Archive of Our Own

I

February 2018 

“Hey.”

Shane's voice was quiet as they lined up at center ice for the opening faceoff of the third period.

Ilya swallowed hard, immediately regretting it. His stomach had been churning for most of the second period, a miserable combination of exhaustion, heat, and whatever bug he'd been insisting all day wasn't actually a bug. Every shift felt harder than the last. His head was pounding, his muscles ached, and every breath seemed to make the nausea sitting in his stomach rise a little higher.

“Are you okay?”

Ilya glanced up and found Shane watching him instead of the referee. Concern was written all over his face, obvious even beneath the visor.

“Fine,” Ilya lied.

The word barely left his mouth before another wave of nausea rolled through him. He pressed his lips together and swallowed hard, determined to keep everything exactly where it belonged.

Shane looked unconvinced.

“You look awful,” he said quietly. “Seriously, you should sit down.”

“I am not sitting down in the middle of a game.”

“You might not have a choice.”

Before Ilya could respond, the referee dropped the puck.

Shane won the draw cleanly and took off, carrying the puck into the offensive zone. Normally Ilya would've been right beside him, but his reaction was a fraction of a second too slow. It wasn't much, but at this level a fraction of a second was everything.

By the time he crossed the blue line, Shane had already slipped past a defenseman and fired the puck into the back of the net.

The arena exploded.

Fans leapt to their feet. The goal horn blared through the building. Shane disappeared beneath a pile of celebrating teammates along the boards while Ilya coasted toward them several strides behind.

He never made it.

Halfway there his stomach twisted violently.

He slowed immediately, bending forward as he pressed a gloved hand against his midsection. For a moment he thought he might be able to fight it off. He took a slow breath through his nose and started toward the bench instead.

The movement only made things worse.

A hot wave of nausea surged upward so quickly that panic shot through him. He ripped his mouthguard out of his mouth and barely managed to turn his head before vomiting onto the ice.

The goal horn had finally faded, leaving the arena in an almost eerie silence.

Somewhere behind him he heard several teammates yell his name.

The officials immediately waved for the trainers while Coach shouted toward the bench. Ilya vaguely registered skates cutting across the ice in his direction, but he couldn't focus on any of it. Humiliation burned through him as he straightened slowly, acutely aware that an entire arena had just watched him throw up on the ice. His stomach still churned unpleasantly, but that was nothing compared to the embarrassment currently threatening to kill him. He wished the ice would simply crack open and swallow him whole.

When he finally looked up, his gaze landed on Shane.

The celebration had dissolved almost immediately. His teammates were still gathered near the boards after the goal, but Shane wasn't paying attention to any of them. His eyes were locked on Ilya, concern obvious even from halfway across the rink. For a split second, Shane actually pushed off from the boards. One skate dug into the ice and his body shifted forward as though he intended to cross the rink entirely.

Then he stopped.

From the stands, nobody would have noticed. To everyone else it probably looked like nothing at all. But Ilya knew him too well. He recognized the exact moment Shane remembered where they were, remembered who was watching, remembered that whatever existed between them had to stay hidden.

His chest tightened unexpectedly.

Not because Shane hadn't come over.

Because he had tried to.

For that brief second, he'd forgotten they were supposed to be a secret.

A trainer finally reached him and grabbed his elbow. “Easy there.”

“I am fine,” Ilya muttered automatically.

The trainer snorted. “Sure. And I'm the starting goalie.”

Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped him before another wave of nausea rolled through his stomach.

The trainer guided him toward the bench while another skated out to deal with the mess he'd left behind. As they reached the tunnel, Ilya glanced back across the ice one last time and found Shane still watching him.

Their eyes met briefly.

Shane mouthed two words.

You okay?

The answer was no. He felt awful, his stomach was revolting, and he was going to spend the rest of his life remembering that he had thrown up on NHL ice in front of thousands of people.

But he nodded anyway.

He knew it didn't fool Shane for a second. 

The trainer kept a steady hand at Ilya’s elbow as they guided him through the tunnel, the sound of the arena swallowing them the moment the gate closed behind him. The roar of the crowd became distant almost immediately, replaced by the echo of their skates and the dull hum of the building infrastructure above them. Ilya focused on that instead of the way his stomach still felt like it was rolling over itself, slow and stubborn and unwilling to settle.

“Alright,” the trainer said, not rushing him but not slowing either. “Locker room. We’ll get you seated and check you over.”

Ilya nodded once, though he wasn’t sure the gesture meant anything. His legs felt unsteady now that he was off the ice, like the adrenaline that had been holding everything together had finally started to drain out of him all at once. He hated that. Hated how quickly his body had gone from something he could control to something he was just trying to keep up with.

They turned a corner and the locker room door came into view, slightly ajar, light spilling out into the corridor.

As they stepped inside, the noise shifted again—muffled voices, the clatter of equipment, the familiar chaos of a room that was usually his second home. Tonight it felt wrong. Too bright. Too loud. Too aware of him.

A couple of heads turned as they entered, but no one said anything. That was the other rule of rooms like this: you didn’t stare when someone came back early with a trainer.

The trainer steered him toward the medical area near the back—two treatment tables, a cart of supplies, a whiteboard with practice notes half-erased. Ilya sat when he was told to, more from instinct than agreement, his gloves coming off slowly as he tried to steady his breathing.

“Okay,” the trainer said, crouching slightly so he was at eye level. “Talk to me. Any dizziness right now? Headache? Anything besides the stomach?”

Ilya shook his head. “Just… sick.”

“Any hits tonight? Even something you brushed off?”

“No.”

The trainer studied him for a second, not quite satisfied, but not alarmed either. He reached for a small penlight anyway, flashing it quickly near Ilya’s eyes, then checking his skin tone, then his pulse at the wrist.

“Alright,” he said after a beat. “This is most likely a stomach bug. Flu, something like that. You’ve probably had it building for a bit and it just hit full force.”

Ilya exhaled through his nose, relief and embarrassment mixing in a way that made his chest feel tight. “I told you.”

“Yeah,” the trainer said dryly. “And you also just threw up on NHL ice, so forgive me if I’m not taking your word as final diagnosis.”

Despite himself, Ilya let out a short, tired breath that almost counted as a laugh.

The trainer straightened. “You’re done for the night. Hydrate, rest. We’ll keep an eye on you here for a bit, then you’re heading home.”

“I can drive—”

“No,” the trainer cut in immediately, firm but not unkind. “And before you argue, tomorrow you’re getting checked by the team doctor. I don’t care if you feel better. We don’t mess around with mid-game vomiting.”

Ilya leaned back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a moment as the words settled. His body felt heavy in a way that had nothing to do with equipment now.

After nearly an hour and a half lying on the treatment table, most of which Ilya was fairly sure he’d spent asleep, he was finally cleared to leave. The trainers had checked him over again, made him drink more fluids than he thought was medically reasonable, and then—without much ceremony—informed him that he was not, under any circumstances, allowed to drive himself home.

Which was how he ended up being handed off to Marleau like a problem someone else needed to deal with.

“Can’t believe you fucking vomited all over the ice, man,” Marley laughed as Ilya carefully lowered himself into the passenger seat, still moving a little slower than usual. There was no malice in it, just the kind of locker room amusement that came from something gross happening to someone else instead of you.

Ilya shot him a tired glare as he pulled the seatbelt across his chest. “You want me to do it all over your car instead?”

“Fuck. Don’t you dare,” Marleau said immediately, pointing at him like that was a genuine threat, before shaking his head and starting the ignition. “Just try to keep your internal organs to yourself for the next twenty minutes, yeah?”

Thankfully, Ilya lived close enough to the arena that the drive wasn’t long. Still, it felt longer than it should have, his head leaning back against the seat more than once as exhaustion and lingering nausea pulled at him in waves. At one point he was pretty sure he actually drifted off, jolting awake only when the car slowed near his house. It was enough to convince him that this wasn’t just embarrassment or adrenaline crash—he was genuinely sick, worse than he’d been in a while.

“Hey,” Marleau said as he parked and reached over, grabbing his arm lightly before he could get out. His tone had shifted slightly, the humor easing out of it. “You good?”

Ilya nodded carefully, even though the motion felt heavier than it should have. “I will be fine. Just need to sleep.”

“Okay,” Marleau replied, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced. He hesitated for a second like he wanted to say more, then just gave a small nod instead. “If I don’t hear from you by noon tomorrow, I’m assuming you’re dead and sending a search party.”

“Noted,” Ilya muttered, pushing the door open and stepping out into the cold air.

He moved slowly up the walkway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets more for balance than warmth, trying not to think too much about how heavy his body felt or how quickly the day had gone from normal to this.

And then, almost unfairly, the thought hit him properly.

He hadn’t seen Shane since Christmas because of their insane schedules, constant travel, games overlapping in opposite cities, missed calls that turned into “I’ll text you later” that turned into nothing. And now, of all nights, after this, he’d have to wait even longer.

He let out a quiet breath as he reached the door and pushed inside.

He wasn’t expecting anyone to be there.

But Shane was.

He was already standing up from the couch the second Ilya stepped in, like he’d been waiting for the exact moment the door opened. The concern on his face was immediate, but there was something careful in the way he moved toward him, like he was trying to read Ilya before he got too close.

“Hey,” Shane said softly, slipping an arm around him as soon as he reached him. Ilya could feel how deliberate it was—gentle, steady, like he was trying not to overwhelm him. “How are you feeling?”

Ilya blinked at him, exhaustion making it hard to process anything except the fact that Shane was here. “What are you doing here?”

Shane frowned slightly, like the question itself didn’t make sense. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“I puked on the ice,” Ilya reminded him flatly, as if that should be enough to disqualify him from company for the next several days. “I am not very good company right now.”

“That’s okay,” Shane said simply, like it wasn’t even a consideration.

Ilya shifted slightly as Shane guided him toward the stairs, still half expecting him to change his mind at any second. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

Shane let out a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head as if the idea was ridiculous. “We had sex this morning,” he reminded him, voice low and amused. “I’m gonna get sick whether I’m here or not.”

That earned him a look from Ilya—tired, unimpressed, but a little less tense than before.

Still, Shane didn’t let go of him. Not even for a second.

Shane helped him up the stairs slowly, one hand steady at his back the entire time as if he didn’t fully trust Ilya’s balance anymore. Ilya hated that he needed it, hated the way each step felt heavier than it should have, like his body was lagging behind his intentions. He tried once to shrug him off, to insist he could manage the stairs on his own, but the protest came out weaker than he meant it to and Shane didn’t even acknowledge it—just adjusted his grip slightly and kept him moving upward like it was already decided.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Ilya was more relieved than he wanted to admit. The room was dimmer than the rest of the house, the familiar shape of it grounding him in a way the rest of the night hadn’t managed to. Shane guided him toward the bed without hesitation, and Ilya allowed himself to sit down more heavily than intended, immediately aware of how close he was to simply collapsing into it fully dressed.

“Let’s get you changed,” Shane said gently, already moving before Ilya could properly process the words.

“I can—” Ilya started, but it didn’t go anywhere. His voice trailed off as Shane carefully tugged the Raiders hoodie up and over his head, the sudden absence of fabric making him shiver harder than he expected. The air in the room felt colder against his skin than it should have, or maybe that was just him—his body unable to regulate anything properly anymore.

“Sorry,” Shane murmured immediately, pausing like he’d done something wrong, though his hands stayed steady as he continued helping him out of his clothes.

“It’s fine,” Ilya said automatically, though his teeth clicked slightly together as another wave of chills rolled through him.

Shane didn’t rush. He moved with a careful kind of focus as he helped him into sleep clothes, like he was paying attention to every small reaction Ilya gave without making a show of it. It was only when Ilya sat there, suddenly noticing how unsteady his own breathing felt and how warm his skin seemed underneath the cold shivers, that he realized he probably had a fever after all.

That thought didn’t help anything.

“Okay,” Shane said quietly once he was finished, stepping back just enough to look at him properly. “Lay down.”

Ilya hesitated for half a second, stubbornness flickering uselessly in the back of his mind, before he gave in and lowered himself onto the bed. The mattress felt almost too soft under him, swallowing him in a way that made it very clear how exhausted he actually was. He pulled the blankets up without thinking, curling into them instinctively like his body had already decided this was where he was staying for the foreseeable future.

“I’m gonna get you some water and a trash can,” Shane added, already turning toward the door.

“I don’t need—” Ilya started, but the words barely made it past him before Shane was gone, slipping out of the room with the same quiet decisiveness he’d had all night.

The protest died in the empty space he left behind.

Ilya stared at the door for a moment longer than he meant to, the silence settling in around him in a way that suddenly felt too large. He opened his mouth again, quieter this time, like the name might still reach him.

“Shane…”

But there was no answer yet, only the sound of footsteps moving away down the hall.

Shane didn’t take long.

Ilya had barely managed to sink fully into the mattress when he heard footsteps returning up the hallway, heavier this time, purposeful. The door opened a moment later and Shane stepped back inside carrying what looked like an entire survival kit—two bottles of water tucked under one arm, a small trash can in the other, and a digital thermometer already out of its case like he’d been preparing it on the walk back.

There was also a sleeve of saltines balanced awkwardly against his wrist.

“I did not know you were planning to nurse me back to health for a week,” Ilya muttered, though his voice lacked any real strength behind it.

Shane gave him a quick look. “If it takes a week, then yes.”

That was said so matter-of-factly that Ilya didn’t even have a reply ready before Shane set everything down on the nightstand. He handed him the water first, then sat on the edge of the bed like he intended to stay there whether Ilya approved of it or not.

“Okay,” Shane said quietly, already switching into the same calm, focused tone he used when something on the ice wasn’t right. “I’m going to take your temperature.”

“I don’t need—”

“You’re shaking,” Shane cut in gently, not accusing, just observing.

Ilya hated that he didn’t have a good argument for it.

The thermometer beeped a moment later, and Shane’s expression shifted almost immediately when he read the number. He didn’t overreact, but something in his face tightened just slightly, the way it did when he was trying not to show concern too openly.

“Thirty-eight point nine,” he said.

“I am fine,” Ilya insisted weakly, even as the words came out slower than he meant them to. “It is just flu.”

“Yeah,” Shane replied, already setting the thermometer aside, “and flu still sucks.”

He picked up the sleeve of saltines next, opening it like it was part of a routine he’d done a hundred times before. “Try something small. Just a couple—”

The moment he held them closer, Ilya’s stomach turned sharply. It wasn’t even a dramatic reaction, just an immediate tightening that made his face shift before he could stop it.

Shane noticed instantly.

“Okay,” he said, pulling them back without hesitation. “Never mind.”

He stood and crossed the room in two steps, opening the drawer of the nightstand and shoving the saltines inside like they had personally offended him. “We’ll revisit those later.”

Ilya let out a weak breath that might have been a laugh if he had the energy for it. The movement, the certainty in Shane’s voice, the way he was just… handling everything—it made something uncomfortable twist in his chest.

“I do not need you to do this,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “You should go back. To hotel. To teammates.”

Shane looked at him like he’d just said something mildly ridiculous.

“Ilya.”

“I am serious,” Ilya pushed, though it came out softer than he intended. “I am sick. Not dying. You do not need to stay.”

Shane didn’t even hesitate. He reached out and adjusted the blanket slightly over Ilya’s shoulders, like the argument itself wasn’t changing anything.

“I’m staying.”

“That is not—”

“I’m staying,” Shane repeated, firmer this time, but still calm. Not arguing. Deciding.

Ilya stared at him for a second longer, frustration flickering weakly before it ran straight into exhaustion and dissolved. His body felt too heavy to keep pushing back, too warm and too tired and too overwhelmed by the simple fact that Shane was still here and not leaving.

He exhaled slowly, the fight leaving him all at once.

“Stubborn,” he muttered.

Shane’s mouth twitched slightly. “You first.”

That got nothing but a faint huff of air in response. Ilya shifted under the blankets, sinking deeper into them without meaning to. The room felt warmer now, or maybe that was just Shane being there, steady and unmoving at the edge of the bed like he had nowhere else to be.

Within minutes, his eyes started to slip shut again.

The last thing he registered was Shane quietly unscrewing a bottle of water and setting it within reach.

“I’m right here,” Shane said softly. "I love you."

And Ilya, already halfway gone, didn’t argue this time.

___

Ilya woke sometime in the early morning with the unpleasant, hollow awareness that something was wrong before he was even fully conscious.

His stomach cramped again as he shifted, and it took him a second to remember where he was, why the room was dark in that familiar way, and why his body felt like it had been completely drained overnight. The nausea came back in waves—less violent now, but sharper in its emptiness—and he pushed himself up just in time to make it to the bathroom.

