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Ilya woke to the feel of cold water pouring into the car.
At first, he had no idea where he was. His head throbbed as if someone had struck him with a blunt object, and his right leg hurt so badly that even the slightest movement made his stomach turn. When he inhaled, the smell of blood mixed with the scent of wet metal. Beyond the window, black river water stretched into the darkness. The vehicle had come to rest at an angle, and the water had already risen to the bottom of the doors.
Only then did his memory return.
Headlights. A car appearing out of nowhere. The moment Shane jerked the wheel.
“...Shane.”
The word barely came out.
Ilya turned his head. Shane was slumped against the driver's seat. Blood had dried from his forehead all the way down to his jaw. His eyes were closed. The seatbelt still held him in place, but his head had fallen to one side.
“Shane.”
He called a little louder this time, but there was no response. With shaking hands, Ilya searched his pocket. His phone was cracked, but the screen was still working. After fumbling several times, he finally managed to call 911.
“911, what is your emergency?”
Ilya drew in a sharp breath.
“Car accident. We—we went off a bridge. Into the river.”
The dispatcher calmly asked for their location. Ilya described everything he could see: the river, the bridge, the road signs. Even as he spoke, his eyes never left Shane.
“Emergency services are on the way, sir. Are either of you trapped?”
Ilya looked at Shane's face.
“...Yes.”
“Is the other passenger conscious?”
He couldn't answer. His fingertips were growing colder by the second.
“Sir?”
“Not yet.”
“Can you check if he's breathing?”
Ilya closed his eyes, then opened them again.
Paramedics always said the same things. Check. Start compressions. Wait.
But he knew. He knew how much time would pass before the vehicle was found, before rescue crews arrived, before equipment was lowered down to them. He knew how much blood had run down Shane's face. And he didn't even know how many minutes he himself had lost before waking up.
“Sir, can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Check his breathing for me.”
Ilya leaned forward. Pain shot through his ribs. Even stretching as far as he could, he couldn't reach; the seatbelt held him back.
He tried to unfasten it, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. After several failed attempts, the buckle finally released. The moment he tried to move forward, however, a sharp pain tore through his leg.
Ilya clenched his teeth.
“Sir—”
He tossed the phone onto the dashboard.
He tried dragging himself closer to the driver's seat, but there wasn't enough room. Water sloshed around his legs every time he moved. In the end, he could only brace his shoulder against the center console and reach out with one hand.
His fingertips found Shane's hair. It was wet and cold. Ilya slowly brushed it back.
“Baby.” His voice cracked. “Wake up.”
There was no response. So he moved his hand again, the way he always had—after games in the locker room, on red-eye flights, when Shane had fallen asleep on the couch.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Everything’s gonna be okay. Just wait a little longer, alright?”
His fingers drifted through Shane's hair.
“Your mom's waiting for you.”
When no answer came, Ilya lowered his head and looked at Shane's face.
“She’s waiting for your call. You know she is. And if you don’t answer, she’s just going to call me instead.”
A dry laugh escaped him before fading away.
“So you have to come home.”
The water kept rising. Ilya could feel it, but he didn't pull his hand away.
“Do something if you can hear me. Tell me to shut up. Swear at me. Anything.”
He fell silent for a moment.
“Please.”
The skin beneath his fingertips was still cold. Ilya closed his eyes and smoothed Shane's hair back once more.
“It’s okay,” he said again. This time it sounded less like something he was telling himself and more like something he was telling Shane.
“Everything’s gonna be okay.”
The dispatcher’s voice was still coming from the phone he had tossed onto the dashboard.
“Sir, can you tell me your name?”
Ilya couldn't answer right away. His fingertips were still tangled in Shane's wet hair. With his eyes closed, he drew in a slow breath and let it out.
“...Ilya.”
His voice cracked.
“Ilya Rozanov.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Can you tell me the name of the person with you?”
Ilya's hand stilled. The dispatcher didn't know.
There had been no announcement, no headline, no public statement. The world still didn't know that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov lived together. It didn't know about the nights they came home to the same house, the vacations they took together at the end of every season, or the times they met beneath the kitchen light at three in the morning after waking up thirsty. It didn't know how they spent entire games pretending not to look at each other while always being the first to notice when the other was there.
The world knew nothing.
Soon people would wonder why they had been in the same car. They would come up with explanations. Rumors. Stories. Whether they survived or not, the life they had built would be gone.
Ilya bit down on his tongue.
