Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

SHANE

The pregnancy test sits on the bathroom counter like a threat.

A small piece of plastic.
Two pink lines.

Two.
Fucking.
Pink.
Lines.

Shane presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, breath shaking. He’s taken three tests already. Three times the same answer. And still his brain refuses to catch up.

This can’t be happening.

Not because he doesn’t want it...
God, he hates himself for how the thought of a tiny life, a tiny heartbeat, something half him and half the man he loves in all the wrong ways, makes his chest twist painfully.

But this is his life.
His career.
His captaincy.
His everything.

A baby wasn’t part of the plan.
Hell, feelings weren’t part of the plan.

And Ilya...
Oh God, Ilya.

Shane sinks onto the closed toilet seat, shoulders hunched. His throat feels too tight to swallow.

They made rules.
No feelings.
No complications.
Just sex. Just tension relief. Just scratching the itch that only the other could scratch.

Except...

Shane broke every rule.

Not in a loud way.
Not in an obvious way.
But in the quiet moments.

Like the way he memorized the sound of Ilya’s laugh when he’s half-asleep.
Or the way he looks at Ilya on the ice, chest warming even when he’s supposed to hate him.
Or the way his heart stuttered that night Ilya brushed hair off his forehead and murmured, “You tired, baby?” in a voice so soft it nearly undid him.

He fell.
God, he fell.

And now...
Now he’s staring at a future he’s not ready for, alone in a beige hotel bathroom that smells like disinfectant.

He should hide this.
He should deal with this alone.
Protect Ilya. Protect them both.

If he tells Ilya, it changes everything.
A baby isn’t something you can pretend away.
A baby means coming clean to doctors, teams, the league.
A baby means the media tearing them apart.
A baby means...

It means the end.

Shane’s fingers slide to his abdomen.
There’s nothing to feel yet. But the knowledge burns under his skin.

He’s not going to abort.
He knows that.
It feels wrong even thinking it, like erasing a part of him and Ilya.
This baby is unplanned, but not unwanted.

He inhales harshly.

I have to tell him.

The guilt will eat him alive if he doesn’t.
Ilya deserves to know.
Even if it ruins everything.

His phone chimes.

Shane jumps.
His pulse spikes.

And when he sees the name on his screen...
his world tilts again.

Lily: Come meet me? Need to talk.

Shane’s stomach drops.
This is not a casual text.
This is not an invitation to sneak into a hotel room or meet in a deserted parking garage.

He knows it in his bones.

Tears prick hot behind his eyes.

Not now.
Not today.
Not when everything is already collapsing inside him.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand and forces himself to breathe.

I have to tell him.
I owe him that much.
Even if it’s the last thing I ever get to say to him.

His fingers shake as he types.

Be there in 20.

He stares at the message.
He wants to say more.
He wants to say, Please don’t do this.
He wants to say, I love you.
He wants to say, We’re having a baby.

Instead, he sends it.

…..

ILYA

He shouldn’t feel nervous.

He’s Ilya Rozanov.
Captain of the Boston Bears, two-time MVP, king of the fucking ice.
He’s faced reporters, bloodthirsty fans and players twice his size trying to break his ribs.

But nothing makes his chest tight quite like Shane Hollander.

Their year of hooking up was supposed to be easy.
Scratch the itch, fuck the enemy, get it out of their system.

Except it was never easy.
Not even once.

Shane is too good.
Too earnest.
Too bright-eyed and golden-hearted for the kind of messy darkness Ilya carries in him.

Too soft in all the ways Ilya pretends he doesn’t crave.

He sits in his apartment, pacing like the walls are closing in.

He’s been thinking about this for weeks...
the way Shane looks at him like he hung the moon,
the way Ilya finds excuses to text him after games,
the way his heart does something stupid every time Shane says his name.

He needs to end it.

Not because he wants to.
No.
His heart has other plans.

But because he’s not a fucking idiot.

If their teams find out...
If the league finds out...
If the media finds out...

Game over.
Careers destroyed.
Possibly banned.
Sponsors gone.
Everything they bled for, gone.

And Shane...
Shane is a captain now.
Shane is beloved, respected, built for greatness.

Shane can’t afford a scandal.
Not with a man.
Not with his rival.

Ilya rubs his hands over his face.

He loves him.
Fuck, he loves him.

That’s the problem.

Loving Shane means ruining Shane.

He never meant for it to get this far.
He never meant to feel anything at all.

But then Shane would smile at him after sex, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, eyes soft and stupidly hopeful, and Ilya’s heart would crack.

Shane makes him gentle.
Shane makes him weak.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Ilya mutters to the empty room.
“We get caught… it’s finished. For both of us.”

His phone buzzes.

Jane : Be there in 20.

Ilya swallows.
His fingers tighten around the device.

Twenty minutes until he breaks his own heart.
And Shane’s.

Twenty minutes until he does the smart thing.
The right thing.
The necessary thing.

So why does it feel like something is ending inside him already?

…

Shane puts his phone in his pocket, hand trembling.

Ilya stares at the message, heart twisting.

On opposite sides of the city,
both men think the same thing:

This is the end.

Neither knows it is only the beginning.

….

SHANE

Shane stands outside Ilya’s apartment door, hand hovering over the wood, knuckles cold.
He should knock.
He should breathe.
He should think.

He does none of those things.

He forces himself to knock before he can turn around and flee.

The door opens almost immediately.

Ilya looks… wrong.
Like he hasn’t slept.
Like he’s been bracing for impact.

“Come in,” he says, voice rough, unfamiliar.

Shane steps inside. The door closes behind them with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot.

The air between them is brittle.
One wrong word and it’ll shatter.

They both speak at once.

“Listen, I...”
“We need to...”

Shane stops. Forces a smile that hurts.
“You go first.”

He thinks maybe...just maybe...Ilya will say something else. Something hopeful. Something they can fix.

But he sees it in Ilya’s eyes.
No mercy.
No softness.
Just resolve sharpened into a blade.

Ilya inhales like it physically hurts him.
Then:

“We have to end this.”

Shane’s heartbeat goes painfully still.
He feels it, like a skate cutting through ice.

“Ilya...”

“No.” Ilya cuts him off instantly. “Let me finish.”

His voice is shaking. That almost makes it worse.

“This thing between us… it was never supposed to be anything. It was a mistake letting it go on this long.”

Mistake.
The word slams into Shane’s chest.

Ilya keeps talking, unaware...or pretending not to see...the way Shane flinches.

“It’s a distraction,” Ilya says, pacing a short line like a caged animal. “A dangerous one. I see you on the ice sometimes and all I think about is you. Not the puck. Not the play. You. That’s fucking unacceptable, Shane.”

Shane presses his nails into his palms until they sting.

Ilya’s words are knives, but the worst part?
He doesn’t sound angry.
He sounds… scared.

“If it comes out,” Ilya continues, “if anyone finds out… your team will kill you. Mine will crucify me. We will lose everything. Everything we worked for our whole lives.”

Shane opens his mouth...
Ilya keeps going.

“And even if we survived it...even if somehow we were allowed to stay...what do you think would happen, huh?” His voice breaks. “You’d look at me one day and you’d blame me. For ruining your career. For making you a fucking scandal. For making you choose. You’d hate me.”

Shane swallows. Hard.
His throat feels scraped raw.

Ilya meets his eyes then. For the first time since Shane arrived.

And there it is.
The fear.
The grief.
The love he refuses to name.

It crushes Shane.

“I don’t want to hate you, Shane,” Ilya whispers. “And I don’t want you to hate me.”

Shane feels something inside him fracture.

“So whatever you were going to say,” Ilya finishes, voice barely above a breath, “it won’t change my decision.”

Silence.

Dead, heavy, suffocating silence.

Shane stands there, staring at him.
Not breathing.
Not moving.
Just breaking.

His mind latches onto one thing, like his brain refuses to process any of the rest:

Ilya wants it to be over.

A scream rises in him...tell him. Tell him now. Tell him he’s not walking away from just Shane. He’s walking away from a child. Their child. Tell him. Tell him before it’s too late...

But then a darker thought slithers in.

If I tell him…
If I tell him now…
he’ll think I trapped him.

He’ll think this was a manipulation.
A desperate attempt to keep him.
A disaster disguised as love.

He’ll hate me.
He’ll hate us.
He’ll hate the baby.

Shane’s vision blurs.
His pulse thunders painfully in his ears.

A world where Ilya Rozanov hates him?
Hates their child?

Shane cannot survive that.
He knows it with terrifying clarity.

So he does the only thing he can.

He lies.

Not in words.
In omission.

He forces his face into something neutral...no, not neutral, dead...and nods once.

“I understand.”

Ilya’s breath catches.
Just a little.
Just enough that Shane knows this hurts him too.

But not enough.
Not enough to fight for them.
Not enough to want him more than the fear.

Shane turns.

His legs move without asking him.
Steps to the door.
Hand on the knob.
He hears Ilya inhale behind him...like he wants to call out, stop him, say something...but nothing comes.

Shane leaves.

The hallway feels colder.
Harsher.
Lonelier than any rink he’s ever skated on.

He doesn’t wait for the elevator...he takes the stairs, nearly stumbling by the third flight because his eyes won’t stop filling, and he can’t see, and his chest hurts like something has ruptured inside him.

He reaches the parking garage.

His car is waiting. The only steady thing in his world.

He unlocks it, gets in, slams the door shut harder than he means to.
The sound echoes like a gunshot in the empty space.

And then...

He breaks.

It’s not quiet.
Not gentle.
Not cinematic.

It’s ugly, shuddering sobs ripping through his chest.
Tears streaming uncontrollably.
His forehead pressed to the steering wheel as he tries to gasp in air that just won’t come.

He cries for Ilya.
For himself.
For the baby who deserves better than all of this horror.

He cries until his throat burns raw and his hands ache from clenching the wheel.

He cries until he has nothing left.

And when his tears finally run dry, and his body is shaking from exhaustion...

A small, trembling hand covers his stomach.

“I won’t let you feel this,” he whispers to the life inside him.
“I won’t let you ever feel unwanted.”

His phone remains silent.
No text.
No call.
Nothing.

Ilya doesn’t come after him.

Shane rests his head against the cold window, eyes swollen, heart shattering in quiet, unbearable pieces.

He has never felt more alone.

….

ILYA

The door closes.