The next time was worse.

By the third time, there was nothing left but bile and dry heaving that left his throat burning and his hands shaking against the edge of the sink. He hated it most in those moments—the quiet aftermath, the way his body kept insisting something was there when there wasn’t, the way exhaustion settled heavier each time he crawled back into bed.

Each time he returned, Shane was there.

Or not there, depending on how long it took Ilya to blink awake again.

He wasn’t sure anymore.

When he finally surfaced into real morning light, it was to an unfamiliar absence beside him.

The bed was still warm where Shane had been, but the space itself was empty.

Ilya’s stomach tightened immediately, not with nausea this time but with something sharper, more immediate.

Shane was gone.

The thought came fast, irrational and loud in the quiet room. He pushed himself upright too quickly, dizziness following immediately after, and listened instinctively for the bathroom.

Nothing.

No water running. No movement. No sound at all.

His mind filled in the worst possibility before he could stop it.

You got him sick.

Of course he did.

Ilya swung his legs over the side of the bed, already bracing himself for the guilt of it, for the idea of Shane doubled over somewhere in the hallway because he had insisted on staying—

The bedroom door opened.

Shane stepped in like it was the most normal thing in the world, carrying a small tray with two bottles of water, electrolyte packets already mixed in one cup, and a shallow bowl of chicken broth carefully balanced in one hand.

He stopped when he saw Ilya sitting up.

“You’re awake,” Shane said softly, like it mattered.

Ilya stared at him for a second too long, the tension in his chest refusing to settle. “Where were you?”

“Kitchen,” Shane answered simply, setting the tray down on the nightstand. “You need fluids.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked immediately to the broth, then away. His stomach reacted before his brain could even form words.

“No.”

Shane paused. “No?”

“I am fine,” Ilya said automatically, though his voice came out rougher than he meant it to. “I can do water.”

“That’s a start,” Shane allowed, sliding the electrolyte drink closer instead.

Ilya took it slowly, forcing himself to sip despite the lingering taste of last night still clinging to everything. It stayed down, which felt like a small victory he didn’t want to acknowledge too loudly.

Only when he finished did he notice Shane watching him like he was tracking every reaction.

Ilya followed his gaze to the clock.

His stomach dropped slightly.

“You are going to miss your flight,” he said immediately, sharper now, urgency cutting through the fog. “You should leave. If you leave now you will still make it.”

Shane leaned back against the dresser like the statement didn’t matter at all.

“I told coach I’m not coming in today.”

Ilya blinked at him. “You what?”

“I said I’m sick,” Shane repeated calmly. “And I’m not practicing.”

“That is not—” Ilya started, pushing himself up a little more, frustration flickering through exhaustion. “You cannot just stay here because I am sick.”

Shane didn’t move.

“I can,” he said simply.

Ilya stared at him, disbelief and something softer underneath it colliding in a way that made his chest feel tight.

“You have flight,” he tried again, weaker this time.

“I’m not going.”

A pause.

“I’m staying until your fever breaks,” Shane added, quieter now, “or until you can keep food down.”

Ilya shook his head slightly. “This is not necessary.”

Shane stepped closer then, not forceful, just certain in a way that left no space for negotiation. His voice dropped, gentler than everything else.

“I love you,” he said. “Please let me help you.”

Ilya’s eyes immediately filled with tears.

It was ridiculous. He was twenty-seven years old, a professional hockey player who had played through broken fingers, separated shoulders, and enough bruises to make most people wince. He was sick. That was all. Sick, exhausted, running on almost no sleep, and operating on whatever stubbornness had carried him through the last twenty-four hours. None of those things explained why he suddenly felt like crying.

Shane noticed immediately. Of course he did.

The concern on his face softened into something gentler as he crossed the remaining distance between them and sat down on the edge of the bed. One hand came up to cup Ilya’s cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against his skin as he searched his face.

“Hey,” Shane said quietly. “What’s going on?”

Ilya shook his head, unable to meet his eyes. His throat felt tight. His chest felt tight. Everything felt tight. The worst part was that he didn't entirely understand why.

All Shane had done was offer to help.

Please let me help you.

The words echoed through his mind, catching on something old and painful before he could stop them. A memory surfaced without warning.

He was ten years old, curled beneath a mountain of blankets and shivering so hard his teeth hurt. His throat burned every time he swallowed and his head felt stuffed with cotton. He remembered staring at the clock beside his bed and wondering if he had enough energy to sit up. His papa had already packed his hockey bag and left it by the door.

Practice started in an hour.

The fever didn't matter. The coughing didn't matter. The fact that he could barely keep his eyes open didn't matter. Real players practiced. Real players pushed through. Real men didn't stay home because of something as insignificant as a cold.

Even now, nearly two decades later, Ilya could still hear the argument that followed. His mama telling his father that he was sick. His father insisting he was soft. The tension rising with every word until it settled over the entire apartment like a storm cloud. He remembered lying there wishing she would stop arguing for him—not because he didn't want her to, but because he was afraid of what would happen when she did. He'd been too tired to get out of bed and too young to protect her from any of it.

The memory faded as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind the same helpless feeling it always carried with it. By the time Ilya returned to the present, his vision had gone blurry.

“Hey.” Shane's voice was impossibly gentle.

A thumb brushed across his cheek and only then did Ilya realize a tear had escaped.

“Sorry,” he muttered automatically.

Shane frowned. “For what?”

“I don't know.”

The answer sounded as weak as it felt.

Shane's expression softened even further. Without asking another question, he shifted closer and pulled Ilya into his arms. The movement was so natural that it caught him off guard. There were no demands for an explanation, no expectation that he justify whatever was happening. Shane simply held him, one hand rubbing slowly up and down his back as though it were the easiest thing in the world.

“You don't have anything to be sorry for,” he said quietly.

Ilya let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. For a moment he allowed himself to lean into the embrace, focusing on the steady rise and fall of Shane’s breathing and the warmth of his body pressed against his side. It felt safe in a way he wasn't entirely sure he knew how to handle.

“I think I just feel awful,” he said after a while, attempting a weak shrug. “Probably fever.”

“Maybe,” Shane agreed.

The response was careful enough that Ilya knew he wasn't entirely convinced, but thankfully he didn't press. Instead he tightened his arms slightly and rested his cheek against the top of Ilya’s head. The knot in Ilya's chest slowly began to loosen as they sat there together in the quiet.

Then his stomach rolled.

The nausea hit hard and fast, cutting through everything else. His entire body tensed.

Shane felt it immediately.

“Oh no.”

Ilya was already moving.

He lurched out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom with one hand clamped over his mouth, barely registering Shane pushing himself off the mattress and hurrying after him.

___

The next time Ilya woke up, he felt marginally more human.

Not good. Definitely not good. But the pounding headache had dulled to a manageable ache, and when he opened his eyes the room didn't immediately spin around him.

He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling as he took stock of himself. His stomach still felt fragile, hollow in an unpleasant way after everything it had been through, but the constant nausea that had haunted him for nearly twenty-four hours seemed to have finally retreated.

Carefully, he pushed himself upright.

His muscles protested immediately. Every part of him felt weak, like the illness had drained every ounce of energy from his body and forgotten to give it back. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, waiting for the familiar wave of nausea to crash into him.

It never came.

The relief was immediate.

Slowly, he wiped a hand over his face and glanced toward the other side of the bed.

Empty.

Good, he thought automatically.

Shane had already sacrificed enough. He'd missed practice, missed his flight, spent the last day hovering over him while he alternated between sleeping and throwing up. The last thing Ilya wanted was to keep dragging him down with whatever miserable virus had decided to take up residence in his body.

Even so, the sight of the empty mattress left behind a strange ache he chose not to examine too closely.

He forced himself out of bed and shuffled toward the ensuite.

The shower took longer than necessary. Mostly because he spent half of it simply standing beneath the hot water with his eyes closed, letting it soak into sore muscles and ease some of the lingering chills that still seemed determined to cling to him. By the time he finished, brushed his teeth, and pulled on clean clothes, he didn't necessarily feel better.

But he felt less dead.

Which seemed like progress.

The biggest surprise came when his stomach growled.

Ilya froze.

Hungry.

Not nauseated. Not miserable. Actually hungry.

The sensation was so unexpected that he almost laughed.

Taking that as a good sign, he made his way downstairs, one careful step at a time.

The smell hit him before he reached the kitchen.

Something warm and savory.

Something familiar.

He rounded the corner and immediately stopped.

Shane was standing at the island wearing a t-shirt that looked suspiciously wrinkled from being slept in, his hair sticking up in approximately six different directions. An iPad was propped against a bag of potatoes, displaying what appeared to be a recipe, while dishes covered nearly every available surface in the kitchen.

There were bowls in the sink.

A cutting board covered in vegetable scraps.

Several measuring spoons.

A saucepan that looked like it had already been abandoned.

It appeared as though Shane had somehow managed to use every dish in the house.

Ilya couldn't help smiling.

He loved every version of Shane. The confident version that charmed reporters. The competitive version that drove coaches insane. The quiet version that only existed when they were alone together.

But there was something especially endearing about slightly frazzled Shane.

The version that got so focused on doing something right that he created absolute chaos in the process.

Shane looked up from the pot he was stirring and immediately brightened. "You're up."

"I'm up," Ilya agreed as he approached the island. His gaze swept across the disaster zone that had once been his kitchen. "What the hell are you doing?"

Shane glanced down at the pot. "Making Ukha."

He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Like NHL players regularly spent their off days researching traditional Russian soup recipes.

"How are you feeling?"

For a moment, Ilya could only stare at him.

Ukha.

The last time he'd eaten it had been shortly before his mama died.

After that, nobody had made it.

He certainly hadn't. His cooking abilities were questionable at best, and soup had always seemed like far too much effort for something he could buy at a store.

But standing there now, looking at Shane's recipe-covered iPad and the evidence of what had clearly been several hours of trial and error, Ilya suddenly found himself struggling to answer.

"Um..." he said intelligently.

His throat felt suspiciously tight again.

"I feel better."

Shane's shoulders visibly relaxed.

"Yeah?"

"A little better," Ilya admitted.

A smile spread across Shane's face. "Good." Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "Why are you standing?"

Ilya blinked. "What?"

“You should be sitting.”

“I am fine.”

“Seriously,” Shane said, laughing softly as he pointed toward the living room. There was a fondness in his expression that made Ilya's chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with being sick. “Go lay down. I'll bring you some soup when it's ready.”

Ilya opened his mouth to argue automatically before deciding it wasn't worth the effort. Besides, Shane had already won. He'd spent the last day taking care of him despite every attempt Ilya had made to convince him otherwise. He'd messed up his carefully curated schedule and apparently spent most of the afternoon destroying the kitchen in pursuit of a soup recipe he'd probably never even heard of before today.

The thought made something warm settle in Ilya's chest.

He didn't deserve Shane.

The realization wasn't new. It never was.

Still, it hit him particularly hard as he made his way toward the couch and lowered himself carefully onto the cushions. The sofa was large enough that he could stretch out completely, and within seconds he had a blanket pulled over himself and the television playing quietly in the background.

He flipped through channels absentmindedly until an old episode of Friends appeared on the screen and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He would never admit it to anyone, but when he'd first moved to America he'd watched an embarrassing amount of Friends. At first it had been because the episodes were simple enough to help him learn English. Somewhere along the way it had become something else—a comfort show he returned to whenever he was homesick, stressed, or simply too tired to think.

Today definitely qualified.

The familiar voices blurred together as exhaustion continued tugging at him. His eyes were beginning to drift closed when movement in the doorway caught his attention.

Shane appeared carrying a wooden tray.

His hair was somehow even messier than before, as though he'd spent the last hour running his hands through it while worrying over the stove. A bowl of soup sat in the center of the tray beside one of Ilya's Raiders water bottles and a small stack of napkins. The sight alone made Ilya's heart do something embarrassing.

Shane set the tray carefully on the coffee table before helping him sit up.

“Easy,” he murmured.

“I am not ninety.”

“Debatable.”

Ilya rolled his eyes, earning himself a grin before Shane's attention immediately shifted back to the bowl. The confidence disappeared almost instantly.

“I hope it's okay,” he said, suddenly sounding much less certain of himself. “I looked up a bunch of recipes and they all said different things. One website said fish stock, another said vegetable stock, and then I couldn't find half the ingredients one recipe wanted so I kind of improvised.”

Ilya reached for the spoon.

“And I won't be offended if it's terrible,” Shane continued quickly. “I can go to the store. Or order something. Or maybe soup isn't what you want at all and—”

“Can I try it first, Hollander, before you start making alternative dinner plans?”

Shane immediately turned pink.

“Right.”

Ilya bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. God, he loved this man.

His attention shifted to the bowl in his hands. The soup certainly wasn't perfect. The vegetables weren't cut evenly, the broth was slightly cloudier than he remembered, and there was probably too much dill floating on top.

But the smell alone was enough to transport him years backward.

For a moment he was standing in his mama's kitchen again, watching her move around the stove while she swatted his hands away from ingredients she claimed weren't ready yet. The memory arrived so suddenly that it stole the breath from his lungs.

When he looked up again, Shane was watching him carefully.

Not pushing.

Not asking.

Just waiting.

Grateful for that, Ilya dipped the spoon into the broth and took a careful sip.

The room seemed to go completely silent.

He swallowed.

Then took another spoonful.

And another.

By the fourth bite, Shane looked like he was physically restraining himself from asking. “Well?”

Ilya let the suspense drag out for another second before shaking his head. “It is terrible.”

The devastation on Shane's face was immediate.

Then Ilya smiled. “I'm kidding.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane groaned, pressing a hand dramatically against his chest.

A laugh escaped Ilya before he could stop it, the sound rusty from disuse.

“It is actually very good,” he admitted, his voice softening. “Not exactly like my mama's, but honestly? I think she would have liked it.”

The words settled over the room.

For a moment Shane just stared at him, and something in his expression softened so completely that Ilya suddenly found himself looking very intently at his soup instead.

Because if he looked at Shane any longer, he might do something embarrassing.

Like cry.

Again.

Instead, he took another bite.

The soup was warm. His stomach wasn't protesting. Shane was beside him.

And for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, everything felt okay.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly.

Ilya managed nearly the entire bowl of soup, much to Shane's obvious satisfaction. Every few minutes he would ask how his stomach felt, and every time Ilya rolled his eyes before admitting it still seemed fine.

By the second episode of Friends, Shane had somehow convinced him to drink another bottle of water and half of an electrolyte drink.

By the third, Ilya had stopped pretending he wasn't tired.

He had gradually sunk lower into the couch cushions until his shoulder was pressed against Shane's side. At some point Shane had stretched an arm along the back of the couch behind him. At some point after that, Ilya had stopped caring about maintaining personal space and simply leaned into him.

The television continued playing in the background.

Neither of them were really watching anymore.

Ilya's eyes drifted shut.

A warm hand settled against his forehead.

He felt Shane pause.

Then the hand returned a second time, lingering slightly longer.

"Huh."

Ilya opened one eye. "What?"

Shane smiled. "It feels like your fever might be gone."

For a moment neither of them said anything.

The words shouldn't have mattered as much as they did. It was just a fever. Just a virus. In a few days he'd probably be completely back to normal.

But somehow the simple statement felt significant.

Maybe because Shane had stayed.

Maybe because he had meant it.

Maybe because for the first time in longer than Ilya cared to think about, he had let someone take care of him and nothing terrible had happened afterward.

Shane brushed his fingers lightly through his hair.

"Told you I'd stay."

Something in Ilya's chest tightened.

He turned his head slightly, pressing his face into Shane's shoulder before the other man could see the expression that crossed it.

"Yeah," he murmured.

A quiet laugh rumbled through Shane's chest.

"You getting emotional again, Rozanov?"

"No."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I am sick."

"Convenient excuse."

Ilya huffed softly.

The hand in his hair continued moving.

The television played on.

Outside, the sun had begun to sink toward the horizon, painting the living room gold.

For the first time all weekend, Ilya felt completely at peace.

A few minutes later, he was asleep.

And this time, when he woke up, he would finally be better.

*** *** ***

II 

March 2023

Ilya could feel it coming long before he was willing to admit it.

It started with small things.

Getting out of bed took a little longer than usual. Meals became something he ate because he knew he was supposed to, not because he was hungry. Text messages went unanswered. He caught himself staring blankly into space more often, losing entire stretches of time without realizing it. Even simple decisions—what to wear, what to make for dinner, whether to leave the house—felt strangely exhausting.

