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Shane walked fast. At least as fast as his limbs allowed him to. He was shaking, and he knew his panic attack was about to flare up. So yeah, he needed to leave. Fast. Even though he felt sick to his stomach, even though he felt like crying, he needed to get away from whatever had just happened.
He needed to get away from the strange, unwelcome feelings in his heart. He needed to get away from Il—Rozanov, or he would be trapped even deeper into those feelings.
Just two more steps… Two more steps and a door. Those were what separated him from Rozanov.
With trembling fingers, Shane grabbed the handle and yanked it open, quickly stepping out. He gulped in a lungful of air and shivered from the chilly afternoon breeze.
Unfortunately, the moment the door clicked close behind him, his knees buckled. The fall sent him down onto the small step in front of Rozanov’s place.
Shit, he thought. He couldn’t stay there. He tried to push himself upright again, and yet his body betrayed him. That was the moment he knew he had gone into a full-blown panic attack—his whole body was trembling, he felt like he couldn’t breathe, his head, hands, and feet felt freezing—and all he could do was hug his legs and bury his face between his knees while his mind spiraled.
Why?
The word beat against the inside of his skull, a frantic, relentless rhythm. Why did Rozanov suddenly change their dynamic? Why did he ask him to stay? Why did he cook?
And worse—why did Shane accept the invitation?
He had loved it. That was the most terrifying realization of all. He had loved the quiet domesticity of sitting in that kitchen, watching Ilya move around, being taken care of for just a fraction of a second. He had loved it, and he was absolutely frozen with fear because of it.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't be... this.
Ilya could handle this. Ilya liked both men and women; Ilya was comfortable living in the gray areas. But Shane’s world was strictly black and white. Shane was a hockey legacy. He had to be perfect.
Except they had crossed the line. Ilya. The name echoed in his chest like a physical blow. Ilya had said his name first. Not Hollander. Shane. And Shane, instead of running, instead of correcting him, had said it right back. Ilya. They had given each other permission to make this real, to make it personal.
A sharp, sudden gust of wind swept across the porch, surrounding him, biting through his bare skin and making him shudder violently.
In the cold howl of the wind, his mother’s voice echoed in his head, clear and heavy with expectation: “Every little kid is looking up at you.”
The memory choked him. Every kid in America. Every hockey fan. His dad. They were all looking at him, waiting for him to be the flawless, golden-boy captain. If he let himself want Ilya, if he let himself want this domestic fantasy, he would disappoint all of them. He would ruin everything.
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Inside, Ilya looked at his outstretched hand. How long had he been looking at the corner where Hollander disappeared?
Balling his hand into a fist, he let out a bitter laugh.
Fuck. What had he done?
He had told Hollander to stay because he hadn't had enough of him yet.
Lie.
The truth was much more pathetic. He had wanted Hollander to spend the night. He wanted to feel the man's solid warmth pressed against him while they slept. And the biggest, most terrifying reason of all? He wanted to see Shane’s face the exact moment he opened his eyes in the morning.
And casually mentioning he could easily make two tuna melts since he was already making one for himself?
Another lie...
Ilya hadn't even been hungry. He had spent an embarrassing amount of time beforehand researching and preparing exactly what Shane could eat, meticulously tracking the ingredients to fit the golden boy's insanely strict diet.
Shane.
Ilya rubbed both hands harshly against his face, swearing under his breath. Fuck. He should have known it would spook him out. He should have kept his mouth shut. But the truth was, Hollander hadn't been just Hollander in Ilya's head for a long time now. He had been Shane to him for months.
He let out a frustrated breath and forced his limbs to move. Striding over to the sink, he began washing the dishes with aggressive, angry movements, scrubbing the pan until his knuckles turned white. It didn't help clear his head.
Seeking any kind of distraction, he went upstairs to take a short shower. When he walked back into his bedroom to change, his eyes immediately caught on the neatly folded pile of clothes Shane had left behind.
Ilya stopped, staring at them. He deliberately kept his distance. He didn’t want to touch them yet, knowing that if he did, he’d turn into a pathetic mess, sniffing every single piece just to catch a lingering trace of him. He still wanted to keep at least a little bit of his dignity.
Throwing on a loose pair of sweatpants and a worn hoodie instead, he grabbed his lighter and a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. He needed a smoke.
Ilya padded barefoot down the stairs. The house was quiet around him, filled only with the sharp, pale afternoon light cutting through the windows. He walked toward the front door, planning to step out onto the porch just long enough to let the chilly air shock some sense into his brain.
He reached for the lock, but before his fingers could touch the metal, he froze.
Cutting through the silence of the house came a sound from the other side of the heavy wood. It was small. Muffled. A ragged, sobbing sound that made it seem like someone out there was physically suffocating.
Ilya’s heart stopped.
For a cruel, fleeting second, he wanted to ignore it. Shane had just rejected his hospitality, rejected his vulnerability, and effectively broken his heart. Ilya’s pride screamed at him to leave the golden boy to his own devices, to let him walk away just like he wanted to.
