Chapter Text
Shane Hollander is almost home from his morning run when he spots someone sitting on the front steps.
He slows automatically, Anya trotting happily beside him, tongue lolling out of her mouth as she pants. The familiar shape of their house rises at the end of the street, sunlight glinting off the windows, but his attention fixes on the figure curled up on the porch.
A girl, young. Early teens, maybe. Curly blonde hair spills around her shoulders like a halo, hiding most of her face as she stares down at her phone.
Shane’s stomach sinks. Seriously?
He stops jogging and settles into a slow bounce on the balls of his feet, watching from half a block away. A fan, it has to be. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t even be the first time.
Most fans were respectful. Most understood boundaries. Most settled for seeing him and Ilya during games or spotting them around Ottawa. But every so often someone managed to track down their address, and then Shane got to have the uncomfortable conversation about privacy while trying not to be an asshole to a teenager.
He drags a hand across his sweaty forehead. “Fucking great.”
Anya immediately notices the stranger. Her ears perk, entire body lighting up, letting out an excited bark as she lunges forward so enthusiastically that Shane nearly loses his grip on the leash.
“Anya!”
Another bark, her tail becoming a blur.
“Absolutely not.”
The dog ignores him, of course she does. Because Anya has never met a stranger she didn’t immediately decide was her best friend. Delivery drivers. Neighbors. Random people at the park. The woman who read meters for the city. Everyone was a potential friend, except squirrels. Anya hated those.
The girl finally looks up at the commotion, and the air punches out of Shane’s lungs as their eyes meet. His feet stop moving. Everything stops moving.
The world narrows around him until there are only those eyes—blue, green, and gray all at once, surrounded by thick dark blonde lashes.
The exact impossible shade he’s seen every morning for years across a pillow. The exact shade that looked back at him from wedding photos and magazine covers and lazy Sunday mornings.
His pulse stumbles, and the girl freezes too. For a second neither of them moves, neither of them breathes, and then she stands so quickly she nearly drops her phone.
Shane stares, cataloguing every detail before he can stop himself.
The riot of dirty blonde curls spilling around her shoulders. The pale skin speckled with moles that look so much like Ilya's it makes his stomach twist. The sharp line of her cheekbones. The stubborn set of her jaw. The way she shifts her weight from foot to foot, restless and uncertain.
And those eyes. Those impossible eyes.
Ilya's eyes.
Not exactly, not perfectly, but close enough that Shane's pulse thunders in his ears. Close enough that every instinct in his body screams that he knows this face somehow.
The girl swallows hard beneath his scrutiny, fingers tightening around her phone, and Shane realizes he's staring and forces himself to blink. It doesn't help. Not in the slightest because the more he looks, the more familiar she becomes. Like someone has taken pieces of Ilya and rearranged them into an entirely different person. Not a copy, but an echo. Little hints that catch him off guard every time he notices another one.
His chest tightens, the resemblance impossible to ignore.
Anya whines and tugs harder on her leash, tail wagging so furiously that her entire hind end wiggles with it.
The girl lets out a startled laugh as the dog strains toward her.
"Hi, sweetheart," she murmurs automatically.
Anya takes that as an invitation, lunging forward with all the enthusiasm of a dog who has never once considered the possibility that someone might not want to be her friend.
"Anya," Shane warns, but the dog ignores him completely.
The girl crouches just as Anya reaches her, immediately burying both hands in the thick fur around her neck.
"Oh my God, you're so pretty."
Anya practically melts as Shane watches his dog abandon every ounce of dignity she possesses, pressing closer for attention and thumping her tail against the porch steps.
The girl's laugh rings out again, softer this time, genuine despite the nerves radiating off her. For a brief second, the tension in her shoulders eases. The smile changes her face. Makes the resemblance even harder to ignore.
Shane’s chest tightens, because he knows that smile. Not the exact shape of it, but the way it starts hesitantly before blooming wider when she forgets herself. The way it reaches those impossible eyes. The way it transforms her entire face.
It's familiar, terrifyingly so.
Anya nudges her hand insistently, demanding more attention. The girl obliges immediately, scratching behind her ears.
"You are definitely not helping," Shane mutters.
The girl glances up at him, her smile dimming, a flicker of something crossing her face so quickly Shane almost misses it. Disappointment or embarrassment, maybe both. "Sorry."
The apology comes out automatic, like she's used to making herself smaller.
"Oh, not you." Shane jerks his chin toward the dog. "Her."
As if hearing her cue, Anya flops dramatically onto her side and presents her belly. The girl laughs again, and Shane's stomach drops all over again. Because for one impossible moment, he can almost hear Ilya laughing right alongside her.
The moment passes as the girl falls quiet, her hand still moving through Anya's fur.
Shane tightens his grip on the leash. Whatever resemblance he's seeing, whatever explanation exists for it, standing here staring isn't going to give him any answers.
He clears his throat. "Soooo..."
The girl immediately looks up, shoulders straightening. The nervousness rushes back so quickly it's almost painful to watch. One second she's laughing at Anya's antics, the next she's wound tight as a piano wire, fingers curling around the edge of her phone.
Shane softens his voice. "What's your name?"
For a second she looks surprised he's asking, like she'd expected a different question. "Darya."