None of it was alarming on its own.

That was the problem.

Each change was small enough to explain away. He was tired. The road trip had been long. The season was exhausting. Everyone had weeks where they felt off.

At least, that was what he told himself.

But by the time Friday arrived, even opening his eyes felt like work.

The alarm on his phone had already gone off twice.

Ilya knew he should move.

Practice started in less than two hours. He needed to shower, eat something, drive to the rink.

Instead, he lay perfectly still beneath the blankets, staring at the dim light filtering through the curtains.

His body wasn’t sore.

He wasn’t sick.

Nothing hurt.

And somehow that made it worse.

Because there was no reason for this.

No injury. No flu. No explanation he could point to and fix.

Just a crushing heaviness that seemed to settle deeper into his chest every time he tried to convince himself to get up.

Five more minutes, he thought.

Five more minutes and then I’ll move.

The thought was familiar.

It was also a lie.

He had been telling himself the same thing for nearly an hour.

“Hey.”

Shane’s voice drifted through the room as the bedroom door opened.

Even through the haze weighing down every part of him, Ilya registered the familiar sound of footsteps crossing the room. A moment later something gently clicked against the nightstand beside him.

Water.

Shane was always leaving water beside the bed these days.

Ilya didn’t have the energy to open his eyes, but he managed to drag one hand out from beneath the blankets.

The mattress dipped immediately.

Shane took his hand without hesitation, threading their fingers together before bringing Ilya’s knuckles to his lips. The kiss lingered for a second longer than usual.

“I called Coach,” Shane said quietly. His thumb brushed back and forth across the side of Ilya’s hand in a slow, absent rhythm. “Told him you weren’t feeling well today.”

A lump formed instantly in Ilya’s throat.

Another practice missed.

Another day spent in bed.

Another day of watching the world continue without him while he remained trapped beneath a heaviness he couldn’t explain.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The words came automatically. He wasn’t even entirely sure what he was apologizing for anymore.

For missing practice.

For worrying Shane.

For turning into someone he barely recognized.

The mattress shifted slightly.

“Hey,” Shane said softly. “No one is upset with you.”

Ilya kept his eyes closed.

“We’re just worried.”

The gentleness in Shane's voice only made his chest ache more.

Because Shane was worried. Ilya could hear it every time his husband asked if he'd eaten. Every time he checked to make sure he'd gotten out of bed. Every time he thought Ilya wasn't looking and let the concern slip across his face. Shane tried to hide it, but he'd never been very good at hiding things from Ilya.

Maybe that was what hurt the most.

Not the sadness itself. Not the exhaustion. Not even the way his own mind seemed determined to convince him that nothing would ever feel normal again.

It was knowing that Shane was carrying this too. Every day Ilya disappeared a little further into himself, Shane was left standing on the outside, watching and worrying, trying to figure out how to reach someone who barely knew how to reach himself.

His gaze drifted toward the ceiling.

He hadn't told Shane much about the worst parts. Not really. There were pieces of that chapter of his life that still felt impossible to say out loud, even after all these years.

But Shane knew enough.

He knew about the depression that had followed Ilya's mother for years. He knew how it had slowly hollowed her out until she barely resembled the woman she'd once been. He knew how it had ended.

And God, Ilya hated knowing that information existed somewhere in the back of Shane's mind.

Not because Shane had ever used it against him. Not because he'd ever looked at him differently or treated him like he was fragile. But because Ilya knew his husband. He knew the way Shane loved. Once Shane cared about someone, he carried their pain as though it belonged to him too.

There had been moments over the past few weeks when Ilya had caught Shane watching him from across the room. Moments when Shane thought he wasn't paying attention and worry flickered across his face before he carefully tucked it away behind a reassuring smile. He was trying so hard to be steady, so hard not to let Ilya see how frightened he really was.

And that hurt more than it should have.

Because Shane shouldn't have to be scared.

Not because of him.

“I don't understand,” he admitted finally, his voice rough.

The words hung in the quiet room as he slowly opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

“I should be happy.” Beside him, Shane's grip on his hand tightened slightly. “We're married. We're finally together. We play for the same team.” His throat tightened around the next words. “This is everything I wanted.”

The confession felt embarrassingly small compared to the weight sitting in his chest.

For years, this had been the dream. Not just loving Shane, but keeping him. Building a life with him. Waking up beside him every morning without having to hide what they were to each other.

He had spent so many years convinced he would never have this. Convinced that wanting it was dangerous. Convinced that happiness like this belonged to other people.

And now he did have it.

He had Shane. He had their home. He had the life he'd spent years imagining.

So why did everything still feel so heavy?

Ilya blinked hard against the sting gathering behind his eyes.

"So why am I still so sad?"

The question lingered between them, unanswered.

Part of him already knew what his papa would have said. The thought surfaced before he could stop it.

Weak.

The word settled heavily in his chest, carrying nearly two decades of shame behind it. Ilya closed his eyes, and for a moment the bedroom faded away.

He was twelve years old again, standing beside his mother’s grave in a suit that felt too tight across his shoulders. The day had been cold and gray, the kind of bitter Russian winter that settled into your bones and refused to leave. People moved around him in dark clothing, speaking in hushed voices and offering condolences that barely registered. They touched his shoulder, squeezed his hand, told him how sorry they were. None of it mattered. None of it changed the fact that his mama was gone.

He remembered trying so hard to hold himself together. His father had been standing beside him, stiff and unreadable, and even then Ilya had known what was expected of him. He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to stand quietly and accept what had happened. He was supposed to endure it.

For most of the service, he managed.

Then someone mentioned her smile.

The memory hit him with the same force it always did. He could still remember the way she used to laugh while helping him with homework, the way she sang softly while cooking dinner, the way she kissed the top of his head before practices when she thought he was too old to want it anymore.

The tears came before he could stop them.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough that he had lowered his head and swiped at his face, hoping nobody would notice.

His papa noticed immediately.

A hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed hard enough to make him freeze.

“Ostanavlivat'sya.”

Stop

The command had been quiet, almost impossible for anyone else to hear over the funeral service.

Ilya had looked up automatically.

His father’s expression hadn’t changed.

“Vse smotryat na tebya.”

Everyone is looking at you.

The shame arrived instantly, hot and overwhelming.

“Teper' ty muzhchina. Nastoyashchiye muzhchiny tak sebya ne vedut.”

You are a man now. Real men do not behave like this.

Even now, years later, Ilya could remember how desperately he had wanted his father’s approval. How badly he had wanted to be told he was handling everything correctly. Instead, all he felt was embarrassment for something that should never have been embarrassing in the first place.

His father’s grip tightened slightly before he spoke again.

“Svoi chuvstva ty perezhivayesh' nayedine s soboy. A ne na glazakh u vsego mira.”

You have your feelings in private. Not in front of the world.

Then he released him and turned his attention back toward the service as though the conversation was over.

And because Ilya was twelve years old, grieving his mother, and terrified of disappointing the only parent he had left, he listened.

He swallowed the tears.

Lifted his head.

And spent the rest of the funeral pretending he was okay.

The memory faded, but the lesson remained.

Feelings were private.

Pain was private.

Struggle was private.

You dealt with it yourself, and you certainly didn’t burden other people with it.

No wonder he was so bad at letting Shane help.

Ilya sniffled quietly and immediately pressed his face deeper into the pillow, hoping Shane hadn't heard.

The effort was pointless. Shane always heard.

Still, he pulled the blanket up over his head until the world disappeared beneath the duvet. It was childish, he knew, but he couldn't bear the thought of Shane looking at him right now. He didn't want him to see how bad it had gotten. Didn't want him to see the tears gathering in his eyes or the way he seemed incapable of doing something as simple as getting out of bed.

The worst part wasn't even the sadness. It was the guilt. The certainty that Shane deserved better than this. Better than a husband who couldn't seem to appreciate the life they'd built together. Better than someone who spent entire mornings hiding beneath blankets because existing felt exhausting.

“You should go,” Ilya said quietly, his voice muffled by the duvet.

A pause followed before Shane asked, “What?”

Even without looking, Ilya could picture the little crinkle that appeared between Shane's eyebrows whenever he was confused.

“To practice,” he clarified. “You will be late if you don't leave now.”

The mattress shifted slightly. “I told Coach I was staying home.”

“No.” The word came out sharper than he intended.

“Ilya—”

“No,” he repeated, curling further beneath the blankets. “I do not want to be a burden.”

The silence that followed made his chest ache. When Shane finally spoke, his voice was impossibly gentle.

“You aren't a burden, baby.”

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut. Normally that word made him smile. Today it just made him feel worse.

“Please,” he whispered.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Ilya could feel Shane sitting beside him, waiting and thinking. Part of him wanted Shane to ignore him completely, to stay anyway and make the decision for him. Another part desperately needed him to leave. Needed a few hours without worrying about someone watching him, worrying about him, trying to fix something neither of them understood.

“I'll be okay,” he said eventually, though the words felt hollow. “Go to practice.”

“Are you sure?”

The hesitation in Shane's voice nearly broke him.

“Yes.” His throat tightened. “We both don't need to miss practice because I can't get it together.”

The words hung between them and immediately Ilya regretted saying them.

A moment later, the mattress dipped again and Shane leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the top of his head through the blanket.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

Ilya swallowed hard.

“I'll keep my phone with me all day. If you need anything, anything at all, you call me. Okay?”

His voice caught slightly on the last word, like he was trying very hard not to let his worry show.

Ilya nodded against the pillow. “Da.”

It still took several minutes for Shane to leave. Ilya listened to him move around the room, gathering his things more slowly than usual. Then there were footsteps, a brief pause in the doorway, and finally the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut.

A few seconds later, Anya padded into the room. The dog jumped onto the bed without invitation and immediately curled up against Shane's side of the mattress, as though she had already decided somebody needed looking after.

Slowly, Ilya pulled the blanket back down and buried one hand in her fur.

Then he listened.

The front door opened and closed. A car engine started outside. A few moments later, tires crunched over the driveway as Shane pulled away.

The house fell silent.

And just like that, the last of Ilya's defenses disappeared.

A shaky breath escaped him before he could stop it, followed by another. The tears came quietly—not the kind of crying that left someone gasping for breath or collapsing to the floor, just a slow, painful ache that seemed to seep out of him all at once.

He curled tighter beneath the blankets and pressed his face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sound even though nobody was there to hear it.

Anya lifted her head immediately, a soft whine breaking the silence.

Ilya closed his eyes.

For years he had hidden moments like this from everyone. Friends. Teammates. Family. Even Shane. Especially Shane. Because if nobody saw it, then maybe he could pretend it wasn't real. Maybe he could convince himself he was fine.

Another tear slipped down his face.

And for the first time in a very long time, there was nobody left to perform for.

___

Ilya drifted in and out of sleep after Shane left, not having the energy to do much else.

Anya stayed with him the entire time, stretched across the bed with her head resting against his leg. Every time he shifted, she lifted her head to check on him before settling back down again. The steady weight of her presence helped more than he wanted to admit. She didn't ask questions. Didn't look at him with concern. Didn't expect explanations he didn't know how to give.

She simply stayed.

For a while, that was enough.

But as the hours passed and the house remained quiet, the darkness in his head seemed to grow heavier. The sadness settled deeper into his bones until it felt impossible to separate from himself. He lay staring out the bedroom window, watching clouds drift across the pale afternoon sky while his thoughts spiraled in increasingly familiar circles.

His phone sat on the nightstand.

Several times he reached for it.

Several times he stopped himself.

Logically, he knew exactly what would happen if he called Shane.

Shane would answer.

If he didn't answer immediately, he would call back.

If Ilya asked him to come home, he would.

There wasn't a single doubt in his mind about that.

Shane loved him. Shane had spent years loving him. He had chosen Ilya when choosing him had been difficult, when it had been complicated, when it had required sacrifices. He'd chosen him over distance, over uncertainty, over fear.

He would choose him now too.

But the voice in the back of Ilya's head—the one that sounded so much like his father—whispered otherwise.

You're being dramatic.

You're making his life harder.

Pull yourself together.

The words echoed loudly enough that he almost put the phone back down.

Almost.

Instead, after what felt like hours of arguing with himself, he pressed Shane's contact and lifted the phone to his ear.

It rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

By the fourth ring, embarrassment was already creeping up his neck. Shane was at practice. He was busy. He was working. He wasn't sitting around waiting for phone calls from a husband who couldn't seem to get out of his own head.

Ilya was just about to hang up when the call connected.

“Ilya?” Shane sounded slightly out of breath. “Are you okay?”

The concern in his voice was immediate.

Instinctive.

As though he'd answered expecting something to be wrong.

For a moment, Ilya couldn't speak.

“You answered,” he said finally.

There was a brief pause.

“Of course I answered.”

The response was so simple that it made something ache in Ilya's chest.

“You're at practice,” he said quietly. “How do you have your phone?”

A soft laugh came through the speaker.

The sound was familiar enough to make his throat tighten.

“Harris had it,” Shane explained. “He's down by the ice filming something for Instagram. I made him promise to keep it with him.”

Ilya closed his eyes.

That answered one question.

Shane hadn't just happened to have access to his phone.

He had planned for the possibility that Ilya might need him.

The realization nearly undid him.

“Baby?” The concern in Shane's voice deepened. “Why did you call?”

Ilya swallowed hard.

His pulse had begun to race again. Suddenly the words felt impossible. He wasn't even sure what he wanted anymore. He just knew the house felt too quiet and the sadness felt too big and he was tired of carrying it by himself.

“I...” His voice caught. “Can you come home?”

“Absolutely.”

There wasn't even a second of hesitation.

No questions.

No sigh.

No frustration.

Just certainty.

The speed of the answer made tears sting behind Ilya's eyes.

“Wait,” he blurted out immediately.

Shane wore the C whenever Ilya wasn't around. The team depended on him. The coaches depended on him. He was supposed to be leading practice, not abandoning it because his husband was having a bad day.

“The team needs you,” Ilya said quickly. “I am being silly.”

“Ilya.” Shane's voice was calm and firm all at once. “Do you need me?”

The question hit harder than it should have.

Not is it an emergency?

Not what's wrong?

Not can it wait?

Ilya bit down on his lower lip as his vision blurred.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I think I do.”

“Okay.” The answer came immediately. “I'll be home in twenty minutes.”

“Okay.” A tear slipped down Ilya's cheek.  “Ya tebya lyublyu,”

“I love you too,” Shane said softly. “Just hang on a little longer, okay? I'll be home soon.”

The call ended a few moments later.

For the first time all day, the house didn't feel quite so empty.

The sound of the front door opening pulled Ilya out of the half-sleep he'd been drifting through.

For a moment, he didn't move. He stayed curled beneath the blankets, staring at the ceiling and listening to the familiar sounds of Shane coming home. The quiet thud of his bag being set down. The murmur of his voice as he greeted Anya downstairs. The sound of the dog immediately becoming excited the second she realized who had walked through the door.

A part of Ilya wanted to pretend he hadn't heard any of it.

He wanted to close his eyes and let Shane believe he was asleep. Maybe if he was asleep, he wouldn't have to explain why he had called. He wouldn't have to admit that he hadn't magically gotten better in the time Shane was gone. He wouldn't have to see the concern on Shane's face and feel guilty for causing it.

But then Anya came back into the room.

She jumped onto the bed and immediately curled up beside him, her tail thumping softly against the mattress as Shane's footsteps grew closer.

Ilya swallowed.

There was something about the certainty of Shane coming home that made his chest tighten. Shane had said he would be there, and he had been. No hesitation. No frustration. No disappointment.

And somehow that made him feel even more emotional.

Slowly, Ilya pushed himself upright and wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt. The movement was automatic, something ingrained so deeply that he barely noticed himself doing it. He wanted to erase the evidence before Shane walked in. Wanted to look more put together than he felt.

He hated that he still did that.

Even with Shane.

Especially with Shane.

The bedroom door opened a moment later and Shane stood in the doorway, his expression softening immediately when he saw him.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Ilya looked down at the blanket twisted in his hands. “Hey.”

For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Shane didn't rush toward him or start asking questions. He just stood there, taking him in, giving Ilya the space to decide what he needed.

That somehow made it harder.

“Are you okay?” Shane asked gently.

Ilya opened his mouth.

The answer was already there, ready and familiar.

I'm fine.

It was what he always said. What he'd been saying for as long as he could remember, the words so practiced they should have come without thinking.

But this time they wouldn't.

His throat tightened, and his eyes burned again as he looked away. No matter how hard he tried to force the lie past the ache in his chest, it refused to come.