Even now, he was afraid. Afraid of the world seeing Ilya Rozanov in love with Shane Hollander. Lowering his head, he stared at Shane's face. His hand remained in Shane's hair. Several seconds passed. Then several more.
“Just...”
The word died halfway out. He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
“Wait a little longer.”
He wasn't sure who he was talking to. His hand moved through Shane's hair once more.
“They'll be here soon.”
As his fingertips brushed across Shane's forehead, he thought he imagined it at first.
Ilya froze.
Then Shane's eyelid twitched.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
“...Shane?”
His voice broke instantly. Once more, very faintly, as though he were gathering every last bit of strength he had left.
Then Shane opened his eye. Just one. The other was swollen shut, buried beneath blood and bruising. Even the eye that had opened couldn't quite focus. His gaze drifted, unfixed and unsteady.
Ilya swallowed hard.
“Shane.”
The name came out almost like a sob.
“Shane, hey. Look at me.”
Tears ran freely down his face as he reached up and cupped Shane's cheek.
“It’s okay. Help is coming, alright? You just have to hold on a little longer.”
Shane's eye moved slowly, as if he were trying to see something. Trying to find something. But his lips didn't move. No sound came from his throat.
Ilya shook his head.
“I’m here.”
His voice broke.
“Can you hear me? I'm right here.”
Shane's eye remained open, but the focus kept slipping away. Ilya couldn't bring himself to pull his hand back. He kept saying Shane's name as though that alone might keep him here.
“Shane.”
His breath trembled.
“Shane.”
Then again.
“Shane. I'm right here.”
The eye shifted once more. Ilya followed it without blinking.
Then, for a moment, it looked as though the corner of Shane's mouth had lifted. Maybe it was nothing. But for that one moment, Ilya believed Shane knew he was there.
“Yeah.”
The word caught in his throat.
“Yeah, it's okay.”
Still holding Shane's face, he lowered his head slightly.
“Just stay with me a little longer.”
But before long, Shane's gaze began to drift again. Instinctively, Ilya leaned closer.
“Shane.”
No answer.
“Shane.”
He said it louder this time, brushing his thumb across Shane's cheek, pushing damp strands of hair back from his face, trying to shake his shoulder despite the cramped space between them.
Shane didn't respond.
For a long moment, Ilya did nothing but stare at Shane's face. Then he shook his head.
“No.”
His voice trembled.
“No. Hey, look at me.”
He said Shane's name again, louder this time.
“Shane!”
The sound was swallowed almost immediately by the water surrounding them. With shaking hands, Ilya grabbed Shane's face.
“Shane, open your eyes. You're looking at me. You were looking at me.”
He couldn't catch his breath.
“Please.”
His voice kept rising until it was difficult to tell where the words ended and the sobs began. The dispatcher was still speaking through the phone on the dashboard.
Mr. Rozanov. Are you alright? Rescue crews are almost there.
Ilya heard the voice, but none of the words reached him. He never once looked toward the phone. His eyes remained fixed on Shane.
“Wake up.”
The plea came out broken.
“We have to go home.”
Lowering his head, he pressed kisses against Shane's temple again and again.
“How am I supposed to go home without you?”
Even after the words left him, he kept saying Shane's name. Over and over. The sound of sirens had begun to carry across the water, growing closer with every passing second, but Ilya never lifted his head.
───
Ilya opened his eyes, then immediately shut them again. The fluorescent lights stabbed at his vision. A few moments later, he tried again. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, and his mouth felt painfully dry. Every breath sent a dull ache through his ribs. When he shifted his arm, something tugged against it. He looked down and found an IV line taped to his skin. Only then did he realize he was in a hospital.
He tried to make sense of it. Why he was here. How he had gotten here. But his thoughts felt slow and tangled. He couldn't remember.
The hospital room door opened. Someone stepped inside. The woman looked familiar, but he couldn't place her.
“Ilya.”
Her voice sounded worn raw from crying.
She crossed the room toward him. Her face looked exhausted, hollow, as though her entire world had collapsed. She caught herself on the bed rail when she stumbled, and for some reason Ilya felt the urge to reach out and steady her, even though he had no idea who she was.
“Ilya...”
She said his name again. He lay there watching her. She kept swallowing back words that never came. Like there was something she needed to say and couldn't.
Ilya shifted, trying to sit up.
The woman startled and immediately moved to help him. She propped a pillow behind his back and carefully moved the IV line out of the way.
For a moment, she reminded him of a mother.
“Mom?”