Not slams.
Not clicks.
Just… closes.

Softly.

Quietly.

Wrong.

Ilya stands rooted to the spot, staring at the empty space where Shane’s body had been seconds ago. His brain feels like it’s lagging behind reality, like everything is happening several feet away from him.

He expected...
He braced for...

Anger.
Rage.
Pain.
Fire.

Shane is supposed to be fire.

Shane is supposed to flare, challenge, push back.
He’s supposed to argue.
He’s supposed to say Ilya is an idiot, that they can figure it out, that he doesn’t get to make decisions for both of them.

He’s supposed to scream.
Or shove him.
Or break down crying.

Anything.

Anything except that.

That quiet:
“I understand.”

Ilya drags a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

Shane didn’t fight.
Not even a little.

That’s not Shane Hollander.
Not the one he knows.
Not the one he fell in love with against every rule he ever made for himself.

It’s like…
like Shane expected this.
Like he’d been waiting for the axe to fall.
Like this was just another wound he’d already braced himself for.

And that...
That makes something in Ilya’s chest cave in on itself.

He sinks onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at his shaking hands.

All those nights flashed through his mind with sickening clarity:

Shane asleep on his chest, breathing soft and trusting.
Shane laughing into his mouth after a kiss.
Shane whispering “you’re unbelievable” when Ilya touched him like he was made of glass.
Shane looking at him like he saw something good in him...something Ilya never saw in himself.

Did Shane…
know this would happen?
All along?

Did he think Ilya would throw him away eventually?
Like he wasn’t worth keeping?
Like he deserved to be tossed aside?

Ilya’s throat tightens painfully.

“No.”
He whispers it to the empty room because it feels like something is cracking open inside him.
“No, Shane. No, you didn’t deserve that.”

The silence of the apartment feels hostile.
Heavy.
Accusing.

He thought he was protecting them both.
Protecting Shane’s career.
Protecting his own heart from being tied to something doomed.

But maybe...
maybe the truth is uglier.

Maybe he was protecting his fear.
His cowardice.
His inability to imagine a future that didn’t end in flames.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

Because the look on Shane’s face...
that hollow acceptance...
that is going to haunt him.

Shane didn’t look blindsided or betrayed.

He looked like a man who’d already prepared his heart for abandonment.

And that means...

Ilya was the one who put that expectation there.
He was the one who taught Shane that loving him came with an expiration date.
He was the one who built a world where Shane believed being thrown away was inevitable.

Ilya grips the back of his neck, a tremor running through him.

It felt like Shane wasn’t just agreeing.
It felt like Shane was relieved to not have to beg.

It felt like he thought he deserved this pain.

And worse...
worse than anything...

It felt like all the silent confessions Ilya made in the dark, in the press of their bodies, in the way he held Shane afterwards...
meant nothing to him.

Like Shane had never realized.
Never let himself realize.

Because why would he?

Why would Shane believe he was loved by someone like Ilya Rozanov?

Ilya feels sick.
He presses a fist to his mouth, breath unsteady.

He didn’t expect the goodbye to hurt like this.
He didn’t expect the hollow ache clawing through his ribs.
He didn’t expect Shane to walk out like he wasn’t worth fighting for.

He didn’t expect to feel...

Lonely.

Instantly, crushingly lonely.

He stands abruptly, pacing.
He can’t sit.
He can’t breathe right.

He keeps replaying the moment:

Shane looking at him with empty, defeated eyes.

Like Ilya had just proven him right.
Like Shane always believed this ending was inevitable.
Like this was a prophecy finally fulfilled.

All those nights...
the softness, the warmth, the trust...

Were they nothing to him?
Did he think Ilya didn’t mean any of it?
Did he truly believe Ilya didn’t love him?

Ilya’s chest tightens.

He never said the words out loud.
Never dared.
Never let himself.

Maybe that was the problem.

Maybe Shane went this whole time thinking he was just… a convenience.
A mistake waiting to happen.
A secret to be hidden until it became too inconvenient.

And the worst part?

Ilya made him feel that way.
Even if he never meant to.

He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes.
They burn.

“Shane…”
The name comes out broken.

He almost calls him.
Almost texts him.
Almost runs after him.

But he doesn’t.

Fear holds him by the throat.

Fear of the league.
Fear of the consequences.
Fear of loving someone he can’t have.

And so he stays still.

In his silent apartment.
With his silent phone.
And the ghost of Shane’s heartbreak echoing through the room.

Ilya whispers, voice raw:

“I didn’t want you to look at me like that.”

He doesn’t sleep that night.

He doesn’t think he deserves to.

.....

Author’s Note:
This entire fic was born out of a 2 a.m. snack munching impulse, so if the angst is unhinged… good.

That means it’s doing its job.

I promise.....absolutely no sad endings in this household. Not on my watch.
Hope you enjoy the chapter and don’t forget to drop a comment!

Chapter Text

Ilya was lacing his gloves when he heard it...quiet, casual, almost throwaway.

“Hey, did you guys hear? Rumor is Hollander’s leaving his team.”

His head snapped up so fast his neck actually stung.
“What?”
It came out sharper than he meant, too fast, too revealing.

His teammates blinked at him, shrugging like it was nothing.
“Relax, man. It’s just a rumour floating around online. Probably bullshit.”

Just a rumour.
Just noise.
Just something he had absolutely no right to care about.

Ilya exhaled, acting like it didn’t matter. Even nodding along.
But something inside him twisted, coiling tight.
Shane wouldn’t leave.
Shane fought tooth and nail for that seat.
Shane bled for that career.
Shane…

No.
He pushed it down.
He had to.

He had a game to focus on.

….

But when they were suiting up, helmets in hand, and the usual pre-game noise filled the locker room, he found himself scanning the corners, the benches, the door...
Once, twice, five times...
Searching for a face he had no right to look for.

Nothing.

Shane wasn’t late.
Shane was never late.

Ilya frowned and tried to shake it off. Maybe he was talking to staff. Maybe he was in the medical room. Maybe...

Their coach stepped in, clapping loudly to get their attention.

“Listen up! Before we head out, one update...Hollander has resigned his seat. Effective immediately. We’ll be adjusting strategy accordingly.”

The world didn’t go quiet.
It muted.
As if someone shoved Ilya underwater.

“What?” His voice wasn’t brash this time. It was small. Choked.
“Why would he...”
He couldn’t even finish.

His coach barely glanced at him.
“No idea. Was a sudden decision, apparently. Not our concern right now. Focus on the game.”

Focus?

Ilya stared at him, numb, because the words weren’t sinking in.

Shane resigned.
Shane… walked away from the thing he’d spent his whole life climbing toward.
Shane, who lived and breathed competition.
Shane, who fought for every inch of his career.

Why?

Why would he throw it all away?

Unless...

His throat closed.

Unless the breakup had broken more than just them.

Unless Shane had been hurting far worse than he let on.

Unless Ilya had been so focused on pushing him away that he never saw Shane slipping.

Ilya swallowed hard, but the panic kept rising, bitter and burning.

He told himself to breathe.
To think.
To focus on the game.

But all he could feel was the echo of Shane’s quiet, steady “I understand” and the hollow, cracked look in his eyes...

...right before he walked out of Ilya’s life.

And now, apparently, out of his career too.

Something was wrong.
Something was very, very wrong.

And for the first time since he ended it… Ilya felt fear settle deep in his chest.

Shane was gone.
And Ilya didn’t know why.
Didn’t know where.
Didn’t know if he could ever get him back.

All he knew was this:
This wasn’t just about love anymore.

Something else was happening.

And Ilya was too late to stop it.

….

Shane sat on the couch opposite his parents, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. The old living room felt too familiar, too safe, too small for the storm inside him. He hadn’t been here in months...not since the season started. He should’ve been on the field. He should’ve been in the locker room. He should’ve been doing what he’d worked his entire life for.

Instead, he sat here.

Twenty minutes past kickoff.

And his parents were staring at him like he was a puzzle missing half its pieces.

His mother’s voice was soft but laced with worry.
“Shane, sweetheart… why aren’t you at the game? Are you injured?”

His father frowned, eyes sharp, searching.
“Did something happen? You look...”
He broke off, jaw tightening.
“...you look like you’ve been crying.”

Shane blinked hard. His throat burned.

He wasn’t ready for this.
He wasn’t ready for anything.

His coach’s words still rang in his skull:

We’ll release an official statement saying you resigned for personal reasons.
Given… your situation, that’s justification enough.
A child is reason enough.

Reason enough to throw away his dream.
Reason enough to disappear quietly.
Reason enough to ruin any chance of going back.

Shane pressed a hand to his stomach, unconsciously, gently...already protective of what he hadn’t told anyone yet.

How would his parents react?
Would they be angry?
Disappointed?
Heartbroken?

He didn’t know.
He wasn’t ready to find out.

His mother leaned forward, taking his cold hand in her warm one.
“Baby… please talk to us. We can’t help if we don’t know what’s wrong.”

His father’s voice softened in a way it rarely did.
“You walked away from your team, Shane. You wouldn’t do that without a reason. Not you.”

Shane swallowed.
He’d expected anger.
He got fear instead.

Their fear.

His chest tightened.

He didn’t owe the world an explanation.
He didn’t owe his team an explanation.
But these were his parents.

And they deserved the truth.

But the words wouldn’t come.

I’m pregnant.
I’m alone.
The father of my child broke up with me an hour before I found the courage to tell him.

He couldn’t say it. Not yet.

So he forced air into his lungs and tried the safest half-truth he could manage.

“I… left the team,” he whispered, voice cracking. “The coach knows. There’s going to be a statement. Personal reasons.”

His father scowled. “That doesn’t tell us anything.”

Shane nodded once.
He knew.
He knew it didn’t.

His mother squeezed his hand gently.
“Are you ill?”

“No.”

“Did someone hurt you?”

Shane closed his eyes.
God.
Yes.
And no.
And both.

Finally, quietly, almost inaudibly, he said:

“I just… I needed to go. I couldn’t stay anymore.”

His father leaned back, exhaling hard.
“That seat was your life’s work, Shane. You bled for it. Why the hell would you walk away?”

Shane’s vision blurred.
He blinked it away.

Because staying meant risking the one thing he couldn’t lose anymore.
Because one heartbeat mattered more than a career full of them.
Because the man he loved chose fear over them, and Shane refused to let their child be born into that same shadow.