“I tried,” he whispered.

Shane's expression changed instantly. Not with fear or frustration, but with quiet understanding.

“Oh, baby.”

The tenderness in his voice unraveled something deep inside Ilya. Somehow, the kindness hurt more than anger or disappointment ever could have.

Because Ilya had spent the entire day fighting himself. Fighting the sadness, fighting the guilt, fighting the voice in his head telling him he was weak for needing someone. He had spent hours trying to convince himself he could handle it alone.

And Shane walked into the room and made it impossible to pretend anymore.

“I tried to stop it,” Ilya admitted quietly. His voice cracked despite his best effort to control it. “I tried to just...make it go away.”

Shane crossed the room then and sat beside him on the bed.

“You don't have to do that.”

Ilya shook his head slightly, looking down. “I should.”

“No.” The answer came softly but firmly. Shane reached for his hand and laced their fingers together. “You don't have to fix every hard thing before you let me see it.”

That was the moment the tears finally came.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just a quiet breaking point after hours of holding everything inside.

Ilya turned his face away instinctively, embarrassed even though he knew he didn't need to be. He hated that his first reaction was still to hide. Hated that after everything, some part of him still believed being loved meant being easy to love.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

Shane immediately shook his head. “You don't have to apologize for hurting.”

And that was what undid him.

Shane wasn't asking him to stop crying. He wasn't telling him to be stronger. He wasn't making him feel like this was something he needed to fix before he deserved comfort.

He was simply holding space for him, asking nothing in return except that he let himself be loved.

Ilya leaned forward slowly, almost like he was still waiting for permission, and Shane opened his arms before he could even ask. The invitation was immediate, effortless.

The moment he was held, the fight left him. Years of keeping himself braced against the world seemed to melt away in Shane's embrace, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion and the quiet relief of not having to carry it alone anymore.

He pressed his face into Shane's shoulder and let himself breathe. The tears continued quietly, his fingers gripping the back of Shane's shirt like he was afraid that if he let go, the safety of the moment would disappear.

But Shane didn't move.

He simply held him, one hand resting against the back of his head and the other rubbing slow circles along his spine.

“I’m here,” Shane whispered.

And for once, Ilya believed him.

By the time the room had grown darker, Ilya had stopped pretending he was going to magically feel better.

The sadness was still there. It hadn't disappeared simply because Shane came home, and it hadn't vanished because he cried or because Shane held him through the worst of it. He knew better than to expect that. Depression had never worked that way. But somehow, with Shane beside him, it no longer felt quite as impossible to carry.

Shane had ordered food because neither of them had the energy to cook, and after some gentle encouragement, Ilya managed a few bites. They didn't talk much while they ate. Shane didn't ask him to explain every thought that had gone through his head or make him justify why he had struggled so much. He simply stayed close, letting Ilya exist without needing him to be anything other than what he was in that moment.

Eventually, they ended up curled together on the couch, Ilya resting his head against Shane's shoulder while some show played quietly in the background. Neither of them were really watching. The steady warmth of Shane beside him was enough.

After a while, Ilya found himself staring at their joined hands.

“Shane?”

“Yeah?”

His fingers tightened slightly around Shane's.

“I think I need to call my doctor.”

Shane turned his head to look at him, but there was no panic in his expression. No fear that made Ilya immediately regret saying anything.

“Okay.”

The simple acceptance made something in Ilya's chest ache.

“I think my meds need to be adjusted,” he admitted quietly.

For a moment, Shane was silent. Not because he was upset or didn't know what to say, but because he was giving Ilya the space to finish.

“I've been trying to convince myself it's just stress,” Ilya continued. “That I'm tired, that I'm overwhelmed, that maybe I'm just being dramatic.” He swallowed, looking down at their hands. “But today didn't feel like something I could just push through.”

Shane squeezed his hand gently. “Then we call your doctor tomorrow.”

The certainty in his voice made Ilya look over.

There was no disappointment there. No worry that made him feel broken. No indication that Shane saw this as another thing he needed to fix.

Only love.

“I’m proud of you,” Shane said softly.

Ilya frowned slightly. “For what?”

“For telling me.”

The answer was so simple that Ilya didn't know how to respond.

“I should have handled it better,” he admitted after a moment. “I should have been able to—”

“No,” Shane interrupted gently.

His thumb brushed over Ilya's knuckles.

“You handled it the right way. You knew something was wrong, and you let someone help you.”

Ilya looked away quickly, blinking against the sudden sting behind his eyes.

That was still the hardest part.

Not admitting he was struggling. Not making the appointment. Not taking the medication if his doctor changed it.

Letting someone love him when he felt like he had nothing to give back.

Shane pulled him a little closer, resting his cheek against Ilya's hair.

“We'll call tomorrow,” he murmured. “And tonight you're staying right here with me.”

A small, tired smile tugged at Ilya's mouth despite himself.

“You are very demanding.”

Shane smiled against his hair. “Only when I'm right.”

The quiet laugh that escaped Ilya surprised both of them. It wasn't happiness exactly, and it didn't mean the heaviness was gone. But it was a small reminder that there were still pieces of himself he could reach.

For tonight, that was enough.

*** *** ***

III

April 2024

Ilya watched Shane stare at the plate of spaghetti Yuna had just set in front of him.

Most people probably wouldn't have noticed anything unusual. Shane's expression was neutral, his posture relaxed as he thanked his mother and reached for his fork. To anyone else, he looked perfectly fine.

But Ilya knew him too well.

Over the years, Shane had made enormous progress with his relationship with food. He no longer counted every calorie that crossed his lips or spent hours obsessing over meals the way he once had. He let himself enjoy things now. He ate dessert when he wanted it. He accepted spontaneous dinners out with teammates without spending the entire evening anxious about it.

Still, some habits never disappeared completely.

When life felt chaotic, Shane looked for things he could control.

And lately, there had been far too much that he couldn't.

The Centaurs had dropped three straight games on their road trip. The media had spent the week questioning their leadership, questioning their defense, questioning whether they were still legitimate contenders. Shane had taken every loss personally, even when none of them had been his fault.

Ilya had watched the frustration settle over him a little more with each game.

Now that same frustration was sitting across from him at the dinner table.

For several seconds, Shane simply looked at the pasta.

The serving wasn't unusually large. It was a perfectly normal dinner portion. But Ilya could practically see the calculations happening behind his eyes anyway.

He was just about to redirect the conversation or make some joke to distract him when Shane finally picked up his fork and forced himself to take a bite.

Relief loosened something in Ilya's chest.

Not because the battle was over, but because Shane had chosen to fight it.

"I got an email from South Shore this morning," Yuna said.

Ilya nearly groaned.

The timing couldn't have been worse.

Dinner up until this point had consisted almost entirely of hockey. The road trip. The losses. The upcoming homestand. Every mistake the team had made over the last two weeks had been dissected in painful detail, and Shane already looked exhausted by it.

The last thing he needed right now was for his mother to switch into manager mode.

Across the table, Shane swallowed his bite before setting his fork down.

"Oh?" he asked, reaching for his ginger ale.

Yuna nodded, unable to hide her excitement. "They want you for their next campaign. It's for their summer collection."

"South Shore?" David asked, glancing up from his plate. "The camping company?"

"They do a lot more than camping now," Yuna replied. "They've expanded into hiking gear, athletic wear, outdoor apparel. They're putting a lot of money into the new line, and they specifically asked about Shane."

That seemed to get Shane's attention.

His eyebrows lifted slightly before he looked over at Ilya.

"I'm not exactly an outdoorsman," he said dryly. "Do they know I spend most of my life inside hockey arenas?"

A laugh rippled around the table.

"They know exactly who you are," Yuna said. "That's why they're interested. You're an athlete. You're recognizable. You're marketable."

The last word made Shane visibly cringe.

Ilya hid a smile behind his water glass.

Some things never changed.

Yuna either didn't notice or chose to ignore it.

"They aren't looking for someone who climbs mountains every weekend," she continued. "They're looking for someone people recognize. Someone disciplined. Someone hardworking."

"Someone who can pretend he enjoys camping," Shane muttered.

David laughed outright. "That too."

Yuna rolled her eyes.

"My point is that this could be a really good opportunity. If the summer campaign goes well, it could open the door for future projects. Their winter collection would fit you perfectly."

Shane hummed noncommittally and glanced back down at his dinner.

The excitement that had briefly appeared on his face was already fading.

Ilya noticed immediately.

So did David.

Yuna, however, was still talking.

And judging by the tension beginning to creep into Shane's shoulders, he had a feeling this conversation was only getting started.

“Umm.”

Shane looked up from his plate and immediately found his mother’s expectant smile.

Even at nearly thirty-three years old, he still had a difficult time saying no to Yuna.

It wasn’t because she pressured him. If anything, she was one of the most supportive people in his life. But Shane had always wanted to make the people he loved happy, and Yuna’s excitement was contagious even when he wasn’t entirely sure he shared it.

Beside him, Ilya already knew what was coming.

Shane was going to agree.

Not because he wanted to.

Because disappointing people made him uncomfortable.

“Yeah, Mom,” Shane said with a small nod. “I’ll take a look at it.”

Yuna beamed. “Wonderful.”

The smile that appeared on Shane’s face in return was genuine enough that most people probably wouldn’t have questioned it.

Ilya did.

He knew the difference between Shane being excited and Shane trying to make someone else happy.

This was the second one.

Another sponsorship.

Another obligation.

Another week of interviews, photoshoots, travel, and long days spent smiling for cameras instead of being home.

None of it was terrible. Shane had done plenty of campaigns over the years and was good at them. But lately it felt like every free moment of his summer was being claimed by something.

Yuna returned to her dinner, clearly pleased with the outcome of the conversation.

Shane took another sip of his ginger ale and quietly pushed his pasta around his plate.

The subject changed after that, drifting back toward hockey and the remainder of the road trip, but Ilya found himself watching Shane more than participating.

By the end of dinner, he was fairly certain his husband had already convinced himself to do the campaign despite not wanting to.

The dishes were finished quickly.

David and Yuna migrated into the living room while Shane and Ilya remained in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.

For several minutes, only the sound of running water filled the room.

When he was reasonably sure neither of Shane’s parents could hear them, Ilya nudged Shane gently with his elbow.

“You know you do not have to do this campaign if you do not want to.”

Shane didn’t look up from the plate he was rinsing. “It’s fine.”

The response came too quickly.

Ilya raised an eyebrow.

“Shane.”

His husband sighed. “It really is fine.”

“You said that three times already.”

That finally earned a reluctant smile.

Shane set the plate into the dishwasher and leaned back against the counter.

“Mom’s excited about it.”

“But you are not.”

The smile disappeared and for a moment Shane stared at the floor. “I don’t know.”

“You know.”

A laugh escaped him, though it lacked any real amusement. “Ilya, it’s one campaign.”

“Which is not what I asked.”

Shane rubbed the back of his neck. “I just don’t think it’s worth making a big thing out of. If I don’t like working with them, I won’t do another one.”

Ilya studied him for a moment.

That answer sounded reasonable.

It also sounded suspiciously like every other time Shane had talked himself into doing something he didn’t actually want to do because saying no felt harder.

“Shane—”

“Shane, buddy.”

Both of them looked up as David stepped into the kitchen.

His expression was thoughtful, and there was something on his face that immediately made Ilya pay attention.

David held out his phone. “I think you should do a little research on this company before you agree to anything.”

Shane frowned. “What do you mean?”

David glanced down at the screen before looking back up. “Just take a look.”

Something in his father’s voice caused the last traces of amusement to disappear from Shane’s face.

Slowly, he took the phone.

“They're an incredibly conservative company,” David said as Shane scrolled through the article on his phone.

Ilya found himself drifting closer, trying to read over his shoulder. The article wasn't accusing South Shore of anything outright. There were no scandals, no inflammatory quotes from executives, no public controversies severe enough to make headlines for weeks.

Instead, it was the pattern that stood out. Executives who had donated to organizations opposing LGBTQ+ protections. Repeated refusals to participate in Pride initiatives. Carefully worded statements about inclusivity that somehow never actually said anything.

“They've never had an openly gay spokesperson,” David added.

Shane's eyes continued moving across the screen. “No.”

“And there's probably a reason for that.”

Yuna appeared in the doorway at that moment, immediately sensing the shift in the room. Her expression faltered slightly as David explained what they were discussing, and for the first time since dinner started, some of her excitement seemed to dim.

Shane handed the phone back after another moment. “I mean... it's not great.”

“Not great?” David repeated. “Shane, they're asking you to represent their company that isn't inclusive to the LGBTQ+ community.”

“It isn't like they've done anything directly to me.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before David shook his head.

“That's your standard? They want you because you're successful, because you're recognizable, because people like you. But they're still unwilling to publicly stand behind people like you.”

“We don't know that's true.”

“Come on, Shane.”

The certainty in David's voice settled heavily over the kitchen.

“We know exactly what they're doing.”

Something tightened in Ilya's chest.

Normally, family disagreements didn't bother him. This wasn't even much of an argument yet. Nobody was yelling. Nobody was angry. But there was an edge creeping into the conversation now, something sharper than before, and he could see the way Shane was retreating further into himself with every passing minute.

“Look,” Shane said, folding his arms across his chest, “I appreciate the concern, but I haven't even talked to them yet.”

“Then ask them if they plan on including your husband in the campaign.”

The room fell quiet.

Shane didn't answer immediately, and somehow that silence said more than any response could have.

“Dad.”

“Ask them.”

“Why?”

David stared at him for a long moment before letting out a frustrated breath. “Because if every straight athlete gets to talk about their family and you don't, then you deserve to know that before you sign anything.”

Shane looked away.

It was brief. Barely noticeable.

But it was enough.

Enough for David to realize he'd already considered that possibility. Enough for Ilya to realize it too.

“You don't actually want to do this,” David said more quietly.

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You looked miserable the second your mother brought it up.”

“David,” Yuna warned.

But he was already shaking his head. “No. He's doing that thing again.”

Immediately, Shane stiffened. “What thing?”

“The thing where you decide your feelings aren't important enough to matter.”

The words landed harder than Ilya expected.

For a second, Shane didn't respond. He just stood there staring at the floor, jaw tight.

“It's just a sponsorship.”

“No,” David replied. “It's you convincing yourself that something doesn't bother you because standing up for yourself feels harder.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted.

Not dramatically.

Not enough that anyone outside the conversation would have noticed.

But Ilya did.

He suddenly became aware of everything at once: the hum of the dishwasher behind him, the tension in Shane's shoulders, the frustration growing more obvious in David's voice. His pulse had started to quicken without him realizing it.

Arguments had never been simple in his childhood.

Arguments escalated.

Arguments became unpredictable.

Arguments turned into things nobody could take back.

“Dad, stop.” The warning in Shane's voice was clear this time.

“You have every right to tell them no.”

“I know that.”

“Then act like it.”

For the first time all evening, genuine anger flashed across Shane's face. “I said I know that!"

“And yet you're still trying to convince yourself this doesn't matter.”

“Because maybe it doesn't!”

The words echoed through the kitchen.

Instantly, Shane looked away as though he regretted raising his voice, but the damage had already been done.

David ran a hand through his hair. “You know what frustrates me? You spent years fighting to be yourself. Years. And now you're acting like it doesn't matter whether a company respects that.”

“It does matter. It’s just a campaign.”

“Then why are we even having this conversation?”

“Because not everything is black and white!”

The volume of Shane's voice rose again.

Ilya flinched.

The movement was small enough that nobody noticed, but his body had already begun reacting. His heart hammered against his ribs. The kitchen suddenly felt too warm, too crowded, too loud. He knew David wasn't his father. Knew it with absolute certainty. David had never given Shane a reason to fear him.

But fear didn't care about logic.

Fear cared about patterns.

A raised voice.

A frustrated parent.

A disagreement that kept escalating.

And before he knew it, he wasn't entirely in Shane's parents' kitchen anymore.

Part of him was sixteen years old again.

Standing in his own kitchen.

Having an argument that spiraled into something much worse.

“Shane,” David said, his voice sharper now. “Look me in the eye and tell me you're doing this because you want to.”

For one awful second, nobody moved.

Then Shane stepped back from the counter. “I'm done with this conversation.”

The words were exhausted rather than angry, but he turned toward the hallway before anyone could respond.

David reacted instinctively.

“Shane, wait—” His hand closed around Shane's forearm.

And suddenly Ilya couldn't breathe.

The memory hit him so hard it was almost physical.

His father's hand closing around his arm.

The command to stay.

