.”
“Ilya.”
“I am concerned.”
“You’ve never even met Evan.”
“That is because Misha refuses to submit proper boyfriend paperwork so I can do background check.”
Shane laughed.
“Boyfriend paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“There is no boyfriend paperwork.”
“There should be.”
“You cannot make our adult son fill out forms to date someone.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s twenty.”
“He is still my son.”
Shane shook his head, smiling.
“You made him text you when he got back to his apartment last week.”
“It was snowing.”
“It was three inches of snow.”
“Dangerous.”
“He lives thirty minutes away.”
“Very dangerous.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Protective.”
“You’re the same man who put a tracking app on his phone when he went away to university.” Ilya said, eyeing him.
“Misha installed that himself.”
“After you called him six times because he hadn’t answered a text.”
“He could have been dead.”
“He was in a movie theater.”
“He should have informed me.”
Ilya rolled his eyes but a small smile formed on his lips.
The Irina Foundation had taught him diplomacy, patience and endless reserves of compassion.
Marriage to Ilya Rozanov had taught him endurance.
The sauce bubbled softly.
Rain whispered against glass.
And then Ilya abandoned the stove.
He crossed the kitchen with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent decades making this exact journey and slipped his arms around Shane from behind.
The movement was instinctive and automatic.
The sort of affection built over years until it became part of muscle memory.
His chest pressed warm against Shane’s back.
His chin settled on Shane’s shoulder.
Shane relaxed into him immediately.
“You are really not nervous?” Ilya asked quietly.
The question sounded softer now.
More genuine.
Shane tilted his head until his temple brushed Ilya’s.
“A little,” he admitted.
“Ha.”
“But mostly excited.”
Ilya sighed dramatically.
“We know nothing about this boy.”
“That’s not true.”
“We know boring information.”
Shane smiled.
“We know he studies environmental science.”
“Good.”
Shane looked surprised.
“Good?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the first positive thing you’ve said all evening.”
Ilya shrugged.
“Maybe he can explain why weather hurts my knees now.”
Shane burst out laughing.
“You sound ninety.”
“I feel ninety.”
“You’re forty-nine.”
“My back disagrees.”
“Your back threw out because you tried carrying six bags of mulch by yourself.”
”Cause I’m big and strong.” Ilya said smirking.
Shane turned carefully within his husband’s arms.
Up close, Ilya still stole his breath.
Silver at his temples.
Eyes that softened in ways most people never got to see.
“We know he treats Misha well,” Shane said gently.
“All men treat people well at beginning.”
Shane raised an eyebrow.
“You included?”
Ilya looked offended.
“I am excellent husband.”
“You nearly fought a grocery cashier once.”
“He flirted.”
“He asked if I wanted paper or plastic.”
“He looked at you strange.”
Shane laughed so hard he had to lean against the counter.
“That is not flirting.”
“You were smiling.”
“I smile at everyone.”
“Exactly, everyone flirts with you.”
The laugh lingering in Shane’s chest softened.
God.
Years of marriage and somehow they still found ways to make each other ridiculous.
“No man is good enough for my son,” Ilya muttered.
Shane looked at him fondly.
“Misha is twenty.”
“My baby.”
“Our adult baby.”
“My perfect angel.”
That nearly made Shane emotional.
Because yes.
He still was.
Misha had called three nights earlier.
I want you guys to meet someone.
And suddenly Shane had spent seventy-two hours remembering a little boy with solemn eyes.
Six years old.
Too serious.
Too careful.
He remembered the foster center.
The brightly colored playroom.
The tiny sneakers.
The way Misha had stood half-hidden behind a bookshelf clutching a stuffed fox.
He remembered kneeling beside him.
And Misha asking, very solemnly:
"Are you gonna adopt me?"
Shane had nearly cried.
Ilya had cried.
Though he denied this.
And afterward, walking toward the car, Ilya had looked at Shane and said with complete certainty:
"We are taking him home."
Not asking.
Knowing.
And Shane had known too.
He was gonna be their son.
“You realize,” Shane said softly, “My mom said almost the exact same thing about you.”
Ilya blinked.
“That is different.”
Shane grinned.
“Mm.”
“I was worth the trouble.”