The name hits him like a physical thing. Darya, a Russian name. Of course it is.
"Darya," he repeats.
She nods once.
"Nice to meet you, Darya, I’m—."
“Shane Hollander, I know." The words tumble out before he can finish. Darya's eyes widen immediately afterward, like she hadn't meant to interrupt him. A faint flush creeps into her cheeks. "Sorry."
Shane huffs out a laugh despite himself. "Right."
Considering she's sitting on his front porch, introducing himself probably isn't necessary.
Shane glances at the phone clutched tightly in her hand before looking back at her, laughter fading as he watches her gather her courage.
Whatever she's come here to say, it's clearly not easy.
He shifts his weight and offers her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "So, Darya."
Her gaze lifts to his.
"Why don't you tell me why you're here?" He pauses, glancing down as Anya attempts to climb halfway into Darya's lap. "I mean, usually when people show up here uninvited, they're looking for an autograph, but that's not why you're here, is it?"
A nervous laugh escapes her. "No." Darya looks down, fingers disappearing into Anya's thick fur. The dog practically melts beneath the attention, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air. "No," she repeats quietly. "It's not.” She glances back up at Shane. “I know who you are, obviously, but that's not..." She trails off, grimacing. "That's not why I'm here."
Darya looks down at Anya, scratching absently behind one ear. The dog leans shamelessly into the attention.
For a moment, Shane thinks she's going to leave it there.
Then she takes a slow breath. "My mom..." Her fingers tighten slightly in Anya's fur. "She left me a letter."
Shane stays quiet.
Darya swallows. "Well, a bunch of letters, actually. For different things." The words come haltingly, as though she's recited them to herself a hundred times but still isn't sure how to say them out loud. "Birthdays. Graduation. Stuff like that."
Something twists uncomfortably in Shane's chest as it hits him.
Past tense.
Left me.
Not wrote me.
Not gave me.
Left.
Darya keeps her eyes fixed on Anya. "There was one I wasn't supposed to open until I turned fourteen." Her laugh is small and humorless. "I opened it two weeks early."
A corner of Shane's mouth twitches despite the tension. "Rebel."
That earns the ghost of a smile. "Yeah, so wild.." The smile fades almost immediately, and Darya takes another breath. "In it she said..." Her voice catches. "She said that if I ever wanted answers about my father, I should come here."
The leash goes taut in Shane's hand. His pulse pounds once in his throat, hard.
Darya finally looks up, those blue-green-gray eyes lock onto his. "My mom never told me who he was." The words are steady now, practiced. The speech she's probably been rehearsing all morning. "She always said it wasn't important. That he didn't know about me and that she wanted it to stay that way."
Shane feels his stomach sink, slowly and inevitably.
"But in the letter..." Darya swallows. "She gave me a name."
The world narrows around Shane again—Darya's face, the morning sun, Anya sprawled at her feet.
"My mom said his name was Ilya Rozanov."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Even Anya seems to settle as Shane just stares. Because somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd already known from the moment she'd looked up, from the moment he'd seen those eyes, but hearing the words spoken out loud is something else entirely. It's like the ground opening beneath his feet.
Darya's expression crumples slightly around the edges. "I—I have proof." The words come out in a rush, as if she's been waiting for him to accuse her of lying.
Her hands fumble immediately for her backpack Shane’s just now noticing on the steps behind her.
"I know how this sounds," she continues, kneeling beside her backpack. "I don't want anything from him, or you..."
"Darya—"
"I have proof." Her voice cracks.
Shane falls silent.
With trembling fingers, she unzips the bag and starts digging through it. Papers. A water bottle. A worn paperback. A folder bent at the corners. Finally she pulls out a large manila envelope and stands.
The sight of it makes something twist in Shane's chest.
Darya clutches it tightly for a moment before holding it out. "My mom kept everything." The words are barely above a whisper. "Pictures. Letters. A journal." Her throat works. "She wrote down everything."
Shane stares at the envelope, but doesn't reach for it.
Not yet.
Darya swallows hard. "There are pictures of them together." Her eyes drop to the outstretched envelope. "Pictures of me when I was a baby."
Darya notices the hesitation on his face and immediately looks stricken. "I'm not trying to get anything." The words tumble out. "I'm not, I swear—"
"Darya—"
"I don't want money or anything."Her grip tightens on the envelope until her knuckles turn white. "I just want him to know about me."
The words hang in the air between them. Simple and honest and painfully young.
Darya lowers her eyes to the envelope again. "I almost didn't come." A nervous laugh escapes her. "Actually, that's a lie. I thought about turning around like six times on the bus ride over."
The corner of Shane's mouth twitches and Darya smiles weakly.
"I kept telling myself it was a stupid idea." She traces her thumb along the worn edge of the envelope. "But then I kept thinking..." Her throat works. "What if he would want to know?"
The question hits Shane square in the chest.
Because Ilya would. God, he would.
Shane knows it with a certainty that settles deep in his bones.
Ilya loves too easily. Too completely. He collects people the way other people collect souvenirs, dragging them into his life and refusing to let them go. Teammates, friends, strays, neighbors, half the city of Ottawa if given enough time.
And children?