The word slipped out before he could think about it. The woman folded around his hand as if something inside her had given way. She sank into the chair beside the bed, holding on to him.
Ilya waited quietly for her to speak.
“Shan—”
Pain exploded through his head.The scream tore out of him before he knew it was coming.
The woman flinched.
Somewhere outside, someone shouted. A middle-aged man rushed into the room, nearly tripping before catching himself against the wall. He made it to the bedside just as Ilya doubled over, clutching his head.
A moment ago the worst pain had been in his ribs and leg. Now he couldn't feel either of them. It felt as though something was splitting his skull apart.
He cried out again.
A nurse came running in. Then a doctor. They were talking to him, asking him questions, but none of it made sense. He could only curl inward and endure it.
Something cold entered his IV. Gradually, the pain began to loosen its grip. The room blurred. The voices grew distant.
As consciousness slipped away again, the last thing Ilya saw was the face of the woman who might have been his mother, crying beside his bed.
───
None of it made sense to Ilya.
The room felt heavy in a way he couldn't explain, and he hated it. He wanted to leave, wanted to get out of the hospital and away from the strange tension hanging over everything, but every attempt to move reminded him of the leg that refused to cooperate.
The woman's name was Yuna.
Her husband's name was David.
Yuna told him she was his mother.
Ilya told her he didn't remember her.
She smiled and said that was alright.
David spent most of his time pacing. He seemed unable to sit still for more than a few seconds before getting up again. Eventually he left the room altogether. Yuna watched him go and quietly said that he probably needed a little more time.
Later, a doctor came in and asked Ilya a series of questions. His name. What he remembered. How much of the accident he could recall. Ilya answered as honestly as he could. The answers seemed to concern everyone more than he expected.
His last clear memory, he admitted, came from childhood. Before hockey. Before almost everything. He had a hard time believing he had been born in Russia at first. But his own accent sounded strange even to him, and when Yuna told him Russia was where he came from, he accepted it almost immediately.
He trusted her.
When the doctor finally said that outpatient treatment would be possible, Ilya wanted to leave as soon as he could. He didn't like hospitals. Something about them unsettled him. Even without his memories, he had the feeling that he had once come to a place like this carrying a grief too large to hold. The impression lingered only for a moment before slipping away again, vague and impossible to grasp. In the end, he decided he was probably just afraid of hospitals, needles, and doctors.
Yuna never explained how she had become his mother. Ilya never asked.
At some point, she turned to David and quietly told him to go home and clear something out before they brought Ilya back. David nodded, tears filling his eyes almost immediately. Still, before leaving the room again, he stopped beside the bed and gently ran a hand through Ilya's hair.
The gesture was so natural that Ilya didn't pull away. He simply sat there and let it happen.
For the first time since waking up, the presence of two people who cared for him felt comforting.
───
Ilya came home a few days later.
The cottage felt familiar in a way he couldn't explain, yet he remembered none of it. With David pushing his wheelchair, he crossed the threshold and entered the house. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling across the hardwood floors. He liked the warmth of it. He liked the house, too. Everywhere he looked, there were signs that someone had cared for this place. The furniture, the books, the blankets folded over the back of the couch—nothing felt accidental.
Whoever he had been before losing his memory, he thought he must have loved this house very much. What bothered him was what wasn't there.
There wasn't a single photograph of him anywhere.
The house felt lived in, but parts of it also felt strangely empty. Certain shelves looked too bare. Certain corners seemed as though something had been removed.
Without thinking, Ilya rolled himself toward the wall with the fireplace. Several nail holes were visible above the mantel.
Something had hung there.
A painting, maybe.
A photograph.
The thought sent a sudden spike of pain through his head. Ilya doubled over and grabbed at his temples. Yuna was beside him almost immediately. She pulled a bottle of pain medication from the hospital bag and pressed two tablets into his hand before helping him swallow them.
After a few minutes, the pain eased enough for him to straighten again.
“Mom.”
His fingers closed around Yuna's sleeve.
“What used to be there?”
Yuna froze. Only for a second. Then she smiled. Ilya recognized that smile immediately. The kind people used when they were trying not to cry.
“There was just a painting there,” she said lightly. “We took it down. Can you imagine what would happen if you crashed that wheelchair into the wall and knocked a frame onto your head?”
She even laughed a little. Ilya didn't. The smile on her face looked painful. So he let go of her arm. For a moment neither of them spoke.
Yuna looked away first.
And for reasons he couldn't understand, Ilya suddenly felt like crying too.
───
Dinner was quiet.