But he couldn’t say any of that.

Not yet.

He whispered the only truth that didn’t shatter him completely:

“I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s life.”

His parents exchanged a look...confusion, worry, alarm.

His mother cupped his cheek gently.
“Oh, sweetheart… whose life do you think you’re ruining?”

Shane’s voice broke.

“…mine.”

And for a moment, he finally let himself cry again, silently, as the secret he carried pulsed beneath his heart...
the secret that cost him his dream,
that cost him the man he loved,
that cost him the life he’d known.

The secret he would protect with everything he had left.

No matter the cost.

The silence stretched between them, thick and trembling, until Shane felt like he might choke on it.

His mother’s thumb brushed a tear off his cheek.
“Shane, sweetheart… whatever it is, you can tell us.”

His chest tightened so hard it almost hurt.
He’d held it in for days.
He’d held it in through heartbreak, through walking away from his team, through losing the man he loved without a fight.

He couldn’t hold it anymore.

His voice was barely a breath:

“…I’m pregnant.”

His mother gasped so sharply her hand flew to her mouth.
For half a heartbeat, Shane braced himself...fear, disappointment, anger, something...

But none of it came.

Instead she surged forward, dropping to her knees in front of him, arms wrapping around his trembling body like she could hold all his breaking pieces together.

“Oh, baby...oh, sweetheart...come here.”
Her fingers slid into his hair, stroking gently, instinctively, the way she used to when he was a kid who cried over scraped knees.
“Oh, Shane… you must have been terrified. My poor boy. Carrying this alone…”

The gentleness shattered him.

A sob tore out of his cracked chest, and he folded into her, clutching her like she was the last solid thing left in his world.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he choked.
“I was so scared. I didn’t want to ruin anything. I didn’t want to be a burden. I...”
His voice broke.
“I didn’t know how to say it.”

His mother just pressed a kiss to the side of his head.
“You’re not ruining anything. Do you hear me? Nothing. You were never a burden, and you never will be.”

Across from them, his father sat frozen...eyes wide, jaw slack, hands still braced on his knees.

Then, slowly, he cleared his throat.

“Shane.”

Shane lifted his tear-blurred gaze.

There was no anger.

Just disbelief.
And something else...careful, fragile hope.

His father asked, voice rough:

“…Are you happy about this? Do you want this?”

Shane swallowed.
It was the one question no one had asked him.

And the answer rose so fiercely it shocked him.

“Yes,” he whispered.
“I… I am. I really am.”

Something in his father melted.

His whole face softened, breaking into the warmest, most relieved smile Shane had ever seen on him.

“Then we’re happy too.”

Shane didn’t expect to cry again.
He did anyway.

His father moved...slow, steady...and wrapped his arms around both him and his mother, pulling them into a firm, protective embrace.

“We’re here,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion.
“We’re here, Shane. No matter what. You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone in this.”

Shane sagged into the hug, breath shaking out of him.

For the first time in a week...
for the first time since the breakup,
since the secret,
since the world began crumbling at his feet...

he felt his body relax.

His shoulders loosened.
His lungs opened.
The weight crushing his ribs loosened just enough for him to breathe again.

He wasn’t falling anymore.

He was held.

Held by the people who loved him.
Held by the family that wouldn’t let him drown.
Held by the promise that he and his baby weren’t alone in the universe.

For the first time since everything went wrong…
Shane felt safe.

And he let himself believe...
just for a moment...
that maybe, just maybe, things could still turn out okay.

….

When the tears finally slowed and everyone breathed again, Shane’s mother cupped his cheeks gently.

“Sweetheart… we don’t want to overwhelm you, but we do need to know one thing.”

His father nodded, trying to keep his voice calm.
“Who’s the father, Shane?”

Shane swallowed. His pulse spiked.

There was no hiding it.
No point pretending.

So he whispered the truth.

“…Ilya Rozanov.”

For a second, his parents didn’t react.

Then...

THUD.

His father’s eyes rolled back so fast he didn’t even get a word out. He just… fainted. Clean drop. Limp. Out cold on the carpet.

Shane jumped.
“Dad?!”

His mother sighed, utterly unbothered, patting her husband’s cheek.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Daniel. You handled the pregnancy better than this.”

Shane blinked, stunned.
“I thought he was okay! He didn’t even blink half an hour ago!”

His mom looked up at him with a very flat, very unimpressed stare.

“Shane, sweetheart, telling us you’re pregnant is one thing.
Telling your father that Ilya Rozanov is the father is… quite another.”

His father groaned awake, eyes flying open as if he’d been electrocuted.
“THE RUSSIAN?!”
He bolted upright, pointing at nothing and everything.
“THE ONE YOU HATE?!”

Shane buried his face in his hands. “I don’t hate him.”

His dad scoffed dramatically.
“You don’t hate him? Shane, you two fight like rabid raccoons every time he’s on-screen! I’ve seen you yell at the TV!”

Shane muttered, “That was… foreplay.”

His father wheezed. Actually wheezed.

Before the man could combust entirely, Shane’s mom clapped her hands with a thrilled squeal.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, delighted.
“Oh my GOD. Do you understand what this means?!”

Shane stared. “Mom...”

She grabbed his face with both hands, eyes sparkling like she’d just been handed a plot twist personally by the universe.

“The neighbor girl’s enemies-to-lovers fanfiction is coming to life in this house.”

Shane groaned. “Mom...please...don’t...”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she teased. “Should I not point out that the two NHL captains who can’t keep their hands off each other are now expecting a baby?”

His father just rubbed his temples.
“We’ll need… holy shit… we’re going to be related to the Russian menace.”

Shane mumbled, cheeks hot,
“He’s not a menace.”

Both parents looked at him.

He flushed harder.

His mom raised a brow.
“Oh sweetheart… you’re in love.”

His heart thudded painfully.

Shane’s father had barely stopped pacing when Shane finally whispered it.

“…He broke up with me.”

Everything in the room froze.

His mother’s hand went still on his back.
His father stopped mid-stride like someone had hit him with a brick.

“What?” his mother breathed.

Shane swallowed hard.
“He ended things. Said we were a distraction. Said his mind was made up. Nothing I could say would change it.”

His father’s face darkened so fast it was almost frightening.
“That bastard.”

Shane winced.
“Dad...”

“No.”
His father’s voice shook with fury he could barely contain.
“He throws you away, breaks your heart, and leaves you to deal with this alone? And now he’s off playing his game like nothing happened? I swear to god I will...”

His mother shot to her feet.

“Oh please,” she snapped, eyes blazing.
“I’ll get to him first. I will skin that man alive. I’ll show him what happens when someone makes my son cry.”

Shane blinked at her.
“…Mom.”

She jabbed a finger toward the front door.
“Where is he? Is he in the city? In the country? Give me a location and a thirty-minute head start...”

“Mom, no.
Dad, no.”
Shane lifted both hands weakly.
“You can’t just… attack him.”

His father scoffed.
“The hell I can’t.”

His mother crossed her arms, deadly calm, which was far scarier.
“He broke up with you while you were pregnant. Pregnant with his child. Oh, I’m absolutely going to draw blood.”

“Mom!”

“Well, not fatal blood,” she corrected.
“But definitely some blood.”

Shane pressed his palms to his eyes, torn between crying again and laughing at the absurdity of it.

They were furious.
Because he hurt.
Because they loved him.

And god, it made him feel safe.
But it also terrified him.

So he lowered his hands, voice soft, pleading.

“Please… just don’t do anything yet.”

Both parents turned toward him.

Shane sucked in a shaky breath.

“I haven’t decided what I’m going to do about him.”
His voice cracked.
“But whatever it is… I need it to be on my terms. Not because anyone forces it. Not because anyone pressures him. Not because anyone fights him for me.”

His mother’s anger softened into heartbreak.
She knelt in front of him again, taking his trembling hands.

“Oh sweetheart…”

His father’s jaw clenched, but he nodded once, even if it looked like it pained him physically.

“You’re our son,” he said quietly.
“We’ll do this your way. But say the word...just the word...and I’ll level Boston with my bare hands.”

His mother glared sideways.
“Excuse you. I get first swing.”

“Not this again...”

Shane let out a wet laugh, wiping tears off his cheeks.

He felt….
For the first time in days...

Not shattered.
Not abandoned.
Not alone.

Supported.

Held.

Loved.

“I’ll figure it out,” he whispered.
“I just… need time.”

His mother pulled him into her arms again.

“Take all the time you need, baby.
We’re right here.”

His father wrapped his arms around them both.

“You’re not facing this alone.
Not now.
Not ever.”

And for a moment...
just a moment...
the ache in Shane’s chest loosened enough
for him to breathe again.

….

Ilya skated toward the bench, lungs burning, heart pounding with the electric thrill of victory. Overtime goal. Clean, sharp, beautiful. The crowd roared like an earthquake as his teammates slammed into him, shouting and whooping.

He yelled too, because that’s what you do when your blood’s on fire and the world loves you for it.

But the second he walked off the ice, towel slung around his neck, a knot formed in his gut.
He didn’t know why.

He should’ve been celebrating.

Instead… something felt wrong.

He pushed it down, shook it off, and headed to the press conference.

The room was loud. Cameras flashing. Reporters buzzing.

And then...
Montreal’s coach stepped up to the mic on the adjacent podium.

“We have an announcement regarding Shane Hollander.”

Ilya’s head snapped up so fast he almost cracked something in his neck.

The coach continued, voice steady:

“Effective immediately, Shane has resigned from the Montreal Voyageurs. For personal reasons. He will not be returning to the team.”

Ilya’s heart slammed against his ribs.

What.

WHAT?

For a moment, he forgot to breathe. The world blurred at the edges, the press room noise turning into a distant, echoing hum.

He resigned?

Shane Hollander?
The man who breathed hockey?
The man who would play through a broken rib and a fever?
The man who fought his entire life for that captaincy?

Shane walked away?

No.
No...this didn’t make sense.

Ilya’s chest tightened, panic punching through him like a slap.

Was he sick?
Was he hurt?
Did something happen?

The last time Ilya saw him...

Was the night he broke him.

Two weeks ago.

Two weeks since Shane walked out of his apartment without a word.
Two weeks of silence.
Two weeks that Ilya tried to justify as “clean separation” and “healthy boundaries.”