“And Misha’s boyfriend might be too.”
“Traitor.”
Before Shane could answer the doorbell rang.
Everything stilled.
And Shane lit up immediately.
“Oh.”
He practically hurried from the kitchen.
Ilya followed slower, suspicious already.
The front door opened.
Cool evening air drifted inside carrying damp earth and rain.
And there stood Misha.
Something inside Shane softened instantly.
It happened every time.
No matter how old he got.
Because beneath the height and confidence and adulthood, Shane still saw six year old Misha too.
Their son stood in the doorway with rain dampening thick dark curls.
He’d grown into himself beautifully.
Tall and slender like Shane, though stronger through the shoulders, with warm brown eyes and a smile that showed off his dimples. He wore dark jeans, worn boots, and a forest green sweater beneath a navy wool coat.
Handsome, happy, and home.
“Hi, dad.”
Shane didn’t hesitate.
He pulled him into a hug.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Misha laughed.
“Dad—”
“You never visit.”
“I was literally here last week.”
“Ancient history.”
Misha hugged him tighter anyway.
And then Ilya stepped forward.
His embrace was firmer and protective.
Possessive in the loving, embarrassing way fathers could be.
Misha wheezed.
“Papa—”
“You too skinny.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Because true.”
Then Misha smiled.
And looked behind him.
“Oh—right.”
The young man beside him stepped forward.
And Shane understood immediately.
Oh.
He was lovely.
He looked around twenty one.
Strawberry blonde hair brushed neatly away from his forehead and warm hazel eyes brightened when he smiled. He wore a camel coat over a navy sweater and dark trousers, one hand holding a bottle of wine while the other remained tucked in his pocket.
Comfortable and strangely familiar.
“Dad and Papa,” Misha said, smiling softly, “this is Evan.”
Evan smiled.
And it reached his eyes.
“Hi,” he said warmly. “It’s really nice to finally meet you both.”
Shane smiled at once.
“Well come in you two, you’re freezing.”
“Thank you.”
They stepped inside.
And beside Shane, Ilya went still.
Not visibly.
Most people wouldn’t notice.
But Shane knew him too well.
His husband was staring and thinking.
Eyes narrowing slightly.
Like he knew something.
Or someone.
Evan held out the wine.
“I brought this,” he said. “My dad swears by it, so hopefully it doesn’t disappoint.”
“That’s sweet of you,” Shane said, taking it.
“Very unnecessary,” Ilya said.
Evan smiled politely.
“My dad says never show up empty handed.”
And again that, strange look crossed Ilya’s face.
Recognition.
Almost.
But before anyone could linger there, Misha groaned dramatically.
“Please tell me dinner’s ready,” Misha said as he stepped fully inside, shrugging rain from his coat. His eyes brightened as the smell from the kitchen drifted toward them. “I’ve been bragging to Evan all week about Papa’s golubtsi. If it doesn’t live up to expectations, this is going to be deeply embarrassing for me.”
Ilya’s entire expression changed.
The suspicion didn’t disappear exactly but pride won temporarily.
A smug sort of satisfaction settled across his face.
“Of course ready,” he said immediately.
Misha grinned.
“I knew it.”
Shane laughed softly, reaching for Misha’s damp coat.
“You only visit us for free food.”
“That is a vicious lie,” Misha said, scandalized.
“You texted me this morning telling me to tell Papa to make a lot so there would be leftovers.”
“Food is always better when Papa cooks it.”
Beside him, Evan smiled.
“I’ve heard a lot about the golubtsi,” he admitted warmly, slipping off his coat. “Apparently I’m about to have a life changing experience.”
“You are,” Misha said seriously. “I’m not overselling this.”
Ilya looked downright pleased now.
“Finally,” he muttered. “Someone with sense.”
Shane shook his head fondly.
“Oh, don’t encourage him.”
Evan laughed softly.
And beside Shane, Ilya went quiet again.
His gaze lingered on Evan a second too long.
Not rudely.
Just… thoughtfully.
The young man’s smile.
The shape of his face.
Something about him tugged at memory in a way that felt irritatingly familiar.
Like hearing half of a song and being unable to remember the rest.
Ilya narrowed his eyes slightly.
Trying to place him.
And failing.