Yuna set a bottle of wine on the table but never opened it. David spent most of the meal staring down at his plate, pushing food around more than he actually ate. Ilya watched them both and finished his own portion without saying much. Afterward, David loaded the dishes into the dishwasher before making his way into the living room.
“I should get you to bed.”
Ilya shook his head.
“I’m not tired.”
It wasn't true. His body ached. His head still felt fragile. But for some reason he didn't want to sleep. He wanted to stay awake a little longer. Yuna gave him a gentle look.
“You'll heal faster if you rest.”
In the end, Ilya sighed and gave in. The bedroom felt just as familiar as the rest of the house. And just like the rest of the house, he remembered none of it.
After David helped him into bed and left, Ilya lay on his back staring at the ceiling. The house had gone quiet hours ago. Still, he couldn't close his eyes. Sleep felt dangerous. As though something would disappear the moment he let himself drift off. The feeling made no sense, but it wouldn't leave. So he stayed awake.
Trying to sleep.
Failing.
Trying again.
'Want me to hold you?'
“What?”
Ilya turned toward the other side of the bed. There was nobody there. Only an untouched pillow and a stretch of empty mattress. For a long moment he stared at it. The voice had sounded close. Close enough that he had answered without thinking.
Slowly, he looked away and closed his eyes. His head was beginning to hurt again. A dull ache at first. Then stronger. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead.
The room remained silent. No voice came again.
But long after that, he found himself staring at the empty space beside him instead of the ceiling.
───
Ilya had recovered completely. He could walk without assistance now. He could even run a little. Maybe not the way he once had, but well enough to live like a normal person.
As promised, he had agreed to sell the cottage.
Yuna and David had argued bitterly over the decision. In the end, David announced that he would be leaving Ottawa for a while. Tonight was Ilya's last night at the cottage. Yuna had taken an early flight to reconcile with him, leaving Ilya alone.
It was the first time in six months.
During all that time, he had never once been left by himself. Yuna or David had always been there. Being alone felt strange. Lonely. A little frightening. Still, he was a grown man, and most of his memories had returned. Only a few pieces remained missing, as though someone had cut them cleanly out of his life. The first time he met Yuna and David. The reason he had come to live at the cottage.
But he was alright. Life was manageable. His body had healed, and he could do whatever he wanted without needing anyone's help.
The only thing that bothered him were the voices.
Every now and then, he would hear someone speaking beside him. A voice that sounded close enough to whisper in his ear. The psychiatrist had told him that hallucinations sometimes followed severe trauma. Most patients recovered with time.
So Ilya tried not to worry about it. Besides, sometimes the voice was helpful.
When he was grocery shopping.
When he couldn't find something in the house.
'Who buys avocados without checking if they're ripe?'
'We always keep the paper towels above the sink.'
The voice would offer comments like that.
Instead of answering, Ilya would glance toward the place where he thought the voice had come from.
There was never anyone there.
That evening, he sat quietly beside the lake. A large boulder rested between the lawn and the shoreline. It was the perfect place for one person to sit and watch the water. If they squeezed together, maybe two. Since it was his last night here, he decided to stay until sunset.
The headache returned just as the sky began to darken. It felt like someone was cracking open his skull and forcing something inside. Ilya groaned and leaned against the rock.
'It's okay.'
The voice came again. To his surprise, the pain vanished instantly. One moment it was there. The next it was gone.
Ilya shook his head and looked beside him.
Nobody.
As night settled over the lake, a loon began calling somewhere in the woods. Ilya hated loons. Muttering under his breath, he dragged his chair closer to the fire pit. For a while, he sat watching the logs burn. It was strange to think that this was the last time. He kept feeding wood into the fire so it wouldn't die out.
Then he made a mistake.
While adjusting the logs with a pair of tongs, he pulled out one that hadn't burned through completely. It slipped from the metal grip and landed in the grass.
The flames spread immediately. The fire was small. But it was enough to make him panic.
Ilya rushed inside.
He searched frantically for a fire extinguisher. By the time he looked up, the darkness beyond the windows had turned red.
He froze.
The fire was moving toward the cottage. It had already grown far beyond anything a fire extinguisher could handle.
He needed to leave. Now.
His feet carried him toward the front door.
Then he stopped.
“SHANE!”
The name tore out of him. Ilya turned and ran for the stairs. He took them two at a time before throwing open the bedroom door.
“Shane!”
He couldn't leave the cottage before he found Shane.
He didn't know who Shane was.