Shane's throat tightens.
Ilya loves them, always has. Wanted them long before Shane was ready to admit he did too. Wanted them with a certainty that had sometimes caught Shane off guard. Not in an abstract, someday-maybe sort of way. In a real way. A tangible way.
Ilya would stop mid-conversation to wave at toddlers in grocery stores. He remembered every teammate's kid's birthday, knew their favorite cartoons, their favorite snacks, their latest obsessions.
And Hayden's kids?
They practically worshipped him.
Shane has lost count of the number of times he's walked into a room to find all four of them draped over Ilya like he's a piece of furniture. Ruby demanding to show him a drawing. Arthur climbing onto his shoulders without asking. Jade dragging him into some elaborate game. Amber curled up against his side with a book.
The second Ilya walks through Hayden's front door, he's no longer Ilya Rozanov, professional hockey player, he's Uncle Ilya. Their favorite uncle, if their frequent and very loud declarations are anything to go by. The one who remembers every birthday. The one who never forgets a promise. The one who somehow always has stickers, candy, or a ridiculous story tucked away for emergencies.
Shane has watched him spend entire afternoons building blanket forts, attending tea parties, getting his nails painted, and helping with school projects without a single complaint. He's seen the look on Ilya's face every time one of those kids launches themselves into his arms—pure joy, unfiltered and immediate.
Which is why Darya's question hits so hard.
What if he would want to know?
Because Shane doesn't have to wonder, he already knows the answer.
There is not a universe in existence where Ilya wouldn't want to know. Wouldn't want to meet her. Wouldn't want to know her favorite color, her favorite food, what subjects she likes in school, whether she hates mornings just like he does and loves bad jokes and takes her tea too sweet.
The thought settles heavily in Shane's chest, because Darya is sitting here terrified that she's asking for too much. When the truth is, if she's right, fourteen years have already been lost, and none of it was by choice.
The certainty of it makes Shane's chest ache, but Darya doesn't know that. All she knows is that she's standing on a stranger's porch clutching an envelope and hoping she isn't about to hear something that breaks her heart.
Darya shifts nervously beneath his silence. "I know it probably sounds stupid."
Shane immediately shakes his head. "No."
Her eyes lift to his.
"No," he repeats more firmly. "It doesn't."
The answer seems to surprise her.
She looks down at the envelope again. "I just kept thinking that if it was me..." She shrugs helplessly. "I'd want to know."
A lump forms in Shane's throat.
He would too.
He doesn't say it, not yet. Not before he knows what's in that envelope. Not before he talks to Ilya. But the thought sits heavy and unwavering in his chest.
Darya isn't asking for a father. She isn't asking for money. She isn't even asking to stay. All she’s asking for is the chance to stop being a secret.
And suddenly Shane understands exactly why she got on that bus.
Because beneath all the nerves and rehearsed explanations, that's what this is really about—hope. Hope that the man she's never met might care. Hope that she isn't making a terrible mistake.
Darya takes a shaky breath. "I don't need anything from him." she says again.
The words sound practiced, like she's repeated them a hundred times. Maybe to other people. Maybe even to herself.
Darya shifts nervously beneath his silence. "Sorry," she says quietly. "This is probably a lot."
Only then does Shane realize he hasn't said a single word. Shane shakes himself, dragging a hand across the back of his neck. For a second he'd forgotten how to speak, forgotten how to breathe.
Shane lets out a slow breath and takes the envelope. "Yeah, little bit."
Darya winces, shoulders tensing immediately, as though she's bracing for something. For rejection or anger or disbelief.
The realization twists something unpleasant in Shane's chest.
Then he shakes his head. "Not because of you."
Her eyes lift to his again, and Shane offers her the gentlest smile he can manage.
"This is just..." He glances down at the envelope before meeting her gaze again. "A really big thing to drop on someone's porch before breakfast and you caught me a little off guard."
A little off guard. Possibly the understatement of the century.
"Yeah."
He glances away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. There are approximately a thousand questions fighting for space in his head right now, but every single one of them can wait. Because the kid standing in front of him isn't a mystery to solve.
She’s just a scared kid who got on a bus and crossed a city—or maybe a country—because her mother is gone and she doesn't know where else to go for answers.
Shane looks at Darya, still standing there clutching the straps of her backpack, trying very hard to look brave. Trying very hard not to look like she's waiting for him to tell her she made a mistake.
So instead of asking any of the thousand questions rattling around in his brain, he asks the only one that seems important. "Have you had breakfast?"
Darya blinks.
Clearly that wasn't what she'd expected. "What?"
"Breakfast," Shane repeats. "Have you had any?"
She stares at him for a second before shaking her head. "Uh, no."
"Coffee?"
A tiny smile appears. "I'm fourteen."
"Good answer."
The smile grows, just a little.
Shane gestures toward the front door. "C’mon, let’s go inside."
Darya freezes, her gaze flicks toward the house. Toward the front door. Toward whatever waits on the other side of it.
Shane follows her line of sight and realizes what's really making her hesitate. "He isn't here."
Darya's eyes snap back to his.
"Ilya," Shane clarifies gently. "He's not home."
Some of the tension leaves her shoulders, but not all of it.