The argument wasn't over.

Stand still.

Listen.

Fear surged through him before reason had a chance to catch up.

“Let him go.”

The words left his mouth immediately.

Sharp.

Protective.

By the time anyone reacted, Ilya had already stepped between them, one hand against Shane's chest as though his body had made the decision before his mind could.

The kitchen fell completely silent.

David's eyes widened in surprise, and slowly, very slowly, he released Shane's arm.

For a moment, nobody moved. Ilya couldn't seem to either. His chest rose and fell too quickly, each breath catching somewhere in the middle as adrenaline continued racing through his body. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding hard enough to hurt. Somewhere nearby, someone said his name, but the sound felt distant, muffled, as though he was hearing it through water.

His eyes remained fixed on David.

Not because he was afraid of him. Not because he actually believed David was about to hurt anyone. Rationally, he knew exactly who David was. He knew he was kind. Knew he loved Shane fiercely. Knew he would never intentionally cause either of them harm.

But fear had never been rational.

All his brain seemed capable of seeing was a father reaching for his son during an argument. A hand closing around an arm. A refusal to let someone walk away. The image collided with memories he spent most of his life trying not to revisit, and suddenly the kitchen around him felt distorted and unfamiliar.

"Ilya?"

This time he recognized Shane's voice.

The concern in it cut through the fog for a moment, but it only seemed to make everything worse. Because now everyone was looking at him. Shane. David. Yuna. The argument was forgotten. The sponsorship was forgotten. The only thing anyone seemed concerned about now was him.

Heat flooded his face.

Shame followed immediately after.

He hated this.

Hated being looked at like he was fragile. Hated being the reason concern appeared on people's faces. Hated the realization that he'd just inserted himself into an argument that had nothing to do with him and reacted as though something terrible was happening when it wasn't.

"Ilya, hey."

Shane took a small step toward him, his voice softer now, gentler.

Immediately every muscle in Ilya's body tightened.

Not because of Shane.

Never because of Shane.

But because the attention suddenly felt unbearable.

The kitchen felt too small. Too crowded. Too warm.

He could vaguely hear Yuna saying something from across the room. David looked concerned now, whatever frustration he'd been feeling completely gone. That somehow made the guilt worse. They were worried about him, and he couldn't even explain why.

Then Shane said his name again.

Beneath the confusion and concern in his voice, Ilya heard something else.

Fear.

Not fear of him.

Fear for him.

The realization crashed into him like a punch to the chest, stealing the air from his lungs. Shane was scared. Scared because of him.

Before he could think better of it, he took a step backward. Then another. Someone called after him—maybe Shane, maybe one of the others—but the words never quite reached him. His heart was pounding too loudly, his thoughts unraveling too fast.

He couldn't stay there long enough to find out.

Turning abruptly, he left the kitchen and headed down the hallway. His pulse roared in his ears as he moved through the house, barely registering the familiar surroundings. Family photographs blurred together on the walls. The living room passed in his peripheral vision. The sound of footsteps followed somewhere behind him, but all he could focus on was getting away from the overwhelming pressure building in his chest.

By the time he reached Shane's childhood bedroom, he was breathing hard.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room looked almost exactly the way it always had. Old hockey trophies lined the shelves. Framed photographs sat atop the dresser. A faded blanket was folded neatly across the end of the bed.

The familiarity hit him immediately.

Safe.

The moment the door closed behind him, some of the adrenaline finally began to drain away, leaving him exhausted and shaky. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and pressed both hands over his face.

God.

What had he done?

The scene replayed immediately.

David's surprise.

Yuna's concern.

Shane's voice.

The way he'd stepped between them without thinking.

The way he'd reacted like a frightened teenager instead of a thirty-year-old man standing in his husband's parents' kitchen.

His stomach twisted.

David hadn't done anything wrong.

It had just been an argument.

Families argued all the time.

Yet somehow his brain had taken a perfectly ordinary disagreement and transformed it into something dangerous.

A soft knock interrupted the spiral.

Ilya froze instantly.

Another knock followed a few seconds later, patient and gentle.

"Baby?" The sound of his voice made his chest ache. "It's just me."

For a moment, Ilya couldn't answer. His throat felt tight enough that speaking seemed impossible. Eventually he managed a quiet, strained, "Da."

The door opened almost immediately and Shane stepped inside and shut it behind him.

The second Ilya looked at him, guilt crashed over him so hard it nearly stole his breath.

"I'm sorry." The words escaped before Shane could say anything. "I am so sorry."

Shane's expression softened immediately, but Ilya couldn't stop now.

"I should not have done that," he continued, staring down at his hands. "It was just an argument and I—"

His voice cracked and the shame he'd been holding back finally settled heavily in his chest. "It was just an argument."

Slowly, Shane crossed the room.

By the time he reached the bed, Ilya couldn't bring himself to look up. All he could see was the moment replaying over and over in his head, and all he could think about was how badly he'd handled it.

The panic itself had been awful.

But somehow the embarrassment that followed felt even worse.

Shane reached for one of Ilya's hands and brought it to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss against his knuckles.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind that only existed between people who knew each other well enough not to fill every empty space with words. Shane simply sat beside him, holding his hand and rubbing slow circles across his back while Ilya focused on breathing.

Gradually, the panic loosened its grip.

His heart no longer felt like it was trying to break through his ribs. The ringing in his ears faded. The room stopped feeling as though it were tilting beneath him. By the time several minutes had passed, he could hear the distant sounds of the house again—the hum of the furnace, Anya barking somewhere downstairs, the muffled sound of voices that were undoubtedly Yuna and David worrying about what had just happened.

The realization made guilt settle heavily in his stomach.

He hated that he'd worried them.

Shane leaned forward and gently brushed a few strands of hair away from his forehead before pressing a kiss there.

"My dad would never hurt me."

His voice was quiet, but there was a certainty behind it that made Ilya finally look up.

"I know."

The answer came immediately.

Because he did know.

David wasn't his father. He never had been.

Over the years, David had welcomed him into his family without hesitation. He'd celebrated victories with them, comforted them through losses, and treated Ilya like a son long before Shane had put a ring on his finger. There wasn't a single part of him that genuinely believed David would ever raise a hand to Shane.

And yet, when he'd seen David grab Shane's arm, logic had disappeared.

The memory had come first. The fear had come first. Everything else had followed afterward.

Unable to hold Shane's gaze, Ilya looked away, but a second later Shane's fingers gently caught his chin and guided him back.

"I love how protective you are of me," Shane said softly. "And I understand why you felt like you needed to protect me."

His voice caught on the last word, and only then did Ilya notice the tears gathering in Shane's eyes.

The sight made his chest ache.

It always hurt Shane when they talked about his childhood. Not because he pitied him. Shane had never pitied him. It hurt because Shane loved him, and loving him meant trying to imagine the little boy who'd grown up believing he had to face everything alone. It meant mourning the childhood Ilya never should have lost.

Shane had grown up surrounded by love. His parents had made mistakes, certainly, but he'd never questioned whether he was safe with them. He'd never wondered what mood his father would be in when he walked through the door. He'd never learned how to read a room in seconds or measure the distance to an exit without consciously realizing he was doing it.

To Shane, childhood was supposed to be safe.

And every time he learned another piece of Ilya's past, it broke his heart a little more to realize that it hadn't been.

It was one of the reasons Ilya so rarely talked about it.

Not because he was afraid of the memories.

Because he hated seeing what those memories did to Shane.

He hated being the reason those tears appeared in his husband's eyes.

"But no matter how angry my dad has ever been with me," Shane continued, squeezing his hand, "I have never been afraid of him hurting me." 

The conviction in his voice was fierce now.

 "I want you to know that. I need you to know that."

A tear finally slipped free and rolled down Shane's cheek.

Without thinking, Ilya reached up and brushed it away with his thumb. "I do know that."

His own voice sounded rough.

For a moment he wasn't sure how to explain something that barely made sense even to him.

He took a slow breath before continuing.

"I guess I've just never seen you argue like that before."

The admission felt embarrassingly small compared to what had happened in the kitchen.

"I've seen disagreements. I've seen you get annoyed with each other. But I've never heard either of you raise your voice."

His gaze dropped to their joined hands. "And then your dad grabbed your arm."

Immediately Shane opened his mouth, but Ilya shook his head.

"I know he wasn't trying to hurt you," he said quickly. "I know that." His throat tightened. "But when I was sixteen, one of the worst fights I ever had with my father started exactly like that."

The room fell quiet.

Ilya stared at the floor, feeling the memory beginning to surface.

"It wasn't even about anything important. I don't remember what we were arguing about anymore." He let out a humorless laugh. "Maybe hockey. Maybe school. Something stupid."

His fingers tightened around Shane's.

"It started with raised voices. Then he told me I couldn't walk away. Then he grabbed my arm." The words became harder to say, his voice growing quieter with each one. "I remember thinking that if I just stopped arguing, if I just stayed still and let him yell, it would be over... and he wouldn't have hit me. That if I could just make myself small enough, he'd calm down."

His chest tightened painfully.

"It wasn't."

For a moment neither of them spoke.

"I know your dad isn't him," Ilya said quietly. "I know that now. I knew it then, too. But when I saw him reach for you..." He swallowed hard. "For a second, all I could think about was making sure nothing happened to you."

The confession hung between them.

Embarrassing.

Painfully honest.

"I just needed to protect you."

The moment the words left his mouth, Shane's expression crumpled completely.

And before Ilya could apologize for them too, Shane pulled him into his arms.

The embrace was immediate and fierce, one arm wrapping around his shoulders while the other settled against the back of his head. Shane held him as though he was trying to shield him from something, which would have been funny under different circumstances. Instead, it only made the tightness in Ilya's chest return.

For several moments, neither of them spoke.

Ilya simply sat there with his face buried against Shane's shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his ear. It was familiar. Grounding. A reminder that he was here, in Shane's childhood bedroom, not trapped inside memories he could no longer change.

Eventually, Shane pressed a kiss into his curls.

"You never have to protect me from my dad."

A tired breath escaped Ilya. "I know."

Shane was quiet for a moment before gently tilting his head. "You know he loves you too, right?"

The question caught him off guard.

Shane smiled softly when Ilya looked up. "He does. My dad would never hurt you either."

Ilya swallowed hard.

He knew that.

Or at least, he thought he knew that.

But hearing Shane say it so confidently made something ache in his chest.

"You're family to him," Shane continued, running his fingers through Ilya's hair. "You've been family to him for a long time."

"Okay," Ilya whispered, because he wasn't entirely sure what else to say.

The thought felt too big to process right now.

After another few minutes, Shane shifted slightly. "Do you want to come back downstairs?"

Ilya immediately winced. "I made things very awkward."

A laugh escaped Shane. "You really didn't. My parents aren't upset, baby. They're worried." His expression softened. "Dad wanted to come up here himself and make sure you were okay. I told him I'd go first."

The knot in Ilya's stomach tightened.

Because that wasn't what he had expected.

Not even a little.

Eventually, he allowed Shane to pull him to his feet. Their fingers immediately intertwined, and Ilya found himself holding on tighter than usual as they made their way downstairs.

The evening news was playing quietly in the living room when they entered. Yuna and David were seated on the couch, but both immediately looked up when they heard them approaching.

For a second, nobody spoke.

Then David stood.

Ilya's stomach dropped and he instinctively looked away.

"I am sorry," he said quickly. "For thinking..." The words caught in his throat. "For thinking you would hurt him."

Silence followed.

When Ilya finally forced himself to look up again, he was startled to find that David looked heartbroken rather than offended.

"Hey." David's voice was gentle. "Don't apologize."

Ilya blinked.

David shook his head. "If anyone should be apologizing, it's me."

The confusion must have shown on his face because David sighed softly.

"I wasn't paying attention to how heated the conversation was getting. And I certainly wasn't paying attention to how it looked from your perspective."

His expression softened. "I'm sorry I scared you."

The words hit harder than they should have.

For a moment, Ilya simply stared at him.

Because fathers weren't supposed to apologize.

At least, not the kind of father he'd grown up with.

David glanced at Shane before looking back at him.

"But for the record," he added, a small smile appearing, "I'm glad my son married someone willing to throw himself in front of me if he thinks Shane needs protecting."

Heat immediately flooded Ilya's face.

David's smile widened. "That tells me he'll never have to face anything alone."

Without thinking, Ilya tightened his grip on Shane's hand.

"Never," he said quietly. The answer came so naturally that it surprised even him.

David nodded once, looking unexpectedly emotional.

Then, before the room could become too serious again, Ilya glanced toward Shane. "I think your father is right."

"Oh no," Shane groaned immediately.

Yuna laughed.

David looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"About South Shore," Ilya clarified. “Do not work with a company that only accepts pieces of you."

The room grew quiet.

Shane rolled his eyes, but there was so much affection behind the gesture that it made Ilya smile. "You two are unbelievable."

"No," David corrected. "We're right."

Shane groaned louder this time.

Yuna laughed outright.

For the first time that evening, the tension finally broke.

"Let me do my own research before everyone starts planning my moral crusade," Shane said.

"That's fair," David admitted.

"Very fair," Yuna agreed.

The conversation moved on after that, drifting toward easier subjects, but Ilya found himself only half listening.

Instead, he sat quietly beside Shane, their hands still linked together, and watched as David and Shane slipped back into their usual rhythm as though the argument had never happened. They disagreed. They got frustrated. Sometimes they even raised their voices.

But they also apologized. They forgave each other without keeping score, and before long they were smiling again, the disagreement already becoming just another ordinary moment in an otherwise ordinary afternoon.

The simplicity of it settled somewhere deep inside him. Conflict hadn't broken anything. No one had been punished. No one had been made afraid. They had simply worked through it together.

Beside him, Shane squeezed his hand, and Ilya instinctively squeezed back.

And for perhaps the first time in his life, he understood that arguments did not have to end in fear.

Sometimes they simply ended in love.

*** *** *** 

IV

October 2024 

“Hey, baby!”

Shane's voice carried through the foyer, and Ilya immediately found himself grinning as he pushed himself up from the couch.

The reaction was ridiculous.

He'd seen Shane earlier that morning before he left for his meeting.

But between the start of the season, road trips, practices, media obligations, and Shane's newest partnership with Open Sky Collective, it felt like they had barely existed in the same place lately. Most nights they crossed paths long enough to exchange a quick kiss before one of them was rushing off to do something else.

Ilya missed him.

The realization settled warmly in his chest as he heard the front door close.

Tonight wasn't going to be much different, unfortunately.

Rose was in Ottawa filming a guest role for a television series, and tonight happened to be her only evening off before flying back to Los Angeles. Shane had been looking forward to spending time with her all week.

They'd invited Ilya along, of course.

He'd declined anyway.

As much as he adored Rose, he knew how important these visits were to Shane. They saw each other far less now than they used to, and he wanted them to have a chance to catch up without feeling obligated to include him in every conversation.

That didn't mean he was happy about it.

Because if he was being honest, all he really wanted was to steal Shane upstairs and keep him there for the rest of the evening.

No schedules.

No meetings.

No obligations.

Just the two of them.

The thought was still lingering when Shane appeared in the doorway between the foyer and living room.

His hair was slightly windblown from outside, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, and the smile that spread across his face the moment he spotted Ilya was enough to make something inside him melt.

“There you are,” Shane said.

“There I am.”

Shane laughed and immediately crossed the room.

The kiss he pressed to Ilya's mouth was quick, but it still managed to make Ilya's heart do something embarrassingly stupid.

“Missed you.” The words escaped before he could stop them.

Shane's smile softened. “Missed you too, baby.”

For a long moment neither of them moved.

Shane simply stayed where he was, arms wrapped around Ilya's waist, cheek pressed against his shoulder.

It should have been ridiculous.

They were both grown men.

There had been a time when they could go weeks, sometimes months, without seeing each other. Now they saw each other every day, and somehow that made it even harder to let go.

Eventually Shane let out a dramatic sigh. "I don't want to go."

Ilya laughed, smoothing a hand through his hair. "Yes, you do."

"No."

"You have been excited all week."

"That is not the point."

A smile tugged at Ilya's lips as he pressed a kiss against the top of Shane's head.

"The point is that you miss me."

"Maybe."

The answer came so quickly that warmth immediately bloomed in Ilya's chest. "Flatterer."

"Just being honest."

Shane tilted his head back long enough to steal another kiss before finally stepping away. "Come upstairs with me?"

As though there had ever been any possibility of him saying no. "Of course."

Together they headed upstairs.