But now?

Now all he could think was...

Was Shane trying to tell me something that night?
Did I shut him down?
Did I...did I miss something important?

A reporter asked Ilya a question, but it sounded like static. He blinked blankly at them.

Wonderful.

He’d apparently forgotten English.

And then...
across the podium...
Hayden Pike turned his head and glared at Ilya with the intensity of a thousand suns.

Ilya froze.

Okay.
Okay, that was a murder glare.
Full death beam.
Nuclear-level hostility.

Hayden Pike looked like he wanted to climb across the media tables, grab Ilya by the throat, and shake him until answers fell out.

Ilya stared back, confused.

Why is he looking at me like I broke into his house and kicked his dog?

Hayden’s glare intensified.

Oh god.

Did I break into his house and kick his dog??

No.
No, Ilya had never even been to Montreal socially...unless you count sneaking in at ungodly hours to make out with Shane against every available surface. So no, that was probably not it.

The glare sharpened.

Hayden Pike looked one emotional inch away from launching a folding chair at Ilya during a recorded press event.

Ilya muted his mic, leaned toward the person nearbly, and hissed:

“Why is he looking at me like that? What did I do?”

They whispered back, “With all due respect… when don’t people have reasons to glare at you?”

Ilya frowned.

Fair.

But still.

It couldn’t be coincidence.

Something happened.
Something big.
Something tied to Shane.
And everyone seemed to know something Ilya didn’t.

His chest constricted painfully.

Was Shane in trouble?
Was he hurt?

Ilya’s stomach dropped.

He swallowed hard, voice barely steady as he answered the next question in the blandest monotone of his career. His mind wasn’t here.

It was with Shane.

With the memory of Shane’s face that last night.

With the way he’d looked so… defeated.
So small.
So resigned.

Like he’d expected Ilya to break his heart.

Ilya’s pulse pounded.

Oh god.
What if Shane had been telling him something important?
What if Ilya shut him down before he could say it?

And Hayden’s death glare was starting to make too much sense.

Because if Shane was hurt...
if Shane walked away from his team because of something Ilya did...

…Hayden Pike was not glaring at him for fun.

He was glaring because it was Ilya’s fault.

Ilya swallowed hard.

Suddenly, the victory he’d earned meant nothing.

Because somewhere out there...

Shane was hurt.

And Ilya had no idea why.

No idea where.

And no idea if he was okay.

And for the first time since he’d said the words it’s over...

Ilya felt truly, sickeningly afraid.

...

AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Thank you sooo much for all your support on this fic!!

I’ve been grinning like an idiot reading all your comments, you have no idea how happy your enthusiasm makes me. 🫶

I’m genuinely so glad you’re enjoying this messy, angsty rollercoaster with me.

So here it is…the next chapter!

As always, don’t forget to drop your thoughts in the comments, I live for them. 

Chapter Text

Ilya stared at his phone like it was a ticking time bomb.
He’d paced three times around the locker room, muttering under his breath, muttering things he wouldn’t admit to his teammates.

He resigned. Shane resigned. Shane. Hollander. My… god. What did I do?

His thumbs hovered over the screen. He’d replayed this conversation in his head more times than he could count:
“Hey Shane… are you okay?”
“Why did you leave?”
“What’s going on?”

Finally, taking a shaky breath, he typed:

“Shane… what happened? Why did you resign?”

He hit send with far too much ceremony, like it was a ceremonial dagger into the unknown.

And then… he waited.
He waited like an idiot.
Expecting Shane to reply immediately, like he always used to.

Five hours later, his phone buzzed.

Ilya nearly dropped it. Heart in his throat.

He swiped.

A single, short message:

“Personal reasons.”

Ilya’s jaw dropped. Personal reasons. That was it? After all this time, all the late-night texts, the fights, the whispers, the goddamn chemistry that could have ignited a small city? Personal reasons.

His thumb hovered over the call button.
Come on, Shane… pick up.

He pressed.

Rang once.
Rang twice.
Rang three times…

No answer.

Frustration began to bubble.
Rage licked at the edges of his panic.
He pressed again.

And again.

He dialed Shane. Phone to his ear, stomach knotting into uncomfortable origami shapes.

Pick up, pick up, pick up…

It rang.

And rang.

No answer.

Ilya’s hands started shaking, half from anger, half from worry.

Why isn’t he answering? He always answers! He always picks up when it’s me!

He dialed again. Same result. He called a third time. Then a fourth. Eventually, after the fifth failed attempt, he threw his phone on the couch and groaned, collapsing onto it dramatically.

This is it. He hates me. He moved on. He’s… he’s… probably dating someone else right now and laughing at me.

Ilya’s panic hit a peak.

Finally, as if guided by divine desperation, he decided to leave a voicemail.

He hit Record, voice trembling but loud enough for Shane to hear, and said:

"Shane… please… just call back. I just… I just want to know you’re okay. That’s it. Please."

He ended the recording, hit send, and then stared at the ceiling like a man awaiting divine intervention.

An hour passed.

He started pacing again, kicking a chair in frustration, muttering:

"Of course. Of course. He’s gone. He doesn’t care. He’s done with me. Five hours to reply… now no calls… perfect. Amazing. I’m amazing. Brilliant."

And then...he got a notification.

An audio clip.

Finally! Ilya thought, trembling. He tapped it eagerly, but froze halfway through listening.

The voice wasn’t Shane’s.

It was deeper, older, sharper.

“You… you broke my son’s heart, Rozanov. You better hope I never see you, because if I do, I will...”

Ilya’s jaw dropped. His first instinct:. This is… this is Shane’s dad sending me threats on his behalf.

Then he realized the chaos in the background.

Shane was yelling.

“DAD! PUT THE PHONE DOWN! DON’T SEND IT! I SAID DON’T!”

And then a loud curse that sounded exactly like Shane, furious and unfiltered.

Ilya blinked. What… what is happening?

The clip ended abruptly, leaving Ilya staring at his phone in disbelief, a perfect combination of panic, relief, and ridiculous confusion crashing down on him. And the clip was then deleted from the chat.

So… Shane’s okay? he thought, heart hammering. But his dad is petty as hell… and Shane is yelling at his dad… oh my god… my life…

Ilya groaned, collapsed onto the couch.

He shook his head, half-laughing, half-crying.

The absurdity of it all hit him. Hayden Pike’s glare from two weeks ago suddenly felt trivial.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a tiny, nervous voice whispered:

Maybe… maybe he’s mad at me, but… at least he’s alive.

He couldn’t get a single straight answer.
He couldn’t find Shane.
He couldn’t force him to pick up.
He couldn’t show up at Shane’s parents’ house like some unhinged stalker...
(He considered it. Twice.)

But then… salvation.

He remembered the school event.

Two months ago, both their teams had agreed to participate in a youth hockey mentorship program...a PR event at the local academy. Fans. Kids. Reporters. Giant grins and fake humility.

Ilya hated these events.
Too many cameras.
Too many questions.
Too many little children who stared at him like he was some legend.

But now?
Now this event was a lifeline.

Because Shane had been signed up for it.
His name was on the sheet.
His picture was in the school newsletter.
The kids were told he would be there.

And the one thing Ilya knew about Shane Hollander...
The one thing that had always made him soft inside...
Was that Shane would never disappoint a child.

He might resign.
He might move back home.
He might block Ilya for life.
But he would not break a promise to a school full of kids who admired him.

Which meant…
Shane would be there.
He had to be there.
They wouldn’t withdraw him now...not without causing chaos the league PR team would cry over for weeks.

So Ilya clung to that event like it was oxygen.
His one chance.
His one glimpse.
The only opening fate was giving him.

He didn’t even know what he would do when he saw Shane.
Corner him?
Grab him by the wrist?
Drag him somewhere private and demand answers?
Shake him until that cold, dead tone vanished from his texts?

Or would he stand across the rink like a coward, just watching him?
Just making sure he was alive, breathing, safe?

Would Shane look happy?
Would he miss Ilya the same way he is missing him?
Ilya’s thoughts stuttered violently.

No.
Impossible.
Ridiculous.
He shut that idea down immediately.

And yet… why had Shane resigned?
Why had he vanished?
Why did his father sound like he wanted to murder Ilya personally?
Why did Shane hesitate five hours before sending a two-word reply?
Why did his silence feel like grief?

Ilya’s jaw clenched, something dark simmering beneath the surface.

He didn’t like this feeling.
This restless, possessive, suffocating panic.
But he couldn’t turn it off.

Shane had been his.
Not officially.
Not publicly.
Not safely.

But in every real way that mattered...
His.

He had memorized Shane’s laugh, his freckles, the tiny scar on his eyebrow, the way he sometimes licked his teeth when he was nervous, the way he tangled their fingers under hotel sheets like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And now he was just...gone.

No.
No, Ilya Rozanov wasn’t letting this end like that.
He wasn’t letting Shane disappear quietly into the dark.
He wasn’t letting his last words to Shane be we’re done.

If Shane wanted to hide, fine.
If Shane wanted distance, fine.
If Shane wanted space, fine.

But Ilya would see him.
He would look him in the eyes one more time.
He would make sure he was okay.
And if Shane tried to run...

Ilya wasn’t above chasing.

He marked the event date on his phone.
Circled it.
Checked the time.
The place.
The roster.
Everything.

For the first time since the breakup, something alive pulsed in his chest.
Hope.
Fear.
Possessiveness.
All tangled together.

He whispered under his breath, almost a vow:

“Just let me see you, Hollander.
Just once.
Then we’ll see if I can let you go.”

….

Shane sat in the school parking lot with the engine off, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles hurt.

Ten minutes.
Ten whole minutes staring straight ahead, breathing in and out like he had forgotten how lungs worked.

He shouldn’t be this nervous.
He shouldn’t feel like his bones were vibrating.
He shouldn’t feel like he was seventeen again, about to play his first pro game with a stomach full of bees.

But he was going to see Ilya Rozanov.
After a month.
After the breakup.
After the resignation.
After the voicemail.
After everything.

And a part of him...a part he wished he could rip out...still ached for him.

He forced his hand away from his stomach, but it drifted back unconsciously, palm smoothing over the faint curve beneath his hoodie.
Barely a bump.
Barely noticeable.
He could still hide it.
He would hide it.