"He's having breakfast with my dad."
The words feel absurdly normal in Shane's mouth. A regular explanation for a regular morning, as though he isn't standing on his front porch holding an envelope that might contain proof that his husband has a fourteen-year-old daughter.
"Oh." Darya's fingers tighten around the strap of her backpack. "I can come back..."
The offer is immediate, automatic. Like she's already preparing to retreat.
Shane's chest aches. "No."
She blinks. "No?"
"No." He shakes his head. "You've already made the trip."
Darya looks unconvinced. "I don't want to interrupt—"
"Darya."
She falls silent.
Shane softens his expression. "You don't have to leave."
For a moment she just stares at him, like she's trying to decide whether she believes him.
"I wasn't expecting..." She trails off and shrugs awkwardly. "I don't know what I was expecting."
"Neither was I."
That earns a startled laugh.
Shane smiles despite himself. "Trust me. Whatever scenario I imagined when I saw someone sitting on my porch this morning, it wasn’t having someone show up and tell me my husband might be their father.."
Darya ducks her head, a flush creeps into her cheeks. "When you put it like that..." the words come out a little mortified.
Shane huffs out a laugh. "How else am I supposed to put it?"
A reluctant smile tugs at her mouth. "I don't know."
"Neither do I."
Darya worries her bottom lip between her teeth. "I really am sorry."
Shane's expression gentles. “Darya, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for."
For a moment, she just stares at him, before giving a small nod. “Ok.”
Shane isn't entirely convinced she believes him, but it's a start.
He tugs gently on the leash, urging Anya toward the house. The dog practically prances up the front walk, blissfully unaware that she's just witnessed what might be the most life-altering conversation of Shane's life.
Darya follows a step behind, quiet and nervous, still clutching the straps of her backpack tightly enough that her knuckles have gone pale.
Shane unlocks the front door and pushes it open, stepping aside to let Darya in first.
The moment she crosses the threshold, her eyes dart around.
The house doesn't look anything like the sprawling mansions hockey fans always imagine. It's large, sure, but it feels lived in. Comfortable. Warm.
Sunlight pours through the tall front windows, catching on honey-colored hardwood floors. The entryway opens into a bright, open concept living space, where oversized couches are arranged around a stone fireplace. Shelves lined with books and framed photographs fill entire sections of the walls.
The place bears all the marks of two people who actually live here rather than simply own it.
A half-finished crossword sits on the kitchen island. A mug abandoned beside the coffee maker. A pair of sneakers kicked haphazardly near the mudroom door.
Shane crouches beside Anya, unclipping her leash from her collar. "Go on."
The dog immediately tears off in search of attention that no longer exists, nails clicking across the hardwood as she disappears deeper into the house in search of her Papa who isn’t there.
"Traitor," Shane mutters fondly.
Darya smiles despite herself. Her gaze catching on a gallery wall stretching up the staircase. Photos from vacations. Friends. Weddings. Hockey celebrations. A life built piece by piece.
It feels strangely intimate, standing in the middle of it. As though she's accidentally wandered into somebody else's memories.
Shane straightens, looping Anya's leash around his hand as he kicks off his running shoes by the door.
A moment later, Darya awkwardly follows suit, carefully setting her sneakers beside his. The backpack, however, stays firmly on her shoulders.
Shane pretends not to notice the way her fingers tighten around the straps. "You're welcome to leave that there if you want."
Darya immediately shakes her head, the response is so quick it almost makes him smile.
"Or bring it with you," he adds gently. "Whatever makes you comfortable."
Her expression softens slightly. “Thank you."
But she doesn't take it off, not surprising. If that envelope contains everything she has left of her mother, Shane isn't sure he'd let it out of his sight either.
He hooks Anya's leash over the coat rack by the door. "No judgment, by the way."
Darya looks up. "What?"
"I once watched Ilya carry a backpack around for three days because he was convinced he'd forgotten something important inside it."
A reluctant laugh escapes her. "Did he?"
"Nope."
"What was in it?"
Shane considers. "Three protein bars, a phone charger, and approximately seventeen hockey pucks."
Darya laughs again a little easier this time, the sound settling something in Shane's chest.
Good.
Because she's still nervous enough to jump out of her skin.
He gestures toward the kitchen. "C'mon."
Darya adjusts her grip on the backpack straps and follows him deeper into the house, her gaze drifting over the photographs and bookshelves as they walk.
The kitchen opens up at the back of the house, flooded with morning sunlight from the wall of windows overlooking the backyard.
It's easily Shane's favorite room.
Not because it's particularly fancy, though the white quartz countertops and professional-grade stove probably qualify, but because it's where life happens.
The massive island dominates the center of the room, its countertop perpetually serving as a catch-all for mail, grocery lists, and half-finished conversations. Four stools line one side, worn smooth from years of breakfasts, late night snacks, and their friends lingering long after dinner should have ended.
A long wooden table sits near the windows, large enough to comfortably seat ten. The surface bears the tiny imperfections that come from actual use—faint scratches, water rings, evidence of game nights and holidays and countless meals shared with people they love.
The refrigerator is covered in magnets collected from trips, a few postcards, and several photos held in place by sheer stubbornness rather than organization.