But he couldn't do it. He couldn't move his feet away from the door. Because someway, somehow, Shane had embedded himself so deeply into Ilya’s heart that ignoring his pain was physically impossible.
Steeling himself, he unlocked the door and pulled it open carefully, his breath hitching as he looked down. The horror of the scene in front of him made his heart instantly crumble.
It was Shane.
He was curled into a tight, trembling ball on the cold concrete step. He hadn't even put his t-shirt back on, his bare torso shivering violently against the biting afternoon air.
In a split second, another realization hit Ilya like a sledgehammer, sending a wave of crushing self-blame through his chest. Shane had come here by taxi. He didn't have a car waiting. And worse—his phone and his shoes were still upstairs in Ilya’s bedroom. He had bolted out into the cold entirely unprotected.
Damn it, Ilya thought, panic rising in his own throat. He should have known. He should have known Shane would go into a full-blown panic attack after a night like this. He should have swallowed his own stupid pride and made sure his lover actually departed safely instead of sitting at the kitchen table like a pathetic statue while Shane dissolved into pieces right outside his door.
Ilya looked down at his hands. He had wanted to smoke. He had come down here desperately needing the harsh bite of nicotine to dull his thoughts, but the sight of Shane shivering on the concrete made the unlit cigarette between his fingers feel completely useless. Without a second thought, he tossed the lighter and the fresh pack onto the entryway table behind him. The craving vanished, entirely replaced by a terrifying surge of protectiveness.
He dropped to his knees on the cold porch, the freezing dampness of the stone soaking instantly through the fabric of his sweatpants.
Shane was too deep into it. He was entirely trapped inside his own mind, blind and deaf to the world around him. Ilya wanted to reach out, his hand hovering in the chilly air, but he hesitated, paralyzed by the fear that Shane would hate his touch right now.
Desperate to break through the spiral, Ilya swallowed hard. “Hollander,” he called out softly.
Shane didn't move.
"Hollander. Hey." Ilya tried again, his voice rising with a frantic edge. "Hollander, look at me."
Repeating that last name over and over felt like a physical knife stabbing into Ilya’s own heart. He was doing it on purpose—trying to signal that they could go back to the way they were, pretending that using their first names earlier had just been a careless slip of the tongue in the throes of passion.
But Shane still didn't react. He remained completely locked away, a trembling, motionless statue on the step.
Ilya clenched his teeth, unable to take the silence anymore, and finally forced himself to place a hand on Shane’s bare shoulder. He recoiled slightly, shocked by how freezing the man's skin felt.
At the physical contact, Shane’s head finally jerked up from his knees. He turned his head slowly, his dazed eyes tracking the whisper of his last name. When Ilya saw the raw redness of Shane’s eyes and nose, the absolute last piece of his heart that was still intact shattered into dust.
“Holl—” Ilya started, his voice cracking.
Before he could finish the name, Shane threw his entire weight forward, launching himself straight against Ilya's chest. If not for Ilya's quick athlete reflexes, the impact would have sent them both tumbling backward onto the hard concrete porch.
Automatically, Ilya’s left arm snaked around Shane’s bare waist, pulling him tight, while his right hand slammed down against the floor behind him to brace them and hold them steady.
Tightening his grip, Ilya didn't hesitate anymore. He gathered Shane’s shivering, half-naked body firmly into his arms, using his strength to lift him completely off the freezing stone step. He began moving them back over the threshold, desperate to get his lover out of the biting afternoon air.
Clinging to Ilya like a lifeline as he was carried inside, Shane let out a ragged sob. “I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I freaked out.”
“No. No sorry, Hollander,” Ilya murmured into his hair, his voice fierce and thick with emotion as he nudged the front door shut with his foot, blocking out the rest of the world.
“Shane…” Shane choked out, burying his face deeper into the crook of Ilya’s neck. “Call me Shane, Ilya.”
As he pressed himself closer, Shane felt a sudden, hot wetness soaking into Ilya's hoodie and realized, with a distant wave of shock, that he was crying. He was crying openly, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
Ilya’s heart skipped a violent beat. Hope, bright and terrifying, bloomed through every single vein in his body. Shane. He had asked for his name. But Ilya forcibly squeezed the thought away; he couldn't focus on his own selfish hopes right now. He needed to take care of his Shane.
His Shane. Fuck, it felt so right.
Shane’s mind was still a jumbled, chaotic mess, and the confusion hadn't fully cleared, but as he breathed in Ilya's scent, all he knew was that being held in these arms was completely soothing.
Pressing his chest against Ilya, he could feel the man's heartbeat—steady, slow, and incredibly strong. It was a grounding rhythm that anchored him, a stark contrast to his own heart, which was still fluttering frantically like a hummingbird in full panic mode.
In a brief flash of clarity, Shane realized with a jolt of distant horror that he was half-naked in the chilly afternoon air where anyone could see him. Under any other circumstance, the vulnerability would have sent him running.
But right now, with Ilya's warm arms wrapped securely around him and holding him close, he didn't care. He couldn't bring himself to care. Ilya wasn't a trap. Ilya was his safe haven, and Shane wouldn't let him go.
At least for now...