He whispered to himself, voice trembling,

“Just get through today… and leave. No scenes. No drama.”

But his heart didn’t listen.

After one last steadying breath, he stepped out of the car.

…..

Inside the small school rink, the noise hit him like a soft wave...kids laughing, skates scraping the ice, the excited buzz of a crowd that wasn’t big but somehow felt huge anyway.

Shane plastered on his signature good-guy smile and started doing what he came here to do:

Sign helmets.
Answer questions.
Ruffle little heads.
Explain stick angles and passing lanes and training routines.

He was good at this.
Kids adored him.
And for a few minutes...just a few...he actually forgot the panic chewing through him.

Then a little boy tugged on his hoodie, asking,
“Are you gonna come play here again next year?”

Shane’s throat tightened.

Before he could answer, something prickled across the back of his neck.
A heat.
A burn.
A magnetic pull he knew far too well.

His heartbeat stuttered.

No.
Don’t look.
Don’t...

Shane lifted his gaze.

And there he was.

Ilya Rozanov stood on the opposite side of the rink, half-shadowed, half-illuminated by the overhead lights.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.

His eyes were locked on Shane like nothing else in the world existed.

Dark.
Intense.
Hungry.
Devastated.
Memorizing.
Possessive.

Shane felt heat flood his cheeks instantly.
God.
He hadn’t blushed like this since their first hookup, when Ilya told him he had “a face too pretty to waste on hating each other.”

Shane looked away.
He couldn’t look at him.
Not with his hands still unconsciously smoothing his belly.
Not with emotions threatening to spill out of him like water from a cracked cup.

But the kids tugged him back into conversation, and he forced a smile, pretending to focus, though every cell in his body was burning under Ilya’s stare.

Because Ilya wasn’t just looking.

He was studying him.
Tracing every inch of Shane’s face.
His cheeks.
His mouth.
His posture.
His skin.
Like he was trying to see everything he had missed for the last month.
Like he was cataloguing evidence of pain, trying to find what had changed.

And Shane hated how much he wanted to run to him.
How much he wanted to bury himself in Ilya’s chest and just breathe.
How much he missed his voice.
His warmth.
His stupid arrogance.
His soft hands after games.
His lips when he wasn’t thinking.

Shane swallowed hard.

No.
He couldn’t do this.
Not here.
Not now.

He forced himself to focus on the kids again, mentally shoving Ilya back into the corner of his mind.

But a spark didn’t stop burning under his skin…
Because Ilya Rozanov was still looking at him like Shane had become the center of gravity.

Like he was trying to solve a problem he didn’t understand.

Like he wasn’t letting Shane go.

….

ILYA

He told himself he came here for PR.
For the kids.
For the league.

Lie.

He came for one reason.

Shane Hollander.

The only man who’d ever cracked him open without trying.

The rink was loud...kids shouting, sticks clacking, coaches corralling...but the second Ilya walked in, all the noise faded into static. His eyes swept the space automatically, instinctively, desperately.

Where is he?
Where is he, where is he...

And then...

He saw him.

At the far end of the rink, surrounded by grinning kids and overwhelmed parents, stood Shane Hollander.

Hoodie.
Soft smile.
Flushed cheeks.
Hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it.

He looked… smaller somehow.
Gentler.
Warmer.

More breakable.

Ilya’s breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat, refusing to move.

He didn’t walk closer.
He didn’t wave.
He didn’t speak.

He just stood there.
Staring.

Like a starving man watching his only meal through glass.

Because Shane wasn’t just here.
He was alive.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to smell his shampoo.
Close enough to reach for...

If he dared.

The last time Ilya saw him was a month ago, when he ripped them apart with cold words he hadn’t meant.
Words he regretted every waking day since.

He’d told himself he’d moved on.
He’d lied.

Seeing Shane again felt like getting punched in the chest by a memory.

God.
He’d missed him.

More than he should.
More than he’d ever admit.
More than was safe.

He tried to look away.
He couldn’t.

Every part of Shane tugged at him...the way his eyes crinkled at a kid’s joke, the way he bent slightly when they tugged his hoodie, the tiny curve of his smile, the glow around him that Ilya swore no one else in the world had.

Ilya drank him in silently.
Greedily.
Memorizing every detail like a man terrified of forgetting.

He tried to act normal.

Because he’d noticed something else.

Something small.
Subtle.
Not obvious to anyone who hadn’t spent a year learning Shane’s body like scripture.

Shane kept touching his stomach.

A brush of fingers.
A palm pressed briefly.
A protective motion he didn’t seem aware of.

Something twisted sharply in Ilya’s gut.

He forced himself to breathe.

No.
No.
No, that was insane...
Shane wouldn’t...
He couldn’t...
Wouldn’t hide something so huge...

Ilya swallowed hard, throat burning with questions he wasn’t ready to voice.

He didn’t know what was wrong with Shane.
He didn’t know why he resigned.
Why he blocked him out.
Why he vanished.

But he knew one thing:

Shane didn’t look okay.

He looked pale under the rink lights, tired beneath his smile, softer at the edges like life had been chewing at him.

Rage whispered beneath Ilya’s ribs...quiet, low, unsteady.

Who hurt him?
Who scared him?
Who made him quit the sport he loved?
Who made him shrink into himself like this?

Fine.
He could wait.

Barely.

But he would see Shane today.
He would talk to him.
He would get answers.
He would make him look up.
He would make him say something that wasn’t two cold words over text.

He needed to hear his voice.
He needed to see him up close.
He needed to know if the man he’d pushed away a month ago still belonged...
God.
No.
Don’t finish that thought.

Shane finally glanced up.

Their eyes met.

Just for a second.
Barely the length of a breath.

Shane went pink.
Soft.
Flustered.

And Ilya felt the ground tilt beneath him.

He wasn’t imagining it.

Shane still felt something.

Something strong enough to drown them both.

Ilya exhaled slowly, grip tightening on the rink barrier.

“You’re not running from me today, Hollander.”

He didn’t know what he’d say when he got close.
Didn’t know if he’d demand answers or just say Shane’s name like a prayer.
Didn’t know if he’d touch him or stay frozen, afraid to break him.

But he knew one thing, burning hotter than shame, guilt, regret, anything:

He would not leave this rink without seeing Shane up close.

Whatever it took.

….

Ilya’s POV

The moment the event ends, Shane practically sprints for the exit.
Ilya doesn’t think...he moves.

Long strides, quicker than Shane expects, and before the man can escape into the night like smoke, Ilya catches his wrist and nudges him into the empty bathroom.

The door clicks shut behind them.

Shane freezes.
Cornered.
And Ilya… God, Ilya should start with something reasonable. A sane question. A gentle “can we talk?”

Instead his hand lifts on instinct, fingers hooking into Shane’s waistband like his body remembered the shape of him better than his mind did.

“Did you miss me?” Ilya hears himself ask, instantly wanting to kick himself.
Really? This? This is how you lead?

Because he did miss him...all of him.

The quiet, the barbed humor, the way Shane looked at him like he wasn’t just a beautiful disaster of a man.

But this stupid motion, this stupid teasing pull of fabric, it makes it look like all he missed was the sex.

Shane’s breath hitches, but not in the way Ilya wants.
Not want.
Not longing.

More like wary. Hurt.

Ilya drops his hand.

“I didn’t mean to say what I said that night,” he starts, voice low, rough. “I was… impulsive. And it scared the shit out of me to feel...” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. Vulnerability tastes like rust on his tongue. “I wasn’t ready to be that open.”

Shane just stares. In disbelief. Arms crossed like armor.

Ilya swallows. “Can we… go back to my place? Talk?”

For the first time since they met, Shane’s answer is immediate.

“No.”

It hits like a punch.
A slow, sickening punch that steals the air from Ilya’s chest.

He hates me.
He actually hates me.

Ilya steps closer anyway, helpless.

Their faces are inches apart now.

For a moment...just a trembling second...they lean toward each other, instinct pulling them into a kiss they haven’t earned.

But then Shane breaks first.

He shoves the stall door open and staggers out.
Ilya follows on reflex...

...and watches as Shane grips the washbasin and vomits.

The sound punches him deeper than any refusal could.

He stands there, completely lost. Completely useless.

And because he is an idiot, a catastrophic idiot, the first thing out of his mouth is:

“Does the thought of kissing me revolt you that much?”

Shane lifts his head.

Anger...raw and blazing...cuts through his expression.

“Fuck you.”

He wipes his mouth, shoulders trembling, and walks out without looking back.

Ilya stays frozen in place, hand still halfway raised toward him.

…

Shane doesn’t remember getting out of the building.

One moment he’s glaring at Ilya with bile in his throat and fury burning through his veins, and the next he’s outside in the cold air, hands shaking, lungs pulling in breaths too sharp, too fast.

His mind is a mess...no, a crash site.

Ilya’s words keep replaying in chopped, disjointed fragments:

“I was impulsive.”
“I wasn’t ready.”
“Can we talk?”
“Did you miss me?”

Shane squeezes his eyes shut.

Impulsive.
As if that night didn’t break him.
As if Ilya hadn’t looked him in the eye, turned his world inside out, and walked away like it cost him nothing.

And now...now he wants to press Shane against a bathroom stall, tug at his waistband, breathe him in like he never left, like all they ever were was heat and skin?

No apology.
No explanation that wasn’t half-drowning in cowardice.
Just… that.

A confession and almost-kiss like it’s supposed to fix things.

Shane lets out a bitter sound, halfway between a scoff and a choked laugh.

“The audacity,” he mutters. “The sheer audacity of that Russian menace.”

His dad used to say that whenever Shane complained about Ilya.

Now it tastes furious.

Shane’s heart is pounding so hard it feels like bruises forming from the inside. He runs a hand down his face, wishing it would wipe away everything...the hurt, the confusion, the stupid lingering wanting.

God, he’s so tired of wanting someone who treats vulnerability like a bomb about to detonate in his hands.

He leans against the wall, breath shuddering.

He can’t even trust his own body...one near-kiss and he almost forgot. Almost let himself fall right back in.

No.
Not again.
Not this time.

Shane’s voice cracks when he whispers to the empty air:

“He doesn’t get to do this. Not to me. Not again.”

But even as he says it, his chest aches with the worst truth of all:

He isn’t sure he can survive it if Ilya walks away a second time.