It is, Shane realizes as Darya takes it all in, unmistakably a home.
"You can sit at the island or the table. Whatever you prefer."
Her gaze flicks between the two. The island feels casual, the table feels formal. Like a choice she can somehow get wrong.
Shane notices immediately. "There are no rules."
That earns the faintest hint of a smile. "Ok."
She eventually drifts toward one of the stools at the island, setting her backpack carefully at her feet.
Shane pretends not to notice. Instead, he heads for the fridge. "So."
Darya straightens slightly.
"What do you want for breakfast?"
She opens her mouth then closes it, a nervous laugh bubbling out of her. "I don't know."
"Excellent answer, very specific."
A startled laugh escapes her.
Shane leans against the counter. "Seriously."
Darya looks momentarily overwhelmed by the question. "I can just have toast."
"That's not breakfast."
Darya frowns. "It's a breakfast food."
"It's a component of breakfast."
"It's bread."
"Exactly."
She stares at him.
Shane stares back.
"It has all the qualifications." she says finally.
"Yeah, but no nutritional value."
Darya groans loudly. "Oh my God, are you one of those people?"
The words slip out before she can stop them. She freezes.
Shane raises an eyebrow.
Darya's eyes widen. "Sorry." The apology is immediate, reflexive. "I didn't mean—"
"Darya." She clamps her mouth shut. "You're fine." Shane leans against the island. "For the record, I am one of those people."
A horrified look crosses her face. "Oh no."
"Oh yes."
"You're a breakfast lecture person."
Shane laughs. “I’m an athlete. I’ve spent years measuring food on a kitchen scale."
Darya stares at him. "Voluntarily?"
"Unfortunately."
"That's insane."
"It gets worse."
"How?"
"There was a period where I could tell you the protein content of almost anything."
Darya drops her forehead dramatically onto the counter. "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about."
"Listen."
"No."
"Toast is not a complete breakfast."
"It's bread."
"It's carbohydrates."
"That's literally what bread is."
"You need protein."
Darya lets out a long suffering sigh. "Here we go."
"You need fiber."
"Oh my God."
"You need healthy fats."
"Please stop."
"And ideally some fruit."
She lifts her head. "Are you sponsored by a cereal company? Did they pay you to say this?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Darya."
She points accusingly at him. "You said protein, fiber, and healthy fats like you've rehearsed it."
"I have."
"Of course you have."
Shane grins despite himself. Beneath the sarcasm and eye rolling, she sounds exactly like a fourteen-year-old should, not like a kid carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Just fourteen.
"I spent the better part of a decade being told breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
"And you believed them?"
"I’m an athlete."
"That's not an answer."
"It absolutely is."
Darya shakes her head. "You're impossible."
"That's what Ilya says."
The words slip out naturally. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the mention of Ilya hangs between them. Heavy and a bit awkward.
Darya's smile falters slightly.
Shane feels it too, the shift. The way the mention of Ilya changes the air between them. The reminder of why she's here. Why she's sitting in his kitchen with a backpack at her feet and an envelope full of secrets clutched in her hands.
For a moment, neither of them says anything, then Shane decides absolutely not.
"Ok." He claps his hands together once, the sharp sound cuts through the silence.
Darya blinks.
Shane points at her. "Here's what's going to happen."
Her expression immediately turns suspicious. "Why do I feel like I'm being briefed?"
"Because you are."
"Oh no."
He opens the fridge. "You are going to eat a proper breakfast."
Darya groans. "Shane—"
"A balanced breakfast—"
"Wow, you're really committed to this."
"—ontaining more than a single piece of toast and wishful thinking."
She drops her head onto the island. "This is bullying."
"It's nutrition."
"It's the same thing."
Shane laughs, grabbing a carton of eggs. "It is not."
"You're literally making me eat protein."
"God forbid."
"I survived this long without your intervention."
"Well, that changes now."
Darya lifts her head. "I walked here by myself."
"You took a bus."
"That's not the point."
"It kind of is."
A reluctant smile pulls at her mouth.
Shane catches it and feels something in his chest loosen. Good. He'd much rather deal with a sarcastic teenager than the terrified girl who'd been sitting on his porch an hour ago.
"So," he says, setting ingredients on the counter. "We're doing eggs, fruit, toast—"
"Ha."
"—and probably yogurt."
Darya groans again. "You're making this sound like a hostage negotiation."
"Only because you're acting like one."
She rolls her eyes.
Shane points a spatula at her. "Mock me all you want. You'll thank me later."
"I absolutely will not."
"You will."
"I won't."
"You'll have more energy."
"I have energy."
"You look like you got on a bus before sunrise."
Darya pauses. "...that's fair."
"Thank you."
"But I'm still judging you."
"Get in line."
That earns another laugh.
For just a moment, the kitchen feels warm and ordinary.
Like this is simply breakfast. Like Shane isn't trying very hard not to think about the envelope sitting on the island where he left it. Like Ilya isn't currently eating breakfast with Shane's father, completely unaware that his entire life might be about to change.
Shane makes breakfast while Darya hovers awkwardly at the island, insisting repeatedly that toast would have been fine.
It isn't.
Twenty minutes later, she has eaten scrambled eggs, toast, yogurt, and enough fruit to feed a small army.