Shane disappeared into their bedroom while Ilya followed more slowly behind, pausing long enough to scratch Anya behind the ears when she trotted after them.

By the time he reached the bedroom, Shane was already standing in front of his dresser.

Frowning.

Ilya immediately recognized the expression. Not anger. Not exactly.

The look Shane got when something had gone wrong and he was trying to figure out how to fix it before it became a bigger problem.

“What’s wrong?”

“The laundry.” Shane gestured toward the nearly overflowing hamper sitting in the corner of the room.

Fuck.

Ilya’s stomach dropped.

He’d told Shane he would get started on the laundry. They’d both been putting it off for the last few days because of their schedules, and it had clearly been bothering Shane that morning enough that he’d considered canceling his meeting just to take care of it himself.

Ilya had insisted he would do it.

It would be done by the time Shane got home.

Except it wasn’t.

Shane let out a long breath as he crossed the room toward their walk-in closet, running a hand along the shirts hanging there. He wasn’t slamming things around, but there was a restless urgency to every movement as he searched through them, trying to find another option.

Ilya hovered in the doorway, guilt settling heavily in his chest.

“I’m sorry. I—”

But there wasn’t really an excuse.

He’d forgotten.

He’d spent the entire morning telling himself he would start in ten minutes. Then ten minutes became an hour, and an hour became the rest of the day, until suddenly Shane was home and the one thing he’d promised to do was still sitting unfinished.

“The shirt I was planning on wearing was dirty,” Shane said quietly, pulling one from the hanger before immediately putting it back. “I don’t know what I’m going to wear now.”

And somehow that made Ilya feel even worse.

Because he knew this wasn’t just about a shirt.

Shane planned things. He always had. Sometimes he knew exactly what he wanted to wear days before an event because, in his mind, the decision had already been made. The clothes, the schedule, the order of things — it all fit together in a way that made sense.

And Ilya knew how overwhelming it could be when something disrupted that.

Especially now.

Especially after everything.

He wasn’t being difficult. He wasn’t upset over nothing.

This was Shane trying to hold onto the pieces of his routine in a life where so many things had been taken out of his control.

And Ilya had accidentally made one more thing harder.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly.

Shane looked over at him, his expression softening slightly, though the frustration was still there.

“I know,” he said. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”

That somehow made it worse.

Because Ilya knew Shane wasn’t blaming him.

“The shirt I wanted was just…one thing I had figured out,” Shane admitted, looking back toward the closet. “I just needed this one thing done, Ilya.”

Ilya nodded, nervously biting the inside of his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’ll do it while you’re out tonight.”

Shane studied him for a moment, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased. He stopped searching through the closet and turned back toward him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re going to look handsome in whatever you wear,” Ilya said softly.

A small smile tugged at Shane’s mouth. He crossed the room and took both of Ilya’s hands in his, bringing one up to his lips to brush a kiss over his knuckles.

“Of course I will,” he said, a little teasingly. Then his eyes flicked over Ilya’s shoulder toward the hamper. “It’s just not what I had planned.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Ilya knew that.

Shane wasn’t trying to make him feel guilty. He was simply explaining why this had thrown him off.

And somehow, that made Ilya feel worse.

Because Shane had trusted him with something small. Something ordinary. Something that should have been easy.

He hadn’t needed Ilya to fix everything. He hadn’t needed him to protect him from the world or make everything better.

He had just needed the laundry done.

By the time Shane finally settled on a different outfit, he was moving quickly around their bedroom, gathering everything he needed and checking the time more often than necessary. Ilya could see the frustration creeping back in, not because he was angry, but because being behind schedule was making him uncomfortable.

Technically, Shane wasn’t late.

He was actually right on time.

But Shane had always lived by the rule that early was on time and on time was late, and Ilya knew that arriving with only minutes to spare already felt like being behind.

“I love you,” Shane said quickly as he sat on the bench by the front door to pull on his shoes.

Ilya looked up from where he was standing near the kitchen entrance.

Shane finished tying his laces, then stood and pulled on his jacket before stepping closer. He pressed a quick kiss to Ilya’s lips.

“I won’t be too late.”

Ilya smiled back, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I love you too,” he said. “Have fun.”

Shane gave him one more look before opening the door, like he could tell there was still something lingering there.

But then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, and the house suddenly felt much quieter.

For a moment, Ilya just stood there.

Then he sighed, turned around, and headed upstairs to grab the laundry basket.

Because if there was one thing he could do tonight, it was make sure Shane came home to one less thing waiting for him.

He started with their load of lights, carefully measuring out the exact amount of detergent Shane preferred and double-checking that the washer was set to the correct cycle before pressing the start button.

As the machine filled with water, Ilya stood there for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the steady hum of it running.

Then he stepped out of the laundry room and looked around the house.

There was always something that needed to be done.

Shane had a cleaning schedule because he was Shane, and he thrived when things had a place and a time. Ilya loved that about him. He loved the way Shane could walk into a room and immediately notice what was out of place, what needed attention, what needed to happen next.

But that didn’t mean Ilya couldn’t help.

It didn’t mean Shane should have to carry everything just because he was better at remembering.

And it didn’t mean Ilya couldn’t learn to notice things before Shane had to ask.

The thought settled heavily in his chest.

Because this wasn’t really about laundry.

It was about all the little things Ilya worried he missed lately. The moments when Shane needed something and Ilya was distracted, overwhelmed, or convinced he would get to it later.

He didn’t want to do that.

Not with Shane.

Not with the person who had chosen him again and again.

Because Ilya knew what it felt like to lose someone and spend years wondering if there had been something — anything — he could have done differently.

His thoughts drifted to his mother.

His sweet, loving…sad mama.

She had been so deeply unhappy, and Ilya knew that. He knew, deep down, there was nothing he could have done to save her. Nothing a child could have done to take away the pain she carried or make things better.

But knowing that had never stopped the questions from coming.

What if he had done more?

What if he had been more helpful? More aware? What if he had noticed the signs she tried so hard to hide and taken some of the weight from her shoulders?

Would she have been able to stay?

The question wasn’t fair. He knew that. He knew it had never been his responsibility to fix something that was bigger than him.

But children didn’t always understand that.

Sometimes they just looked for the thing they could have changed.

And Ilya had spent years wondering if he could have been that difference.

Now, standing in the home he shared with Shane, that old fear had found somewhere new to settle.

He couldn’t let Shane carry everything alone.

He couldn’t become another person who made someone he loved feel like they were facing the world by themselves.

The familiar panic tightened in his chest, and before he could sit with it too long, he grabbed the vacuum from its spot in the laundry room.

The sound immediately sent Anya scrambling toward their bedroom, letting out an offended bark over her shoulder as if personally insulted by the interruption.

Despite himself, Ilya almost smiled.

Almost.

Then he got to work.

He went over the living room rug twice, making sure he picked up as much of Anya’s hair as possible. When he looked at the couch, he noticed the fur collecting on the cushions and grabbed the attachment, carefully working his way across every surface.

If Shane was going to come home, he wanted him to come home to a clean house.

A peaceful house.

A house that didn’t feel like one more thing he had to manage.

By the time he finished the living room, the vacuum was already out and the momentum had taken over. He moved on to the dining room rug, then upstairs to their bedrooms, checking corners and edges and places he normally would have ignored.

When he finally made his way back downstairs, the washer had finished its first cycle.

He switched the laundry over, carefully moving each piece into the dryer, and then glanced toward the fridge.

That was when he saw Shane’s list.

CLEAN FRIDGE OUT was written in all capital letters and highlighted.

Of course it was.

Ilya grabbed a garbage bag and opened the refrigerator door.

He checked expiration dates, smelled leftovers, wiped down shelves, and threw away anything that had been forgotten in the back.

One thing at a time.

One thing he could do.

One thing that would make Shane’s life just a little easier.

___

By the time Shane came home, Ilya had stopped noticing how long he’d been cleaning.

The laundry was folded and put away. The floors were spotless. The couch cushions had been vacuumed, the rugs cleaned, and the fridge emptied of anything questionable before being reorganized in the way Shane liked. He’d even wiped down the baseboards upstairs, which, in hindsight, probably should have been a sign.

Every time he finished one task, he found another waiting for him, and somehow each one felt just as important as the last.

Now he was sitting on the kitchen floor with the oven door open, a rag in one hand and a small brush in the other, carefully scrubbing at a stubborn spot along the inside edge.

The house was quiet except for the occasional click of Anya’s nails against the hardwood as she wandered around him, clearly suspicious of all the cleaning supplies that had invaded her home.

“You’re going to have to stop supervising me eventually,” Ilya muttered.

Anya glanced at him before pointedly looking away.

He sighed. “Okay. I know. You’re right.”

The sound of the front door opening made him pause.

“I’m home,” Shane called.

Normally, those words would have settled something warm in Ilya’s chest. Tonight, they only made him look down at himself. He was sitting on the floor covered in cleaning solution, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a toothbrush in his hand because apparently at some point that had become the best tool for reaching the corners of the oven.

He probably looked ridiculous.

“Ilya?”

“I’m in the kitchen.”

A few moments later Shane appeared in the doorway and stopped.

Ilya watched his expression change as he took in the room—not just the kitchen, but the whole house. His gaze moved over the spotless counters, the freshly cleaned floors, the neatly folded blanket on the couch before finally landing on him.

“What…are you doing?”

The question caught him off guard.

“Cleaning.”

“I can see that.”

Ilya frowned and returned his attention to the oven. “It needed to be done.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Ilya.”

Something about the way Shane said his name made him look up. He wasn't angry or frustrated. If anything, he looked confused. Concerned.

“What?”

“I've been gone for, what, three hours?”

Ilya glanced toward the clock and blinked.

“Four, actually.”

“And you cleaned the entire house?”

“I did the things that needed to be done.”

One of Shane’s eyebrows lifted. “Did the oven need to be done tonight?”

Ilya opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Because no. Not really.

It had been dirty for months. It was something they said they'd get to and never did. 

Shane crouched in front of him and rested a hand on his knee.

“I’m not upset about the laundry anymore,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Ilya looked down at the brush in his hand. “I just wanted to help.”

The expression on Shane’s face softened immediately. “I know you did.”

Something in Ilya’s chest tightened. Shane understood. He always understood, and somehow that made this harder instead of easier.

Shane glanced at the oven before looking back at him. “Come sit with me.”

Ilya immediately shook his head.

“I’m almost done.”

“Ilya.”

The gentle interruption stopped him.

“It’s not clean yet,” he admitted.

For a moment, Shane simply looked at him. “I know,” he said.

The answer surprised him. He had expected Shane to tell him it was fine, that it was clean enough, that he was overdoing it. Instead Shane nodded toward the oven.

“I believe you. But I also think it can wait.”

The brush felt strangely heavy in Ilya’s hand.

“It needed to be done.”

“Maybe. But it didn’t need to be done tonight.”

Slowly, Shane reached over, took the brush from his fingers, and set it on the counter. Ilya wanted to argue, but the words wouldn't come. 

“Come on.”

Shane held out his hand.

After a second, Ilya took it.

Shane pulled him to his feet and guided him into the living room. Only then did Ilya really see what he'd spent the last four hours doing. The floors were spotless. The cushions were perfectly arranged. Vacuum lines still stretched across the rug.

He'd been so focused on finding the next thing to fix that he hadn't stopped to look at everything he'd already done.

Shane noticed, though. Of course he did.

He stood quietly for a moment, taking it all in before turning back to him.

“Ilya.”

Something in his voice made Ilya’s stomach twist. “What?”

Instead of answering, Shane stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him.

The hug was immediate and firm—not the careful, questioning kind, but the kind that said Shane already knew something was wrong, even if he didn't know exactly what. Ilya froze for half a second before melting into him.

“I’m okay,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I just wanted to help.”

“I know, baby.”

His voice was so gentle that it made Ilya’s throat ache.

Because Shane wasn't angry. He wasn't disappointed. He wasn't standing here waiting for an explanation. He was holding him because he knew this wasn't about laundry or ovens or vacuum lines in the carpet.

Shane pulled back just enough to brush his thumb across Ilya’s cheek.

“I don't think this was really about the laundry.”

Ilya looked away.

The silence was answer enough.

Shane didn't push. He didn't ask questions or demand explanations. He simply waited, letting the quiet settle between them.

Then, softly, he said, “You know you don't have to earn me staying, right?”

The words hit harder than Ilya expected.

His breath caught.

Because that was the thing he hadn't said out loud.

The thing he hadn't even fully admitted to himself.

Ilya looked away first.

He could still feel Shane's hand against his cheek, still feel the warmth of his body wrapped around him, but suddenly it was too much. Too much kindness. Too much understanding. Too much seeing.

Because Shane was right.

This wasn't about the laundry.

It wasn't about the oven.

It wasn't even about helping.

The realization settled heavily in his chest, and for a long moment he just stared at the floor.

"I know that's stupid," he said quietly.

Shane frowned immediately. "Hey."

Ilya swallowed.

"I know you aren't upset about the laundry."

"No, baby. I'm not."

"And I know you weren't going to leave because I forgot."

Shane's arm tightened around his waist.

"No."

"But for a minute..." Ilya's voice cracked. "For a minute I thought maybe if I fixed enough things, you wouldn't be disappointed in me."

The words hung between them.

Shane went very still.

Ilya laughed softly, the sound hollow and embarrassed.

"I know how that sounds."

"No," Shane said gently. "Tell me."

The invitation made something painful shift inside his chest.

He hadn't planned on saying any of this. Hadn't even realized he was thinking it until now.

But Shane was looking at him with that endless patience, the kind that never demanded and never judged, and suddenly the words were there.

"Mama left. She loved me too and...she left anyway."

The confession came out so quietly Shane almost could have missed it.

Immediately, Shane's expression changed. "Oh, baby."

Ilya looked down.

"I know she was sick.” His throat tightened. "But when you're a kid..." He shook his head. "When you're a kid and somebody leaves, part of you always thinks there had to be a reason. That maybe if you'd been better, or easier, or more useful..."

His voice broke.

"Maybe they would've stayed."

For a second neither of them spoke.

Then Shane's hand slid gently to the back of his neck. "Your mama was sick," he said softly but firmly. "She didn't leave because of you."

Ilya closed his eyes.

"She didn't leave because you weren't good enough. She didn't leave because you were difficult. She didn't leave because you needed too much."

Each sentence landed carefully, deliberately.

"She left because she was sick, Ilya."

The tears he'd been fighting all evening burned behind his eyes.

Shane stepped closer until there was no space between them at all.

"And I'm not her."

That made Ilya look up.

Shane's eyes were already shining. "I'm not staying because the house is clean."

A tear slipped down Ilya's cheek.

"I'm not staying because you remember the laundry."

Another followed.

"I'm not staying because you take care of me, or because you make dinner, or because you fix things when they're broken."

Shane's thumb brushed gently beneath his eye. "I'm staying because I love you."

Ilya's breath hitched.

"And there is nothing you could do that would make me stop."

His voice wavered slightly then, emotion finally catching up with him.

"You don't have to earn this, baby. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not when you're doing great and not when you're falling apart."

Shane pressed their foreheads together.

"You could spend all day cleaning baseboards or spend all day staring at a wall. You could forget every load of laundry for the rest of our lives."

A watery laugh escaped Ilya despite himself.

"And I'd still be here."

The words settled into every cracked, frightened place inside him. Not because they magically fixed anything—they didn't—but because Shane meant them. He always meant them.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Ilya rested his forehead against Shane's and simply breathed. The tears had slowed, leaving behind a strange lightness where the panic had been. He could still feel traces of it lingering at the edges, but the frantic need to keep moving, to keep fixing, to keep proving himself useful had finally quieted.

Shane wasn't leaving.

The realization settled somewhere deep inside his chest, filling spaces that had felt hollow for so long that he'd forgotten they were empty.

Shane brushed his thumb beneath one of his eyes and smiled softly.

"Better?"

Ilya let out a slow breath. "Yeah."

The answer surprised him with how true it was.

Not perfect. Not magically cured. But better.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"You wanna see how clean I got the baseboards in our bedroom?"

Shane stared at him for a second. "The baseboards?"

"I spent twenty minutes on them."

"Ilya, I don't think I've ever cleaned a baseboard in my life."

A laugh slipped out before he could stop it. "I noticed."

The look Shane gave him was deeply offended. "Rude."

"I'm just saying there was a lot of material to work with."

That earned him a snort, and suddenly they were both smiling.

The heaviness that had settled over the evening hadn't disappeared completely, but it no longer felt crushing. It felt manageable. Like something they had walked through together instead of something Ilya was carrying alone.