.....

a/n:

hiii babes 💗
thank u sm for all the love on this fic?? like genuinely i wasn’t expecting this much chaos in my comments but u all DELIVERED 😭💀
i’ve been reading every single msg like a little gremlin eating snacks at 2am and giggling dkfjsdf

sooo here’s the next chapter!!
pls don’t forget to drop comments, u know i survive on them like a plant survives on sunlight and unhinged readers 😌

love u, enjoy 😘

Chapter Text

Ilya Rozanov has been hit hard on the ice before.
Broken ribs. A concussion. A knee that still aches when the weather dips below freezing.

None of it compares to the pain of watching Shane Hollander walk away from him in that school bathroom.

None of it.
Not even close.

….

He drives home like a man possessed, knuckles white on the steering wheel, replaying every second of Shane’s face when he’d said no.

Not “not now.”
Not “I need time.”
Not “Ilya, I’m hurt.”

Just...
No.

It was the first time Shane ever refused him.
The first time those soft brown eyes didn’t hold affection… or hope… but something else.

Something broken.

Something that looked a hell of a lot like distrust.

Ilya parks in front of his building and just… sits there. His chest tightens painfully, breath turning shallow, and for one horrifying second he thinks:

Is this what a heart attack feels like?

Because he deserves it.
Because he earned every second of this agony.

He never should have let Shane go.
Never should have opened his stupid mouth that night.
Never should have pretended he wasn’t falling...hard, stupidly, helplessly falling...for the one man who ever made him feel like more than just Ilya Rozanov, hockey machine.

He squeezes his eyes shut and all he sees is Shane.

Shane smiling up at him, sleepy and soft in his bed.
Shane rolling his eyes at Ilya’s dumb jokes.
Shane biting his lip when he was trying not to laugh.
Shane, flushed and warm, stroking Ilya’s cheek like he meant something.

Shane kissing him like he was home.

Ilya presses his palms into his eyes until sparks flash.

“Idiot,” he mutters. “You fucking idiot.”

Because he had all that.
He had warmth and love and softness ... everything he swore he didn’t want, didn’t need ... and he threw it at Shane’s feet like garbage.

And now Shane looks at him like he’s dangerous.

Like he’s something to escape.

…

He drags himself upstairs and collapses onto his couch, still in his event jersey, still smelling like sweat and kids’ ice rink rubber flooring. The room is too quiet. Too cold.

He hasn’t slept properly in weeks.

Every night, his hands reach automatically for a warm body that isn’t there.
Every night, his bed feels too big.
Every night, he opens Shane’s last text ... the one from before everything shattered ... and reads it like it’s scripture.

It’s pathetic.

He knows it.

But it’s the only thing that keeps him breathing.

…

He throws his head back and stares at the ceiling.

Shane vomiting.
Shane pale.
Shane clutching his stomach.

A spike of fear shoots through him, sharper than any jealousy or heartbreak.

Was he sick?
Was he hurt?
Did he get worse after leaving the bathroom?

Ilya sits up so fast he gets dizzy.

He grabs his phone and calls.

No answer.

He calls again.

Again.

Again.

Every ring feels like it’s pulling another stitch out of his chest.

Voicemail.

Ilya’s pulse stutters.

He tries to tell himself Shane is just sleeping. Or busy. Or ignoring him...which honestly, he deserves.

But no matter how he spins it, all he hears is the sickening thunk of Shane’s knees on the dirty tile floor as he retched.

What if he fainted?
What if nobody found him?
What if he...

“No,” he snarls at the empty room. “Stop.”

He calls again.

Voicemail.

He throws the phone on the couch and rakes his hands through his hair.

Shane Hollander is avoiding him.
Deliberately.
Fully.

Shane, who used to answer Ilya’s texts in two seconds flat.
Shane, who used to smile when Ilya’s name lit up his phone.
Shane, who used to crawl into his lap and kiss him like he was afraid Ilya would disappear.

Shane, who used to love him.

The worst part?

Ilya can’t even be angry.

Because every second he imagines Shane’s pale face and trembling hands, fear punches straight through the regret.

He needs to know Shane is okay.

He needs to hear his voice.

He needs...

He needs Shane.

….

With shaking hands, he opens his contacts and does something insane:
he buys a new number through an app, activates it, and calls Shane again.

And this time...

Shane picks up.

The line clicks.
A soft inhale.
Then silence.

Ilya’s heart stumbles into his throat.

“Shane.”

God, his own voice sounds wrecked. Raw. Too full.

He hears the faint rustle of movement, like Shane pulling the phone back, about to hang up.

Panic punches through him so hard he almost chokes.

“Don’t, Please” Ilya blurts. “Don’t cut the call. Please.”

His voice cracks.
He hates it.
He deserves it.

“Shane, please...just… don’t.”

The silence stretches.
It eats him alive.

He squeezes the phone until his knuckles go numb.

“I know I fucked up,” he breathes, words tumbling out too fast, too desperate. “I know what I did that night... I shouldn’t have... I was scared. I was a coward. I thought if I cut it off first, it wouldn’t hurt later, but it hurts now, it fucking hurts, and I deserve it, I know, but don’t... don’t disappear on me.”

His voice wobbles.

He doesn’t care.

“I can fix it,” he whispers. “Just let me fix it. Let me talk to you. Let me see you. I’ll grovel at your feet for eternity if you want. I’ll kneel. I’ll beg. I’ll do anything. Just don’t… don’t shut me out. Not you.”

He drags in a shaky breath.

“Shane,…… I miss you. I miss …..everything. I miss your stupid hair and your stupid perfect face and the way you fall asleep on me like …..like I’m safe. I miss your laugh. I miss your hands on me. I miss you like I haven’t lived until I met you and …..life stopped the moment I denied our love..”

Still nothing.

The silence is a knife.

He thinks...this is it.
Shane put the phone down.
Walked away.
Won’t ever speak to him again.

He deserves it.
He knows it.

He rests his forehead against his fist, breathing through the ache.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to. I tried not to. I kept telling myself this was just sex, that I didn’t need more, that you didn’t want more, but I was lying. I’ve been lying for a year. I love you, Shane. And I don’t care what happens with hockey or the media or anything else. I’ll burn my entire career to the ground if you asked. Just… say something. Anything. Please.”

Minutes pass.

Maybe one.
Maybe five.
Maybe a lifetime.

Then...

Soft.
Quiet.
Fragile.

“We will talk later.”

Ilya slumps back into the couch like he’s been shot.

Relief floods him so violently he goes lightheaded.

Later means there will be a later.
That Shane didn’t block him.
That Shane didn’t delete him.
That Shane didn’t give up entirely.

It’s enough to pull the air back into his lungs.

“…okay,” Ilya whispers. “Later. Yes. Later is good. Whenever you want. I’ll wait. Just... thank you. Thank you, Shane.”

He’s aware he sounds ridiculous, breathless, grateful for scraps, but he doesn’t care.

He’d thank Shane for a crumb of hope. For a molecule of it.

There’s a rustle on the other end.

Then Shane says, quietly, painfully:

“I don’t know if I can forgive you yet.”

Ilya shuts his eyes.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know you can’t. I don’t expect...”

“You broke my heart, Ilya.”

His breath catches.

“I know,” he says again. “And I’m so sorry. I’ll be sorry forever.”

Silence.

Then...

“But I still…” Shane’s voice cracks. “I still love you. And I’m willing to give us another chance.”

Ilya’s heart doesn’t just skip.
It stops.
Then slams into motion so hard he gasps.

Shane still loves him.

Shane is still willing.

Relief floods him so violently his eyes sting.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Shane...thank you. You won’t regret it. I swear...”

But the call ends.

Shane hangs up.

And Ilya sits there, phone still pressed to his ear, staring at nothing as the realization washes over him like a tidal wave.

Shane is willing to try again.

He’s not lost.

Not completely.

There is still a chance.
A thread.
A fragile, delicate thread between them.

And Ilya Rozanov will do anything...
anything...
to make sure it never snaps again.

He leans back on the couch, heart pounding, eyes burning, and whispers into the empty room:

“I won’t lose you again, lyubimyy(darling). Not now. Not ever.”

But beneath the relief, the love, the hope...

One thought claws through:

Why did Shane vomit?
Why was he pale?
Why did he look sick?

Ilya swallows hard.

Whatever it is, he’ll fix it.
He’ll take care of Shane.
He’ll earn him back piece by fragile piece.

Because now he knows the truth:

It was never just sex.
Never just rivalry.
Never just heat and bedsheets and stolen nights.

It was love.

And he’s done pretending otherwise.

…..

Shane POV:

Shane stares at the screen of his phone like it’s a loaded gun.

Another call from Ilya.

He lets it ring.
And ring.
And ring.

The sound crawls under his skin, burrows into his bones.
His chest tightens, breath shortening until he feels sick all over again.

He hates this.

He hates ignoring Ilya.
He hates wanting to pick up.
He hates that he still loves that stupid man with every bruised part of him.

But he also hates how easily Ilya shattered him.
How quickly he tossed him aside.
How cleanly he cut Shane out.

His stomach churns.

He presses a hand over it instinctively, thumb tracing circles over the swell hidden under his hoodie. It’s not big yet, but it’s there. Warm. Real. Alive.

A reminder.
A warning.
A promise.

He can’t do anything reckless...
not now.
Not when he’s not alone anymore.

The phone stops ringing.

Silence.

Shane exhales shakily and sinks back into the couch at his parents’ house, muscles trembling from emotional exhaustion. He hates that he still reacts like this. That two seconds of Ilya’s name lighting up his phone can unravel him entirely.

“I’m fine,” he whispers to himself.

A lie.

He lies a lot lately.

His phone buzzes again.

But this time...
it’s a different number.

He frowns.
Spam?
Media?
Someone fishing for gossip?

He hesitates.

Then answers.

“Hello?”

Nothing.
Just breathing.
A familiar kind of breathing that tightens something sharp in his chest.

Then...

“Shane.”

Shane almost drops the phone.

He knows that voice anywhere.
Even in the dark.
Even in dreams he hates himself for having.

His heart kicks.
His throat closes.

Of course Ilya would get a new number.
Of course he would find a way around Shane’s avoidance.

Shane pulls the phone away from his ear, thumb hovering over end call.

He can’t do this.
Not now.
Not when he still smells like Ilya’s cologne every time he opens his closet.
Not when he still dreams of Ilya’s hands on his jaw, his chest, his belly.