Despite her complaints, every plate ends up empty. Shane doesn't point that out though, mostly because he's trying not to smile.
He pours himself a smoothie, blending enough fruit and protein powder to horrify any normal person, while Darya picks at a second bowl of yogurt and berries.
She’s midway through another spoonful of yogurt when they hear the front door open.
"Shane!" Ilya's voice echoes through the house, loud and cheerful, completely oblivious to what he’s about to walk into.
The sound of shoes being kicked off follows.
A second later, "Shanya?"
Darya freezes.
Across from her, Shane's stomach drops.
"Where are—"
Ilya rounds the corner and stops. Everything stops. The smile falls from his face as his gaze lands on the girl sitting at the kitchen island with the spoon halfway to her mouth. His eyes rove over her, taking in the blonde curls, the moles dotted across pale skin, the impossible blue-green-gray eyes staring back at him.
The color drains from Ilya's face, iced coffee slipping from his hand, coffee exploding as the cup makes contact with the tiled floor.
A long, terrible silence fills the kitchen.
Shane is certain he has never seen anyone look quite so much like they've been hit by a truck.
Then Ilya breathes out a pained, "Bozhe moy…” My God.
The words come out rough and stunned, almost whispered.
Darya's spoon clinks softly against the side of her bowl as her hand lowers, but Ilya doesn't move, doesn't blink. His eyes never leave her face.
Shane watches realization crash over him in waves. First confusion, then disbelief. Recognition quickly followed by hope. Then something that looks heartbreakingly like grief flickers briefly across his face. He realizes, with a sinking certainty, that Ilya doesn't need the envelope, because the second he looked at her, he knew.
"Il'ya, milyy..." Shane's voice is gentle. Careful in the way one might approach a startled animal.
Ilya doesn't even seem to hear him. His eyes are glassy, fixed entirely on Darya. Who, for her part, looks like she has forgotten how to breathe. All the bravado she'd managed over breakfast has vanished.
She sits frozen on the stool, fingers gripping the edge of the island so tightly her knuckles have gone white.
Shane tries again, "Ilya this is—"
"Dar'ya.” The interruption is quiet, almost hesitant. She swallows. “Menya zovut Dar'ya." My name is Darya.
The Russian sounds careful, practiced. Not native, but familiar, like a language she grew up hearing even if she doesn't speak it every day.
The words hit Ilya like a physical blow. Shane watches it happen. The tiny hitch in his breathing, the way his eyes squeeze shut for half a second, his hand coming up to cover his mouth.
Ilya lets out a shaky breath.
When he speaks, his voice is rough. "Ty govorish po-russki?" You speak Russian?
Darya gives a tiny shrug. “A little.” Her reply comes in English. “My mom taught me.”
"Tvoya mama — russkaya?" Your mother is Russian?
Darya nods. “She was.”
Ilya visibly flinches. For a moment he doesn't speak, doesn't seem capable of it.
Instead he takes another step forward then stops himself, like he's suddenly remembered he doesn't know what he's allowed to do. Whether he's allowed to come closer. Whether she's comfortable with him being closer.
His gaze drops briefly to the envelope on the counter, his name and address on its worn front.
Илья Розанов
502 Richardson St
Ottawa, ON, K1A 0E4
"How old are you?" he asks as he glances back up at her.
The question comes out automatically, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it anyway.
"Fourteen."
Ilya closes his eyes.
Shane watches the number hit him.
Fourteen.
Fourteen birthdays. Fourteen Christmases. Fourteen years. Fourteen years he never knew existed.
When he opens his eyes again, they're bright, dangerously bright. "Darya..."
The name sounds strange in his mouth, precious.
Darya's fingers tighten around the edge of the island again.
"I have pictures," she says quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Of you and my mom. And letters and—"
"Darya—”
“Jelena, her name was Jelena.”
The world stops.
Not literally.
The refrigerator still hums, the coffee still drips from the edge of the counter onto the floor, and somewhere upstairs, Anya barks, but for Ilya, everything narrows to a single point—Jelena.
For a second, the name means nothing, then everything.
His breath catches. "Oh." The sound escapes him before he can stop it. "Oh, fuck."
Because suddenly he remembers. Not a face at first, but a summer. The summer, his first in Boston. Newly eighteen and an ocean away from his father and his brother, from everything familiar. The summer he'd spent bouncing between Svetlana's apartment and whichever teammate or friend was willing to tolerate him. The summer he'd been lonely enough not to recognize loneliness for what it was. Remembers those long months before training camp when he had too much freedom, too much money, and absolutely no supervision.
His gaze stays fixed on Darya, but he's not seeing her. Not entirely.
He's seeing Svetlana standing in a crowded apartment kitchen, rolling her eyes.
"You need hobbies."
"I have hobbies."
"Sleeping with anything that smiles at you isn't a hobby."
Then she'd introduced him to one of her friends, Jelena. Short and curvy in all the right places and blonde—the kind of blonde that looked natural, not bottled, with icy blue eyes and a sharp, wicked tongue that she knew how to use. Older than them, but not by much.
The sort of woman who had looked him directly in the eye when they met and said, "So you're the idiot Svetlana keeps complaining about."