Shane studied him for another moment before reaching up and smoothing a hand through his hair.

"Come upstairs with me."

The words were simple, but something warm flickered behind them.

Ilya felt it immediately.

"To inspect my baseboards?"

"Absolutely not."

A laugh escaped him. "They're very impressive."

"I'm sure they are."

Shane leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back just enough for their eyes to meet.

"I think you've done enough cleaning for one day."

The warmth in his gaze made Ilya's stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety.

A smile spread slowly across Shane's face.

"Yeah. Oh."

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Shane reached up and cupped Ilya's jaw, his thumb brushing lightly across his cheek. There was something achingly tender in his expression, something that made Ilya's chest tighten all over again—not from fear this time, but from the overwhelming certainty of being loved.

When Shane kissed him, it was slow and unhurried. The kind of kiss that asked for nothing and offered everything.

Ilya melted into it immediately, one hand finding Shane's waist while the other settled against the back of his neck. He could still taste the remnants of tears between them, could still feel the lingering ache from everything they'd talked about, but somehow that only made the kiss feel more precious.

Shane's hand slid into his hair as he kissed him again, softer this time, lingering just long enough to make Ilya forget about laundry and ovens and vacuum lines and every other thing he'd spent the afternoon trying to fix.

When they finally pulled apart, neither of them went very far. Their foreheads rested together once more.

Shane smiled. "Feel better now?"

Ilya narrowed his eyes. "Maybe a little."

The laugh that escaped Shane was warm and immediate. "That's what I thought."

For the first time all evening, Ilya didn't feel like he had to carry the weight of fixing everything. He didn't need to earn forgiveness, prove he was okay, or convince Shane that he was stronger than he felt.

All he had to do was let himself be loved.

When Shane held out his hand, Ilya took it without hesitation. Their fingers intertwined, and together they headed upstairs, leaving the spotless living room exactly as it was.

For once, neither of them cared.

*** *** ***

V

January 2026

“Shhhh,” Ilya whispered, bouncing gently as he rubbed slow circles against Misha’s back and patted his little diapered bottom. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hoping the steady movement would finally be enough to settle him.

It wasn’t.

His eyes flicked toward the clock sitting on the entertainment center.

2:27 in the morning.

He had been awake with their son for almost an hour now, and somehow he felt like he was running out of things to try.

He had fed him. Burped him. Changed his diaper twice just in case that was the problem. He had walked circles around the living room, read him two different board books in the quietest voice he could manage, and even started speaking to him in Russian because, at this point, he was willing to try anything.

Misha had not cared.

His tiny face was scrunched up, his fists clenched against Ilya’s chest as he cried with the kind of determination only a newborn could have.

“Misha,” Ilya whispered, trying to keep the panic from creeping into his voice. “What am I doing wrong, little one?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Because that was what it felt like.

Like there was some secret everyone else knew and he had somehow missed the lesson.

Shane was so good with him. It was almost unfair. He had this instinct that Ilya couldn’t explain. Their son could be screaming one second, and then Shane would pick him up, tuck him against his chest, and somehow Misha would start calming down.

Like he knew he was home.

Ilya had been trying to figure out how to do that for nearly nine weeks.

“You’re going to wake up your daddy,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Misha’s soft hair.

“Daddy’s already up.”

Ilya startled slightly, turning toward the sound of Shane’s voice.

He hadn’t even heard him come downstairs.

But before Ilya could say anything, Misha had already started to quiet. His cries softened, his little body relaxing just slightly against Ilya’s arms.

And somehow that hurt more than if he had kept crying.

Because Shane hadn’t even done anything yet.

“I was trying to let you sleep,” Ilya said quietly, continuing to bounce Misha.

Shane smiled softly as he walked over, his hair messy from sleep and his T-shirt wrinkled. He looked exhausted, but there was no hesitation in the way he moved toward them.

“I know,” Shane said. “Let me try.”

“I can do it.”

The words came out faster and sharper than Ilya intended.

Shane didn’t flinch. He didn’t look offended or frustrated. He just reached out and gently brushed his fingers over Misha’s back.

“I know you can,” he said quietly. “I’m not saying you can’t.”

Ilya looked away.

“Then why—”

“Because I want to help you,” Shane finished gently. “You’ve been down here for almost an hour, Ilya.”

There was no accusation in his voice.

That almost made it worse.

Because Ilya knew Shane wasn’t trying to take over. He knew Shane wasn’t saying he was better at this.

But some small, terrified part of him heard something else entirely.

You’re not enough.

Shane held his hands out, waiting until Ilya nodded before carefully transferring Misha into his arms.

The crying didn't stop immediately.

Misha fussed as Shane adjusted him against his chest, one tiny fist waving angrily between them before Shane tucked the little blanket a bit higher over his back. He swayed gently, rubbing slow circles between Misha's shoulder blades.

"Hey, buddy," Shane murmured. "You're giving Papa a run for his money tonight, huh?"

The cries gradually lost some of their urgency.

One became two.

Then three.

Within another minute, Misha's wails had dwindled into the occasional hiccuping sob, his little body melting against Shane's shoulder.

The silence settled over the room so suddenly that Ilya almost didn't know what to do with it.

He stared.

Shane hadn't done anything different.

He was holding him almost the same way Ilya had been.

Using the same blanket.

The same gentle bouncing.

Yet somehow...

"I wish he liked me as much as he likes you."

The words slipped out before Ilya could stop them.

Shane looked up immediately. "What?"

Ilya shrugged, wrapping his arms around himself. "It's okay."

"No, it's not." Shane frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Ilya kept his eyes on Misha, watching the tiny rise and fall of his chest against Shane's shoulder.

"He always settles for you."

Shane blinked. "Ilya, that's not true."

"It is."

"Baby—"

"I've been trying for almost an hour." His voice remained quiet, but there was something fragile underneath it that made Shane's stomach twist. "You walked downstairs, took him from me..." He swallowed. "...and now he's asleep."

Shane looked down at Misha, then back at Ilya.

"Ilya, he screams like this with me too."

"He doesn't."

"He absolutely does."

Ilya shook his head. "You don't notice because you're good at this."

Shane let out the smallest, most disbelieving laugh. "I'm good at this?"

"You are."

"I have spent half this week googling whether babies can sense when you're panicking because I was convinced Misha hated bath time because of something I was doing."

Despite himself, Ilya almost smiled.

Almost.

Shane took a small step closer.

"Yesterday I bounced him around this living room for forty-five minutes while you were showering."

"You never told me that."

"Because I didn't think I needed to." Shane's voice stayed gentle. "He's a newborn, Ilya. Sometimes he cries because he's hungry. Sometimes he's tired. Sometimes he has gas. Sometimes..." He glanced down at the peacefully sleeping baby. "...sometimes he just wants to remind us who's in charge."

Normally that would have earned a laugh.

Tonight, it didn't.

Ilya lowered his eyes.

"I don't think he knows I'm his dad."

The words were so quiet Shane almost missed them.

When he looked back up, Ilya wouldn't meet his eyes.

For months before Misha had been born, they'd gone back and forth over whose sperm to use. It had never mattered to Shane; as far as he was concerned, whichever embryo they transferred would be their child.

But Ilya had insisted.

He knew his family's medical history. He knew what depression had stolen from him at different points in his life, and he knew the long list of illnesses that ran through his side of the family. If they had the choice, he wanted to give their child the best chance possible.

He had never regretted that decision.

Not for a second.

Until now.

Now, in the middle of another sleepless night with an inconsolable newborn, he couldn't stop wondering if there was something he had overlooked. Something no doctor or counselor had warned them about.

What if Misha knew?

What if there was some instinct babies were born with—something that drew them toward their biological parent?

He knew it didn't make sense.

He knew newborns didn't understand DNA or biology.

But knowing that and believing it were two very different things.

"Ilya," Shane said softly.

Misha squirmed in Ilya's arms, his cries climbing in pitch once again.

Ilya let out a slow breath before carefully transferring him back into Shane's arms.

"Here." He forced a shrug that didn't come close to looking convincing. "He probably wants you anyway."

Shane frowned.

"He always wants you," Ilya continued quietly.

Without saying another word, Shane settled Misha upright against his shoulder, one hand supporting the back of his tiny head while the other rubbed slow, practiced circles between his shoulder blades.

Almost immediately, a loud burp escaped the baby.

The cries didn't stop all at once, but they softened into tired little whimpers before gradually fading altogether.

Ilya's chest tightened.

He had burped Misha after his bottle.

He had.

He just hadn't thought to change his position afterward.

"He wants both of us," Shane said gently, continuing to sway. "The pediatrician told us this is exactly what colicky babies do. They cry, they fuss, and sometimes changing positions helps. Sometimes it doesn't."

"But it helped you."

"It helped this time."

Ilya blinked hard, fighting the sting behind his eyes.

"He's never this fussy with you."

"Yes, he is."

"No."

"Baby." Shane's voice was impossibly gentle. "Yesterday he cried for almost the entire hour and a half you were at the gym. I walked laps around this house until my legs were sore. The second you came through the front door, he settled against your chest."

"He was exhausted," Ilya answered immediately. "He'd just worn himself out."

Shane's shoulders sagged. "I wish you could see yourself the way I do," Shane said quietly as he continued rocking their sleeping son. "You're an incredible father."

Ilya looked away.

"If I was..." His voice cracked. "Why does it always feel like I'm second choice?"

The question hung between them.

Misha let out one last sleepy sigh against Shane's shoulder, his tiny fingers still curled tightly into the fabric of Shane's T-shirt.

Ilya barely breathed as Shane crossed the living room with slow, careful steps, the old hardwood floor creaking softly beneath his feet. The bassinet they'd squeezed beside the couch before Misha was born suddenly felt impossibly small.

Shane bent carefully, lowering Misha one inch at a time, one hand supporting the back of his head while the other rested lightly against his chest. For one terrifying second, Misha squirmed, his tiny face scrunching as if he might start crying again.

Please...

Instead, he sighed, stretched one little arm above his head, and settled back into sleep.

The room fell quiet. Not silent—there was still the low hum of the refrigerator, the furnace clicking somewhere in the house, and the white noise machine filling the background—but quiet enough that it almost felt fragile. Ilya finally released the breath he'd been holding as Shane lingered beside the bassinet for another moment, his hand resting lightly against Misha's stomach as if reassuring himself he really was asleep.

Only then did Shane turn toward him.

Their eyes met across the room, and Ilya tried to smile. He wasn't sure he managed it because Shane's expression softened immediately. He crossed the room without a word, stopping close enough that Ilya could feel the warmth radiating from him before brushing the backs of his fingers across his cheek.

The touch was featherlight, but it still unraveled something inside him.

Ilya leaned into it instinctively, closing his eyes for just a moment. Safe. That was always the word that came to mind when he thought of Shane. The world had asked so much of both of them over the years—trades, injuries, panic attacks, hospital rooms, grief they hadn't thought they'd survive—but somehow Shane had always remained the place Ilya returned to when everything else felt uncertain.

"Come sit with me," Shane whispered.

He slipped his fingers between Ilya's and led him to the couch. Ilya followed without protest, too exhausted to pretend he didn't need this. The cushions dipped beneath his weight, and before he had fully settled, Shane rested his hands on his shoulders, gently encouraging him farther back.

"What are you doing?" Ilya asked, his voice rough with exhaustion.

"You'll see."

A sleepy smile tugged at Shane's lips as he climbed into Ilya's lap, settling one leg on either side of his hips before wrapping his arms loosely around his shoulders. The familiar closeness eased the tightness in Ilya's chest just enough that he could finally take a full breath.

"I love you," Shane murmured.

Not because he was trying to fix anything.

Not because he thought it would make this better.

Just because it was true.

"I love you too."

The words came as naturally as breathing. Ilya leaned forward and brushed a slow, lingering kiss across Shane's lips, smiling faintly when they pulled apart.

"I didn't think it was possible to love you more than I did that day at the cottage," Shane said.

Despite everything, Ilya smiled. He could still picture that night with embarrassing clarity—two grown men hopelessly in love, both convinced the other couldn't possibly feel the same way. It had taken them far longer than anyone around them thought reasonable.

"I remember thinking that had to be it," Shane continued, his thumb tracing slow circles over Ilya's cheek. "That I'd reached the limit of how much one person could love another."

His smile softened.

"Then Misha was born."

The smile faded from Ilya's face.

"Shane..."

"No." Shane shook his head gently. "Let me finish."

There wasn't an ounce of frustration in his voice, only quiet certainty.

"I watched you hold him for the first time. I watched you cry before I even did, and I watched you spend the first week checking every few minutes to make sure he was still breathing."

"I was being ridiculous."

"You were being his dad."

The words settled somewhere deep inside Ilya.

"I watched you learn what every little sound he makes means. I watched you memorize exactly how warm he likes his bottles and which blanket settles him fastest. I watched you refuse to put him down because you kept saying he'd only be this little once."

A tear slipped free before Ilya realized it had formed.

"I don't..." His voice caught. "I don't feel like I'm enough."

"I know."

There wasn't even a second of hesitation. No you're wrong. No don't say that. Just quiet understanding.

Shane brushed the tear from Ilya's cheek with his thumb.

"And I know you believe that right now."

Ilya stared down at his hands.

"I keep thinking maybe he knows."

Shane stayed quiet, giving him space to continue.

"We used your sperm because I wanted him to have the healthiest chance possible. I don't regret that. I never will." His voice barely rose above a whisper. "But... what if babies know more than people think they do? What if he knows you're his biological dad?"

The question hung heavily between them.

"I know it doesn't make sense," Ilya admitted, shaking his head. "I know how stupid it sounds."

"It doesn't."

"It does."

"No." Shane gently guided Ilya's face back toward him until their foreheads rested together. "It sounds like someone who's exhausted. It sounds like someone who loves his son so much that he's trying to find an explanation for something that doesn't need one."

Ilya closed his eyes.

"He doesn't settle for me."

"He does."

"He settles for you."

"He settles for both of us."

"I don't remember that."

"I know."

Shane's voice was almost a whisper now.

"I remember enough for both of us."

The words broke something open inside Ilya. He bowed his head against Shane's shoulder as the first real sob escaped his chest, and Shane simply held him, his arms tightening around him without another word while Ilya finally let himself fall apart.

"I don't know how to do this."

The words were muffled against Shane's shoulder.

Shane's hand continued its slow path through his hair while the other gently brushed another tear from beneath his eye.

"Do what?"

"Be..." Ilya's voice cracked. He swallowed hard before trying again. "Be a good papa."

The confession seemed to hang in the quiet living room.

"I didn't have..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know what a good father is supposed to look like."

His breathing hitched. "I don't want him to grow up wondering if I loved him enough."

The words broke apart before he could finish them. "I don't want him to be afraid of me."

"Shhh." Shane's voice was barely louder than the white noise humming from the corner of the room. He cupped Ilya's face again, his own eyes shining with tears now.

"You are nothing like him."

Ilya shook his head. "You don't know that."

"I do."

"No, you don't."

"Ilya." Shane waited until he looked at him again. "You spent an hour downstairs tonight trying to comfort our son. You fed him, changed him, walked with him, sang to him, talked to him in Russian because you thought maybe hearing your voice would help."

A tear slipped down Shane's own cheek.

"You know what your father would have done?"

Ilya's stomach twisted.

"He wouldn't have stayed." Silence filled the room. "You did."

Shane's thumbs brushed away fresh tears before they could fall.

"You stayed even when you were exhausted. Even when you thought you were failing. Even when you thought Misha wanted me instead."

His voice wavered.

"That is what good fathers do."

Ilya couldn't speak.

"You are patient. You are gentle. You are the safest person I've ever known."

Shane rested their foreheads together again. "You would never hurt him."

Another sob escaped Ilya.

"You are good, Ilya."

He said it slowly, as though he needed Ilya to hear every single word.

"You are not him."

Ilya closed his eyes.

He wanted to believe him.

God, he wanted to.

He wanted to believe that love was enough. That patience was enough. That staying was enough.

Instead, the doubt lingered, quiet now instead of deafening, tucked somewhere deep inside his chest where Shane's words couldn't quite reach.

Not yet.

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against Shane's shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn't need to.

Shane simply held him, one hand carding slowly through his hair while the other rubbed soothing circles across his back. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy with exhaustion, with love, with the kind of understanding that didn't require either of them to fill the space.

Eventually, Ilya felt Shane press a kiss into his hair.

"We'll figure this out," he whispered.

Not you.

We.

Ilya nodded against his shoulder.

For tonight, that would have to be enough.