Not when he still loves him.

He hears it then...
Ilya’s inhale.
Sharp. Panicked.

“Don’t,” Ilya blurts. “Don’t cut the call. Please.”

Shane freezes.

Please.

He’s heard that word from Ilya only a handful of times.
Never like this.
Never so desperate.

His eyes burn.

A long, shaky silence fills the line.
Shane doesn’t trust his own voice, so he says nothing.

And Ilya...
Ilya starts talking.

Not calm.
Not confident.
Not the steady, collected Russian machine everyone thinks he is.

He sounds wrecked.

“I know I fucked up,” he says. “I know what I did that night... I shouldn’t have... I was scared. I was a coward.”

Shane closes his eyes.

Because hearing this hurts.
Because hearing this feels like salt over a wound he’s still bleeding from.

“I thought if I cut it off first, it wouldn’t hurt later,” Ilya continues. “But it hurts now. It fucking hurts, Shane. And I deserve it, I know. But don’t... don’t disappear on me.”

Shane swallows hard.

He told himself he was prepared for this.
That he could handle hearing Ilya’s voice again.
That he could listen without breaking.

He was wrong.

Very wrong.

“I can fix it,” Ilya’s voice shakes. “Just let me fix it. Let me talk to you. Let me see you. I’ll grovel at your feet for eternity if you want. I’ll kneel. I’ll beg. I’ll do anything. Just don’t… don’t shut me out. Not you.”

Shane presses his fist to his mouth.

Don’t do this, he thinks.
Don’t say these things.
Don’t make me want you again.
Don’t give me hope.

Because hope is dangerous.
Hope is what breaks people like him.
Hope is what hurts babies that don’t deserve heartbreak before they’re even born.

Ilya’s voice cracks again.

“I miss you,” he says, soft and terrified. “I miss everything.”

Shane bites down hard on his knuckle.

He shouldn’t.
He can’t.
But god, he misses him too.

“I love you,” Ilya whispers. “I didn’t want to. I tried not to. I told myself this was just sex, that I didn’t need more, but I was lying. I’ve been lying for a year. I love you, Shane.”

Shane’s breath catches.

He sinks forward, elbows on his knees, phone clutched to his ear like a lifeline.

He wants to scream.
He wants to cry.
He wants to hang up.

He wants to run straight to Ilya’s apartment and sob into his chest.

Everything inside him twists painfully.

He doesn’t speak.
He won’t betray himself.
Not yet.

The silence stretches out.

Ilya starts breathing like he’s crying quietly, trying to hide it.

Shane flinches.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Ilya wasn’t supposed to love him back.
Ilya wasn’t supposed to sound like this.
Ilya wasn’t supposed to shatter him again.

But the worst part?

Shane still feels warmth bloom in his chest.

Hope.
Fragile, trembling hope.

When he finally finds his voice, it’s barely a whisper.

“We will talk later.”

He means it.

He needs time.
He needs air.
He needs to stop shaking.

There’s a stunned pause...
then Ilya exhales like he’s been underwater for hours.

“Later,” Ilya breathes. “Yes. Later is good. Whenever you want. I’ll wait. Just... thank you. Thank you, Shane.”

The gratitude in his voice makes Shane’s heart twist painfully.

He should end the call.
He should protect himself.
He should protect the tiny life inside him who deserves better than heartbreak.

But something makes him speak again.

Honesty, maybe.
Desperation.
Love.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you yet.”

Ilya doesn’t breathe.
Shane hears it...
the way the line goes still.

He deserves the hurt in that silence.
Truly.

“Shane…”
Ilya’s voice cracks.
“I know. And I’m so sorry.”

Shane closes his eyes.

“You broke my heart,” he says quietly. “Ilya, you... you broke me. You really did.”

He hears Ilya whisper something like a whimper.

And then...

The truth slips out of him, raw and trembling:

“But I still… love you.”

The line is silent.

Shane swallows.

“And I’m willing to give us another chance.”

Before Ilya can breathe out whatever choked, sobbing relief is forming in his chest, Shane ends the call.

He drops the phone beside him.

His hands shake.
His body trembles.
His heart feels like it’s cracking open all over again.

He presses both hands to his stomach, shielding, protective.

“Everything will be okay,” he whispers.
“I promise. Papa’s here.”

But god, he doesn’t know who he’s trying to reassure...

himself
or the tiny life inside him.

Because loving Ilya Rozanov has never been easy.

And now?

It may be the hardest thing he ever survives.

….

The gym is loud, buzzing, but Ilya barely hears any of it.

He’s watching Shane.

Or more accurately...he’s watching the empty bench where Shane should’ve been.

Ilya’s knee bounces. He can’t sit still. His chest hurts with something embarrassingly close to panic.

Then someone sits down next to him with the force of a hurricane.

Hayden.

Shane’s best friend. The human guard dog.
And right now the man is radiating kill-you energy directly at Ilya.

“Why are you sitting here?” Hayden asks flatly.

Ilya opens his mouth...no idea what he intends to say...but Hayden cuts him off with a sharp, “Actually, don’t answer. I don’t care.”

Ilya clenches his jaw. “Where is Shane?”

Hayden’s glare sharpens like broken glass.
“You have the nerve to ask?”

“I’m asking because I’m worried.”

Hayden lets out a laugh so humorless it’s practically violence.

“You weren’t worried when you broke up with him.”

The words hit like a punch.
Ilya flinches. He doesn’t even hide it.

“I made a mistake,” Ilya forces out. “I am trying to fix it.”

Hayden turns fully toward him now, shoulders squared, like he’s ready to brawl on the bleachers.

“Fix it?” Hayden scoffs. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to show up and pretend nothing happened.”

“I’m not pretending...”

“No,” Hayden cuts in sharply, voice low and dangerous, “you’re just trying to crawl back into his life because you finally realized what you lost.”

Ilya goes still.

Because Hayden is right.
Because Shane’s absence is physically painful.
Because every night, Ilya falls asleep reaching for a chest that isn’t there, for a quiet heartbeat against him, for fingers brushing his hair...

Hayden is studying him, and for a moment, something like confusion flickers across his face at the rawness Ilya can’t hide.

“…What’s wrong with him?” Ilya manages to ask. “….Is he sick?”

Hayden’s expression twists.
His fists clench.
He stares at the court like he’s trying not to break something.

“It’s not my place to tell you,” he mutters.

Ilya’s heartbeat spikes. He swallows his pride for Shane. “Please.”

Hayden seems surprised at Ilya’s desperation, “No.”

“Pike...”

“No,” Hayden snaps, standing. “If Shane wants to tell you, he will. If he doesn’t… you leave him the hell alone.”

Ilya grabs the edge of Hayden’s sleeve before he can fully turn away.

Hayden looks down at Ilya’s hand like he’s considering breaking fingers.

Ilya swallows. “He answered my call last night.”

Hayden freezes mid-step.

“He said we would talk later.”

Slowly, Hayden sits back down. His jaw ticks. For a moment, he just studies Ilya...really studies him...looking for something.

“What did you say to him?” Hayden asks, voice low.

“The truth,” Ilya admits. “The truth I should’ve said that night.”

A muscle jumps in Hayden’s cheek.
He looks exhausted.
And furious.
And scared for Shane in a way that guts Ilya.

“You hurt him,” Hayden says. “He….. But you...”

His voice cracks for a second, barely noticeable.

“Just ask him,” Hayden finishes. “Ask him why he’s sick..”

Ilya grips the bench.

“What happened to him?” he whispers, terrified of the answer.

Hayden stands again.

“Ask Shane,” he repeats. “And don’t screw it up this time, Ilya. Because if he gives you another chance and you break him again...”

Hayden looks at him with cold, lethal sincerity.

“...I won’t let you near him again. Ever.”

Then he walks off, leaving Ilya alone with the roaring of the crowd, the pounding of his heartbeat, and a growing dread spreading through his chest.

....

A/N:
hiii besties 😚

chap 5 is still under construction rn 🛠️

but i’m writing as FAST as my tiny lil fingers can type ...

i’ll try my absolute best to drop the next chapter in like 2 dayzzz 🤞

hope u enjoyed this oneee 😳🥹 ILYA AND SHANE FINALLY TALKED AAAAHHHHHHH 😭💞 eeee can u believe it??

AND DONT FORGET TO LEAVE COMMENT!! I LOVEEEEE READING THEM!!

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!!!

Chapter Text

Ilya isn’t sleeping.

He hasn’t, really, since Shane vomiting in that bathroom and then whispering we’ll talk later.
A week passes with no “later.”

A week of unanswered texts.
A week of Ilya walking around with his heartbeat in his throat.
A week of Hayden glaring at him so intensely during practice that even Coach asked if they needed “conflict mediation.”

And now Ilya is standing in the fluorescent-lit emptiness of a 24/7 grocery store, hoodie up, headphones on, muttering to himself in Russian about insomnia and heartbreak.

He pushes his cart toward the cereal aisle...

Stops.

Blinks.

Then blinks again.

Because there, in the candy and sweets aisle, looking like a startled woodland creature caught stealing cupcakes, is Shane.

Shane, with messy hair, sweatpants, and glasses sliding down his nose.
Shane, holding a tub of rainbow sherbet.
Shane, whose cart is...

Ilya stares.

It’s a disaster.

Vegetables…
Three kinds of pickles…
Four ice creams…
Hot Cheetos…
Blue raspberry sour belts…
Chocolate spread…
A single cucumber…
A bag of mint leaves…
Two jars of olives…
And a random scented candle.

“What the hell,” Ilya whispers under his breath.

Shane looks up.

Their eyes meet.

And for half a second...just half...a smile starts to form on Shane’s face.
Soft. Familiar. Almost involuntary.

But then he swallows it down so fast it almost looks painful.

He turns away.

Ilya’s heart drops straight into his stomach.

Okay.
Okay, he deserves that.
Shane is still angry. Of course he is.
Ilya broke him.
Ilya is the villain of his own love story, congratulations.

But Ilya wants...needs...to talk to him. Even if Shane throws a chocolate bar at his head.

So he takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and walks toward him.

“…Hi,” Ilya says quietly.

Shane doesn’t look at him.
Just mutters, “Hey,” and continues loading sour gummies into the cart.

It’s so painfully domestic that Ilya’s chest aches.