The memory arrives so clearly it almost hurts.
He remembers laughing. Remembers liking her immediately, not because she was beautiful, though she was, and not because she flirted with him, though she did, but because she hadn't seemed impressed by him at all. Which, at eighteen, had been both infuriating and fascinating.
They'd spent that entire summer orbiting the same friend group. A blur of parties and bars and days spent at the beach, light night diners runs and Jelena slipping in and out of his life as casually as breathing.
No promises, no expectations, no future.
God.
He'd been eighteen and an idiot. A selfish idiot. The sort of eighteen-year-old who thought the future was something that happened to other people.
The memories keep coming.
Jelena sprawled across a couch arguing with Svetlana. Jelena stealing food off his plate. Jelena laughing, blonde head thrown back. Jelena blushing and rolling her eyes when he flirted. Jelena pushing him down onto the bed, pressing biting, open mouthed kisses against his skin. Jelena slipping out of his rumpled sheets without goodbye.
Again and again and again.
And then, gone.
The realization hits him so hard he nearly sways.
Gone.
One day she'd been there and the next she wasn't.
He remembers asking Svetlana about it, only once. Maybe twice.
"What happened to Jelena?"
"She moved."
That had been the answer, simple and dismissive. The kind of answer that ended conversations, and eighteen year old Ilya hadn't pushed. Hadn't called, hadn't looked. Hadn't thought nearly enough about the people who drifted in and out of his life. Because at eighteen, forever felt infinite. Because at eighteen, he assumed there would always be another chance.
Across the island, Darya shifts nervously. The movement pulls him back to the present, back to the kitchen. Back to the girl sitting in front of him.
Fourteen.
Fourteen.
The math lands like a punch to the ribs.
"Oh my God." His voice is barely audible.
Darya's eyes widen, and Ilya realizes she's watching him put it together in real time. Watching him remember her mother. Watching him remember a life he hadn't thought about in years. A life that, apparently, never stopped moving forward after he'd walked away from it.
Shane watches something break in Ilya then. Not loudly or dramatically, just a tiny, devastating fracture.
One moment Ilya is staring at Darya with stunned disbelief, then the next, recognition hits. Real recognition. Shane sees it happen—the widening of his eyes and the way all the color drains from his face. The slight sway, as though the ground has shifted beneath him, and suddenly Shane knows.
He remembers. Not just the name, but her. Jelena.
Whatever uncertainty had remained evaporates, because this isn't someone scrambling for memories. This isn't someone trying to force a connection where none exists. This is someone being blindsided by a piece of his own past.
Across the island, Darya sits impossibly still. Watching him, waiting and hoping.
Shane's chest aches because she's looking at Ilya the way people look at closed doors, terrified of what they'll find on the other side.
And Ilya—god. Ilya looks devastated.
Not by her, never by her, but by everything he's missed.
Shane knows that look. He's seen it after career ending injuries. After funerals and phone calls that change lives.
It's grief, fresh and immediate. Grief for something that can't be recovered.
Fourteen first days of school. Fourteen years of scraped knees and lost teeth and bad report cards and favorite songs and inside jokes and every tiny moment that builds a life. All of it gone. Not because he didn't care. Not because he chose to leave. Because he never knew.
And somehow that makes it worse.
Shane watches Ilya's gaze move over Darya's face. Not staring now, but studying. Hungry for details, as if he's trying to make up for fourteen years in fourteen seconds.
The blonde curls, the mole speckled skin, the familiar stubborn tilt to her chin and the shape of her smile. Every little thing. A lifetime's worth of things.
His throat bobs, and Shane realizes, with sudden certainty, that Ilya is thinking exactly the same thing he is—How much did I miss?
The question hangs in the room, unspoken, unanswerable, and Shane watches his husband fall in love with a daughter he didn't know he had.
"I should..." Shane hesitates. For the first time since Ilya walked into the kitchen, both pairs of identical eyes turn toward him. "I should clean up and then call Farah and let her know what's going on." He gestures vaguely toward the hallway. "Give you two a moment to talk."
The suggestion hangs in the air, and Shane watches as panic flickers across Darya and Ilya’s faces.
"Shane—" Ilya and Darya say at the same time, their gazes darting to one another then back to him.
Shane blinks as Darya's face turns bright red and Ilya lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. The sound is strained and overwhelmed, but still unmistakably Ilya.
"Ooookkk," Shane says slowly. "Apparently neither of you likes that plan."
"I don't mind," Darya says quickly, which sounds suspiciously like she absolutely minds.
Across from her, Ilya looks like someone has suggested performing open-heart surgery with a butter knife. His eyes flick between Shane and Darya, then settling firmly on Shane.
The message is immediate—Don't leave me.
Normally, Shane would enjoy making him suffer, but today, unfortunately, Ilya looks genuinely terrified.
Shane bites back a smile. "You want me to stay."
It isn't a question.
Ilya drags a hand across his face. “Please.”
The word comes out immediately, earnest and almost desperate.
Across the island, Darya nods quickly, as though she's worried Shane might disappear before she gets a vote.
Shane's heart squeezes because suddenly they're not a terrified fourteen-year-old and a professional hockey player. They're just two people standing on opposite sides of an impossible conversation, both looking to him for stability, for normalcy. For something familiar to hold onto.