He didn't know why the name felt so important.
But he couldn't leave without him.
“Shane!”
Ilya kept calling for him. The fire had begun climbing the walls. Smoke seeped into the house, turning the air thick and bitter. He knew he should leave.
Instead, he kept searching.
He wanted to find the stranger who wasn't there and bring him out with him.
A shrill alarm suddenly cut through the house. The smoke detectors had begun flashing red. The fire department would have been notified immediately. But if Ilya stayed inside until they arrived, he would die.
Still, he searched.
The bathroom. The small gym. The kitchen. The storage room. Room after room, he looked for someone who wasn't there. By the time breathing became difficult, he could barely remain on his feet. Staggering into the hallway, he slid down the wall and sank to the floor.
His clothes were soaked with sweat. The air was growing hotter. The fire had probably reached the inside of the house by now. Ilya coughed again and again, pounding a fist against his chest as he fought to stay conscious.
Then, suddenly, tears filled his eyes. At first he thought it was the smoke. But they didn't stop. They kept running down his cheeks. A burning pain spread through his chest. Ilya doubled over.
Another headache hit him. This one was worse than any before. His eyes squeezed shut. A scream tore from his throat as he collapsed onto the floor, clutching at his chest.
It hurt.
It hurt so much.
More than the fire.
More than the crash.
More than anything he could remember.
The pain rolled through him in waves until he could barely breathe around it. So he stayed where he was. Curled against the floor. Waiting for it to stop.
Because, in that moment, burning alive seemed easier than enduring whatever was happening inside him.
───
The sky was bright. Not a single cloud drifted overhead, and the air was so clear it almost felt too warm. Someone came walking in from the backyard. He was soaked from head to toe, as though he had just climbed out of the lake.
Without thinking, Shane grumbled, “You got water all over the floor.”
“Then wipe it up.”
Ilya leaned down and kissed him before Shane could complain any further. The moment he pulled away, Shane shoved a hand against his chest and bolted. Ilya immediately gave chase.
Their laughter echoed through the cottage. In the end, Shane was caught anyway. A second later, he was being sprayed with water while Ilya shook out his wet hair on purpose.
“Stop!”
Shane tried to dodge away. It only made things worse. Water splashed across his face, one of the few things capable of genuinely annoying Shane Hollander. And yet neither of them could stop laughing.
“I wouldn't be able to live in a world without you.”
Shane rolled his eyes.
“Sure. Just try marrying some woman after I die.”
“That'll never happen. I wouldn't be able to breathe for a second in a world without you.”
“What if I die first?”
Shane pushed him away. There was something almost irritated about the look he gave him. Almost sad, too. Still smiling, Ilya wrapped himself around Shane's waist again.
“Then I'd follow you.”
Shane sighed and ran a hand through Ilya's wet hair.
“Don't say stupid things like that.”
Ilya laughed quietly. For a while neither of them spoke. Then he slowly straightened and reached for Shane's hand.
“Do you know how much I missed you?”
Shane didn't answer.
“I thought I couldn't survive in a world without you, but I had to.”
Silence settled between them.
“So I forgot.”
His thumb brushed across Shane's knuckles.
“I could remember what I'd eaten that day, but not your voice. I could remember contract dates, but not your smile.”
Looking up, Ilya met Shane's eyes and slowly lifted Shane's hand to his lips.
“I'm sorry. I forgot your face. I forgot your voice.”
He laughed under his breath. Shane still didn't say anything. Ilya closed his eyes, then opened them again. This time there was no headache. No pain.
“Still,” he said, a faint smile appearing as he looked at Shane. “I remembered. All of it.”
───
Yuna was sorting through the papers left in one of the boxes. The cottage had sat empty for a long time after the accident. There had been no one to clean it out, and most of what remained was still covered in dust. Beside her, David was going through a stack of documents when he stopped and picked up a photograph.
“Yuna.”
At the sound of his voice, she looked up.
The photograph was old. Anyone would have recognized Shane immediately. Sunlight rested across his shoulders, and he was smiling at the camera. But half of the photograph was missing. The edge had been torn away. There was no need to wonder who had originally been standing there.
Yuna took the picture from him.
A short message had been written across it in black ink.
'Who is this? Anyway, He's Cute.'
David spoke quietly.
“Should we throw it away?”
Yuna didn't answer right away. Her fingers traced the edge of the photograph.
Shane was still smiling.
After a while, she shook her head.
“No.”
Her voice caught slightly.
“Just leave it.”
She set the photograph on top of the box.