Across the room, Misha stirred in the bassinet, letting out a sleepy little sigh before settling again.

Ilya found himself watching the gentle rise and fall of his son's chest.

He still wasn't sure he knew how to be a father.

But tomorrow, when Misha cried again—and he would—he knew he'd pick him up anyway.

*** *** ***

+1

April 2029

They both groaned as they finally collapsed into bed, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight.

Shane had just gotten home from a five-day road trip, and Ilya had spent the entire week solo parenting while David and Yuna were away as well. Between practices, games, park visits, bedtime routines, and the never-ending list of things that came with having two children, they were both completely exhausted.

They were ready to sleep.

Except they had also spent five days apart.

And after over a decade together, five days still felt too long.

Ilya turned onto his side, facing him, and Shane did the same. For a few quiet seconds, they just looked at each other, both too tired to move but not quite willing to close their eyes yet.

“Have another kid, they said,” Ilya chuckled softly. “It’ll be good, they said.”

Shane smiled, reaching out and brushing his thumb along Ilya’s cheek. “I hate when I have to be away for so long.”

“Me too,” Ilya admitted.

The words came out quieter than he expected.

He had retired at the end of the previous season, just before Elena was born. It had been his choice. Eventually.

He had loved hockey. He still loved hockey. He could have kept playing, and for a long time, he had convinced himself that he would. That they would figure it out. That they could bring both kids with them when they traveled, hire help, make the schedules work.

Shane had been convinced of that too.

But Ilya had finally been the one to admit that he didn’t want their children growing up in hotel rooms and airports. He didn’t want their routines constantly changing because their parents had to leave for another city every few days. He didn’t want to be distracted on the ice wondering if Elena had slept or if Misha was struggling with another transition.

He wanted to be present.

And he was ready.

Shane hadn’t been. Not yet.

But that was okay.

They had spent their whole lives making sacrifices for hockey. Ilya understood better than anyone that walking away before you were ready was impossible.

It didn’t mean he missed Shane any less when he left.

“One day we’ll be home together all the time,” Ilya said with a small shrug, leaning forward to press a kiss to the tip of Shane’s nose.

Shane smiled, but there was something thoughtful behind his eyes.

“Maybe…” he started.

Ilya immediately noticed.

“Maybe what?”

Shane looked down at their hands for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

“Maybe sooner than expected.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“I love hockey,” Shane said slowly. “You know I do.”

“I know.”

“But I love you more. And I love them more.” His voice softened. “I’m tired of missing things.”

Ilya’s expression changed slightly.

“Like what?”

Shane swallowed. “Like Elena getting into a crawling position while I was gone.”

A small, sad smile tugged at his mouth.

“She’s eight months old. I know I’m probably going to miss the first time she actually crawls. And Misha’s already at that age where every day he learns something new.”

He shook his head.

“I thought I’d be okay with it. I thought this was just what we did. We play hockey, we travel, we miss things sometimes.”

His fingers tightened around Ilya’s hand. “But I don’t want to miss their lives.”

For a moment, Ilya didn’t say anything.

Because he knew.

He knew exactly how much courage it took for Shane to admit that.

“I didn’t think you were ready,” Ilya said gently.

Shane gave a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”

He looked toward the baby monitor sitting on the nightstand, the little green light blinking in the darkness.

“And then I got on that plane without them, and all I could think about was Elena learning something new while I was halfway across the country.”

He sighed.

“I think... next season might be my last.”

Ilya’s heart squeezed.

Not because he was sad.

Not because he didn’t believe Shane.

Because he knew how much this meant.

Hockey had been Shane’s whole world for as long as he had known him. It had given him a purpose, a family, and a place where he felt like he belonged.

For Shane to choose something else meant he had finally realized he had something even more important.

Before Ilya could answer, the baby monitor crackled.

Then came the unmistakable sound of Elena’s unhappy little cry.

Ilya groaned and reached for his phone, opening the monitor app.

There she was.

Sitting upright in her crib, hair sticking up in every direction, rubbing her eyes with one tiny fist.

“Fucking eight-month sleep regression,” Ilya muttered.

Shane immediately started pushing the blankets away.

“I got her.”

“You are exhausted,” Ilya said, reaching out to stop him.

“So are you,” Shane replied with a smile. “You’re the one who’s been dealing with both of them for almost a week.”

Ilya smirked. “Yes, and I have a routine. I can get her back down quickly.”

Shane laughed as he stood up. “Are you the Elena whisperer now?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s terrifyingly confident.”

“I have earned that confidence,” Ilya said, following him toward the door.

And despite the exhaustion, despite the late hour, despite the fact that they had barely gotten five minutes alone together, Shane couldn’t help but smile.

Because this was the life they had chosen.

The one they had built.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t thinking about what he was leaving behind.

He was thinking about what he was coming home to.

Ilya padded quietly down the hallway, careful not to let the floorboards creak beneath his feet. The house was dark and still, the only sounds the soft hum of the baby monitor and the faint white noise drifting from the nursery.

He gently pushed the door open.

The glow from the nightlight was just enough for him to make out Elena standing—or rather, sitting—at the edge of her crib, her pacifier still in her mouth as she blinked up at him sleepily.

“Why are you awake right now, malysh?” he whispered.

The second she saw him, her little arms reached out.

Ilya smiled as he leaned over and picked her up, and she immediately melted against his chest, curling into him like she had been waiting for him specifically. She let out a long, dramatic sigh against his shoulder, the kind that somehow sounded like she had personally suffered through the longest day of her life.

He couldn’t help but laugh quietly.

“Oh, poor baby,” he murmured, carrying her over to the rocker. “The world is very difficult when you are eight months old, yes?”

Elena answered by pressing her face further into his chest.

Ilya settled into the plush chair, automatically checking the clock on her sound machine. Too early for a bottle. She had only been asleep for about three hours, and she normally didn’t eat again until later in the night.

So this wasn’t hunger.

He glanced down at her and smiled softly.

“Just wanted your papa?”

He knew she didn’t understand him.

But he also knew someday she would.

After a moment, he carefully shifted her against his arm and checked her diaper. It was definitely a little heavier than it should be, so he stood and carried her over to the changing table.

“Let’s see if this is the problem.”

A quick diaper change later, and Elena was back in his arms, calmer but still wide awake enough to need a little extra reassurance.

So Ilya sat back down in the rocker.

And he just let the moment be.

There was no rush to get back to bed. No frustration that she had interrupted their night. No anxiety that he was doing something wrong.

Just his daughter curled against him.

Just the soft weight of her body.

Just the quiet.

He began singing softly in Russian, one of the lullabies his own mother had sung to him when he was a child. His hand moved slowly up and down her back as he rocked, occasionally pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Years ago, the thought of having a daughter would have terrified him.

The thought of being responsible for another person’s entire world.

The thought of becoming the kind of father he never had.

But sitting there in the middle of the night, with Elena’s tiny fingers curled around his shirt and her breathing slowly evening out, he realized he wasn’t afraid anymore.

He knew what she needed.

He knew how to comfort her.

He knew how to love her.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, he had become exactly what he had once been afraid he couldn’t be.

Almost half an hour later, Elena was finally asleep again.

Ilya stayed still for another few moments, just watching her.

Then he pressed one final kiss to her hair and carefully stood, carrying her back to her crib.

He lowered her down slowly, making sure her pacifier stayed in place, and rested his hand against her back for a few seconds before stepping away.

Just as he reached the doorway, a loud whine came from the room next door.

Ilya closed his eyes briefly.

Of course.

He had barely made it thirty seconds.

“Daddy!”

Misha’s sleepy voice called again, louder this time.

“Daddy!”

And despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that he had just gotten one child back to sleep, Ilya smiled as he turned toward the sound.

Because this was the life he had once been afraid he wasn’t capable of having.

And now it was the one he couldn’t imagine living without.

Shane was already halfway down the hallway by the time Ilya had finished settling Elena back into her crib. He followed him into Misha's room and immediately knew something was wrong.

Their son was sitting upright in his toddler bed, cheeks wet with tears, his stuffed dinosaur clutched tightly against his chest as he reached toward Shane.

"Daddy," Misha whimpered.

Shane didn't hesitate. He crossed the room, sat beside him, and gathered him into his arms, rubbing slow circles across his back.

"What's going on, bud?" he asked softly. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Misha only shook his head, burying his face against Shane's chest.

Shane frowned and glanced over at Ilya. "He's warm."

"Like fever warm?" Ilya asked, stepping closer to press the back of his hand against Misha's forehead.

Shane nodded.

Before either of them could say anything else, Misha suddenly gagged and threw up all over himself, his bed, and Shane.

Shane didn't even flinch.

He simply reached for the small Paw Patrol trash can beside the bed and pulled it underneath Misha before rubbing reassuring circles across his back with his free hand.

"It's okay, buddy," he murmured as Misha dissolved into tears. "I've got you."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," Misha sobbed.

Shane's entire expression softened. He leaned down and kissed the top of his damp hair as though being covered in vomit hadn't even registered.

"No, baby. It's okay," he whispered. "You don't have to be sorry."

Misha gagged again, and Shane calmly shifted the trash can closer, holding him through it until the wave passed.

"I know," he soothed. "I know. You feel really yucky right now."

Without a word, Ilya slipped out of the room. He started the bath, carefully checked the water temperature, then ducked into the linen closet for fresh sheets and clean pajamas.

By the time he came back, Shane had already gotten Misha's pajamas off and was wiping him down with a warm washcloth, speaking to him in the same calm, patient voice.

"I can take him if you want to go change," Ilya offered.

Before Shane could answer, Misha's little hand tightened around the front of his shirt.

"No, Daddy," he whimpered.

Shane looked down at him with a gentle smile and kissed his forehead again.

"It's okay, buddy. I've got you."

Almost instantly, Misha relaxed against him.

"I'm okay for now," Shane said, looking over at Ilya. "Could you just grab me some clean clothes?"

Ilya nodded and disappeared into their bedroom.

When he returned a minute later, Misha was sitting in the bathtub looking absolutely miserable, shoulders slumped as Shane knelt beside him with one hand resting lightly against his arm. Ilya handed over the clothes while Shane ducked into the hallway to change, then traded places with him beside the tub.

"I'm sorry I throwed up," Misha sniffled.

"Oh, buddy." Shane reached out and brushed the damp hair away from his forehead. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

"I made a mess."

"You got sick," Shane corrected gently. "That happens. I'm just sorry you feel so yucky."

Misha stared quietly at the bathwater for a few moments before looking back up.

"Can I sleep with you tonight?"

"Of course," Shane answered without a second's hesitation.

Ilya stayed where he was, watching the two of them.

Watching Shane sit beside their son in the middle of the night, exhausted, freshly changed after being covered in vomit, yet completely unconcerned with any of it. His entire world had narrowed to one little boy with a fever who needed his dad.

There was no frustration in his face. No impatience. No trace of annoyance that they'd been awake for barely an hour before another child needed them.

There was only love.

Something in Ilya's chest shifted so quietly he almost missed it.

Because this wasn't unusual.

It wasn't extraordinary.

This was simply who Shane had always been.

For years, Ilya had imagined healing as something dramatic. He thought one day the memories would stop hurting, that he'd wake up and discover all the cracks inside him had somehow disappeared overnight.

Instead, healing had arrived so gradually he hadn't even noticed it happening.

It had been Shane reaching for his hand after nightmares without asking what he'd dreamed about. It had been quiet reassurances that he was allowed to rest, allowed to make mistakes, allowed to need someone. It had been every ordinary day Shane chose him, every difficult day he stayed, every moment he looked at Ilya like there had never been anything broken about him in the first place.

Somehow, without ever trying to fix him, Shane had taught him what love was supposed to feel like.

Steady.

Safe.

Patient.

The kind that didn't disappear when things got hard.

The kind that didn't have to be earned.

Now, as he watched Shane stroke Misha's hair and tell him there was nothing to apologize for, Ilya realized that was exactly what their children would grow up knowing too.

Not fear.

Not shame.

Not the constant feeling that love could be taken away.

Just this.

Parents who showed up in the middle of the night.

Parents who held them when they were sick.

Parents who taught them that needing comfort was never something to be embarrassed about.

Ilya felt his throat tighten.

All this time, he'd thought he was building this life alongside Shane.

He hadn't realized Shane had been quietly rebuilding him too.

Not with grand gestures.

Not with promises.

Just with thousands of ordinary moments that, together, had become extraordinary.

After getting Misha out of the tub and into clean pajamas, Shane and Ilya settled him in the middle of their bed.

They both knew it was probably a terrible idea. If Misha got sick again, they'd be stripping their own bed in the middle of the night.

Neither of them cared.

Right now, Misha wanted to be close to them. He wanted to know that if he woke up scared or sick again, his dads would be right there.

That mattered a lot more than clean sheets.

Curled between them with his dog stuffy tucked tightly against his chest, Misha drifted back to sleep surprisingly quickly. His breathing evened out, though a faint flush still colored his cheeks and a sheen of sweat clung to his forehead.

After waiting another few minutes to make sure he was truly asleep, Shane quietly slipped into the ensuite to shower.

Ilya stayed where he was.

He brushed his fingers lightly through Misha's hair, feeling the lingering warmth beneath his skin, and wished—for what had to be the hundredth time since becoming a parent—that he could somehow take whatever was making his children hurt and carry it himself.

Seeing them sick never got easier.

It didn't matter if it was a scraped knee, a bad dream, or a fever.

It always felt like someone was squeezing his heart.

The bathroom door clicked open a few minutes later.

Shane stepped out wearing fresh pajamas, his damp hair still dripping slightly onto his shoulders. He looked exhausted.

Ilya glanced at the clock.

1:30.

Elena would probably be awake for her bottle in another hour or so, and Shane still had an eight o'clock skate in the morning.

He waited until Shane carefully climbed back into bed before reaching over Misha's sleeping body to lace their fingers together.

Bringing Shane's hand to his lips, he pressed a slow kiss against his knuckles.

"I love you so much," he whispered.

Shane's expression softened immediately. "I love you too."

Silence settled over the room again.

The white noise machine hummed softly in the background while Misha let out a sleepy little sigh between them, clutching his stuffed dog even tighter.

Ilya looked down at him for a long moment before speaking again.

"My papa..." he started quietly. The words caught somewhere in his throat. "I don't think..." He swallowed. "I don't think he would've come if I'd called for him."

Shane's face fell.

"Ilya..."

He reached across Misha and gently cupped Ilya's cheek with his free hand.

For a few seconds, Ilya simply leaned into the touch.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Shane blinked.

"For what?" he asked with a tired smile. "Taking the vomit hit?"

A quiet laugh escaped Ilya.

"No." He shook his head. "Although...I'm very grateful that was you."

That earned another sleepy chuckle from Shane.

But Ilya's smile faded as he looked back down at their son.

"I don't think I understood..." he admitted slowly. "Not really."

"Understood what?"

"How much of my life I spent waiting."

Shane frowned slightly.

"Waiting for people to leave. Waiting to be yelled at. Waiting to disappoint someone." He let out a quiet breath. "Waiting for home to start feeling safe."

His thumb traced absent circles across the back of Shane's hand.

"And then I met you."

Another silence settled between them.

"So quietly I didn't even notice..." Ilya continued, "...you changed what home meant."

He looked over at Shane, his eyes shining in the dim light from the hallway.

"You never tried to fix me." Shane opened his mouth, but Ilya gently shook his head. "You just...loved me."

The words came out almost in disbelief.

"You loved me when I was grieving. You loved me when I was angry. You loved me through panic attacks and nightmares and depression. Through becoming a husband..." His voice caught as he glanced at Misha. "...through becoming a father."

His eyes drifted back to their sleeping son.

"And tonight..." he whispered, "...watching you hold him while he was scared...watching you tell him he didn't have anything to apologize for..." He smiled sadly. "I realized you've been telling me that for years."

Shane's eyes filled immediately.

"You've spent our whole life together teaching me what love is supposed to feel like."

Ilya reached over and brushed a finger gently across Misha's warm forehead.

"And because of you...this is what our children are going to grow up believing love feels like too."

Shane didn't answer right away.

He simply leaned across their sleeping son and pressed his forehead against Ilya's.

"You did that too," he whispered.

Ilya shook his head.

"I know."

Shane smiled.

"But I couldn't have done it without you."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

They simply lay there with their son asleep between them, hands intertwined above the blankets.

Home.

It had taken Ilya almost forty years to understand what that word was supposed to mean.

Now he knew.

It sounded like Misha's sleepy breathing.

It looked like Shane reaching for his hand without thinking.

And it felt exactly like this.