"Ok."
The relief is immediate, visible.
Ilya exhales while Darya's shoulders loosen just a little.
Shane points between them. "Good. Because frankly, if I leave the room right now, I think neither of you is going to say a single word."
"I would." The protest comes from both of them simultaneously.
Shane laughs as Darya looks down and Ilya groans.
"There it is."
Neither looks particularly amused.
"Sorry," Darya mutters.
"Stop apologizing."
"Sorry." she says then winces as she catches herself.
"Darya." Shane gives her a fllat look and the corner of her mouth twitches.
Across the island, Ilya lets out a startled huff of laughter, the sound surprises all three of them. For a second, the tension cracks, just enough.
Shane leans against the counter. "New plan." Both of them look at him. “You’re going to clean that up,” he says pointing at the spreading puddle of iced coffee at Ilya’s feet.
Ilya blinks, following Shane's finger downward, looking genuinely surprised to discover there's coffee all over the floor. "Oh."
"Yeah.” Shane grabs a dish towel and tosses it at him. “‘Oh.’” He turns back to Darya. “And you are going to finish your breakfast. Then we’ll talk about everything, ok?”
"Ok," Darya says quietly.
"Ok," Ilya echoes.
Shane watches as Darya dutifully takes another bite of yogurt while Ilya kneels on the floor cleaning up his spilled coffee as he finishes off his smoothie. Her gaze keeps drifting toward Ilya. Quick little glances filled with curiosity and nervousness. Watches as she catches herself doing it, she immediately looks away, as though she's worried she'll get caught staring.
Ilya, meanwhile, is doing exactly the same thing. He wipes at a spot on the floor that has already been cleaned twice, his attention clearly elsewhere. Every few seconds his eyes flick upward toward the island, toward Darya. Toward the daughter-shaped hole that has apparently existed in his life for fourteen years without him knowing it.
Shane sees the exact moment Darya notices, her spoon pausing halfway to her mouth. Ilya immediately looks down at the floor again. A second later, Darya looks down at her bowl. Neither of them says a word.
Shane rubs a hand over his face.
Across the kitchen, Ilya finally finishes wiping up the last of the coffee and tosses the dish towel onto the counter. He straightens slowly, clearly uncertain what to do with himself, eyes immediately finding Darya again.
Flick away, then back. Away, then back. Like he's physically incapable of not looking.
Shane watches him hover for a second before Ilya drifts over to his side of the kitchen, close enough that their shoulders brush. A familiar comfort sought out on instinct.
Without thinking about it, Ilya leans down and presses a quick kiss to the side of Shane's head. His temple, his hair. A silent help me disguised as affection.
Shane hums, leaning into Ilya, reaching back automatically and giving his wrist a squeeze. A gesture meant to steady him, if only a little. Neither of them saying anything while Darya finishes her breakfast.
Shane notices her making a valiant effort to focus on the fruit and yogurt instead of the fact that Ilya is standing ten feet away looking like his entire world has been turned upside down. To her credit, she succeeds. Mostly.
Eventually she takes the last bite, sets her spoon down, and pushes the bowl away.
The movement seems to echo through the room, a signal that breakfast is over. The waiting is over.
Darya's fingers immediately find the envelope again.
Across the kitchen, Ilya visibly tenses. Shane catches his eye then pointedly jerks his chin toward the island.
Sit down.
Ilya blinks, absurdly grateful for the instruction. He obeys without argument, which alone tells Shane how rattled he is.
Ilya pulls out a stool and lowers himself onto it carefully. Not right beside Darya, but not far away either. Close enough to talk, but far enough not to crowd her. The choice is deliberate and careful.
Shane approves.
A moment later, he takes the stool on Darya's other side, creating a loose triangle.
Nobody trapped. Nobody cornered.
Sunlight streams across the island, highlighting the empty, forgotten breakfast dishes that would normally have Shane crawling out of his skin. For once, he doesn’t notice them. Doesn't care. They can wait.
Shane clears his throat. "Ok."
Darya halts her tracing of the envelope's worn edges and glances up at him. Across from her, Ilya sits rigidly on his stool, hands clasped so tightly together that his knuckles have gone white.
Shane looks between them, then settles his gaze on Darya. "I want to preface this by saying that nobody is getting abandoned today."
Something flickers across her face, gone almost before he can identify it.
"Nobody is getting interrogated," Shane continues. "And nobody is making any life-changing decisions."
Beside him, Ilya nods immediately. "Da."
Darya's eyes flick toward him.
Ilya swallows. "He's right." His voice is still rough around the edges, careful. Like every word requires conscious thought. "You just got here."
The statement hangs in the air, simple and obvious but important.
Darya looks down at the envelope again, her fingers curl around the corner.
Shane leans forward slightly. "What happens next,” he says gently. "We can figure that out later, ok?" Shane glances between them. "Today, we're just talking. So, let's try this again." He gestures toward the envelope. "You have pictures." Then points at Ilya. " And you probably have fourteen years' worth of questions.”
Ilya exhales shakily.
Shane offers Darya what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “So let’s just start at the beginning. Sound good?”