“Interesting selection,” Ilya tries. “This is like...uh...if a toddler and a pregnant woman shared one brain.”

Shane freezes.

Actually freezes.

He grips the cart so hard his knuckles turn white.

Ilya blinks.
Did he mess up an English idiom?
Did he insult Shane’s ancestors?
Did he call him pregnant by accident?

“Sorry,” Ilya blurts. “Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean...I just meant it is… eclectic?”

Shane shakes his head quickly and moves on, but Ilya swears he sees the shine of tears in his eyes.

Oh no.

Oh no.

He broke him again.

Ilya panics instantly.

He grabs the closest thing ... which tragically is a family-sized bag of Sour Patch Kids ... and stands there like an idiot holding it like an offering.

“Shane?” he whispers.

Nothing.

“Shane, did I insult you? Did I...did I say something wrong with English? I...please don’t cry...”

Shane whips around so fast Ilya actually steps back.

His eyes are glassy, red, furious.

“Don’t,” Shane says harshly.

“I...don’t...what?”

“Don’t act like everything’s normal,” Shane bites out.

Ilya goes silent.

Completely still.

He swallows, hands trembling.

“Shane,” he whispers, “I know. I know what I did. I’m not trying to pretend...”

“Then what are you doing?” Shane snaps. “Following me in aisles? Making stupid jokes? Acting like you have the right?”

“I wasn’t following,” Ilya says quickly. “I was buying cereal. And depression snacks.”

Shane glares.
Hard.

Ilya nods immediately. “Okay. Bad time for humor.”

The tension is a storm cloud.

Finally, somehow, they manage to pay and walk out...together but not together...toward the parking lot.

Shane struggles carrying two heavy bags, so Ilya steps in silently, taking them before Shane can protest.

He loads the bizarre selection into the trunk gently, like he’s handling explosives.

Then tries to lighten the mood.

“So… new craving?”

Shane’s breath hitches.

His eyes shine again.

Then...suddenly...

Shane’s eyes fill and spill over.

Right there.
In the dim parking lot.
At midnight.

Ilya freezes like someone unplugged his brain.

“Shane?” he breathes, stepping closer. “Hey...hey, what...what did I do? Why are you...are you hurt? Did I...”

Shane wipes his face aggressively. “

“I didn’t mean...Shane, why are you crying? I swear I’m not trying to be a jerk...”

Shane’s glare is lethal, watery, heartbreakingly tired.

“Ilya,” he says, voice shaking with exhaustion and fury, “just… go home.”

Ilya’s heart breaks cleanly in the center.

He stands there, helpless, terrified, wanting to touch him but not daring to.

Shane gets into his car with trembling hands and slams the door.

Ilya stares after him, numb, horrified.

And then...

He panics.

Hard.

He pulls out his phone at 2:03 a.m.
Scrolls through contacts.

Clicks Hayden Pike.

And texts:

……

Ilya:

Pike. Are you awake.

Hayden:

no

Ilya:

It is emergency

Hayden:

did you break shane’s heart again?

Ilya:

1. He is crying. Because of candy. Or vegetables. Or me. OR ENGLISH. I DONT KNOW.

Hayden:

…what???

Ilya:

HELP. I think I offended him with cucumber.

Hayden:

what the fu...

Ilya WHAT DID YOU DO

Ilya:

NOTHING I SWEAR. He was shopping for… strange food? And I said maybe pregnant toddler brain??? AND HE CRIED.

Hayden:

……WTH???

Ilya:

NO??? YES??? MAYBE??? HELP ME PIKE. HE HATES ME.

Hayden:

I’m blocking your number.

Ilya:

Hayden PLEASE. Noooo You are emotional support human now

Please. Just tell me what to do.

Hayden:

…

be gentle
don’t joke
and don’t let him drive home crying alone you idiot

….

Shane wipes his face furiously as he gets into his car...
the kind of wiping that says if I pretend hard enough maybe the tears never existed.

He slams the door.
Turns the ignition.
Puts the car into reverse.

He is just seconds away from leaving.

And Ilya…
phe
Ilya feels something inside him snap like a hockey stick against the rink.

No.
No, he is not letting Shane drive away crying at two in the morning.

“I am NOT some coward in a bad breakup montage,” he mutters to himself.

And then...
he sprints.

Like actually sprints.
Full Olympic speed.
Hoodie flapping.
Keys falling out of his pocket.
Almost slipping on a piece of discarded lettuce from someone’s shopping bag.

“SHAANE!” he yells.

Shane, who has started rolling forward, stiffens in horror.

Ilya keeps running.

“SHAAANE! STOP! SHANE! PLEASE!”

His voice cracks somewhere around the third “Shane.”

The car keeps going.

Ilya runs harder.

He feels insane.
He feels dramatic.
He feels like a rom-com lead at the climax who suddenly understands love.

He slams his palm against the trunk once he catches up.

“Shane! STOP THE CAR!”

After two whole minutes of this chaos...of Ilya panting and yelling and almost breaking his kneecaps on asphalt...

Shane finally brakes.

Hard.

The car jerks to a halt.

Shane closes his eyes like the universe is personally tormenting him.

Ilya bends over, hands braced on his knees, gasping like he just finished three consecutive overtime periods.

“You...” gasp “...cannot...drive...while crying...”

Shane grips the steering wheel tighter. “Ilya. Go home.”

“No,” Ilya wheezes. “You...passenger seat. Now.”

Shane glares. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“I can carry you,” Ilya threatens, deadly serious.

Shane’s eyebrows go up sharply. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would,” Ilya says, chest heaving, hair a mess, looking feral with devotion. “You are...crying. And shaking. I am not letting you crash into tree because of me.”

Shane opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Huffs.

Then mutters, “You’re ridiculous,” and slams his door open.

He walks around the car stiffly and drops into the passenger seat like a grumpy cat surrendering to being picked up.

Ilya tries not to smile too much as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

He buckles in.

Starts the car.

The silence is loud.

Very.

Very.

Loud.

Shane stares out the window, arms folded, chin trembling occasionally like he’s trying to suppress every emotion known to man.

Ilya glances at him.

Tries to make small talk.

“So… uh… late night shopping?”

Shane turns and glares like he might murder him.

Ilya nods rapidly. “Okay no small talk. Got it.”

….

He clears his throat.

Once.
Twice.

“How… how have you been?”
Smooth. Classic. Very normal.

Shane actually answers.

“…Fine.”

Ilya glances at him. “Fine?”

“Fine,” Shane repeats, monotone, but it’s an answer. A real one.

Ilya brightens internally like a dog that just got praised.

“Okay. That’s… good. Fine is good. Fine is… great.”
Shut up shut up shut up, his brain screams.

Shane quietly snorts.
Just a small one.
But it’s there.

Ilya pretends he didn’t hear it, but his heart does a backflip.

Shane inhales.
A slow, steadying breath.

“You can talk,” he mutters. “If you want.”

Ilya blinks like a shocked owl.
“Talk? Me?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Yes. You keep trying to make small talk. You’re bad at it, but… you can.”

Ilya tries not to smile like an idiot.
Shane is giving him grace.
A tiny scrap, but it feels like a full-course meal.

“Okay,” Ilya says. “Uh… well…”

He panics.
His brain glitches.

The first thing that comes out of his mouth is:

“You look nice.”

Shane freezes.

Oh no.
Bad.
Abort. Abort.

“I...I mean you always look nice. I mean you looked nice at the school event too. Not that I was staring. I wasn’t staring.”

“You were very much staring,” Shane mutters.

Ilya flushes. “Okay, I was staring. But respectfully.”

Another snort escapes Shane before he can stop it.
He looks away quickly, cheeks warming.

Ilya looks at him again ... small smile, hair mussed, eyes swollen from crying, face still beautiful in a way that makes his chest ache.

“You look tired,” Ilya says softly.

Shane tenses. “I told you I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
Then, gentler: “Just… tired.”

Shane looks down at his hands.

“I am tired,” he admits. “All the time.”

It’s impossible not to worry.
Impossible not to reach out.

Ilya brushes a hand over Shane’s sleeve ... barely, gently, asking permission.

Shane doesn’t pull away.

Not this time.

Ilya swallows hard.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says, voice low, honest. “But thank you… for answering me.”

Shane lets out a shaky breath, soft but real.

“You said you wanted another chance.”
He fiddles with his hoodie strings.
“So… I’m trying. Trying doesn’t mean I’m okay. It doesn’t mean I forgive you. But…”

He looks up.

His eyes meet Ilya’s.

And for one tiny, fragile moment, he lets the truth fracture through:

“…I don’t hate talking to you.”

Ilya almost crashes the car.

Shane sighs deeply, leaning back into the seat. “Please don’t kill us.”

“I am fine,” Ilya lies, driving ten kilometers under the speed limit.

They fall into a lighter silence ... not warm, not safe, but no longer full of daggers.

It feels like the first time in weeks that they’re sitting side-by-side without their hearts bleeding onto the floor.

And for Ilya?

This small, awkward, halting conversation feels like a miracle.

…..

Ilya grabbed both of Shane’s bags without asking...classic Ilya...and hauled them up the stairs like they weighed nothing. Shane followed a step behind, hands in his pockets, trying not to read into how careful the man was being. Like he was afraid to move wrong. Like Shane was a wild thing he might spook.

At the door, Ilya set the bags down gently. Too gently. Then he straightened, shoved his hands into the pockets of that half-zipped hoodie, and… froze.

Just stood there.

Shoulders tight. Jaw clenched. Eyes flicking to Shane, then to the floor, then back again. Like he wanted to say something, or do something, but didn’t trust himself to be wanted.

Shane leaned against the doorframe, watching him struggle and losing patience with the silence.

“You coming in?” he finally asked.

Ilya blinked, almost startled. “I...only if you want. I didn’t want to assume.”

The words were quiet, uncomfortable. Not the usual smooth confidence. It tugged at something in Shane’s chest in a way he didn’t appreciate.

“You carried my stuff all the way here,” Shane said. “I’m not making you turn around and head home at...” he glanced at his phone, “...midnight.”

Ilya swallowed, throat bobbing. “So… I can stay?”

The hopeful edge in his voice was so subtle anyone else would’ve missed it. Shane didn’t.

He rolled his eyes, but stepped forward, grabbed the front of Ilya’s hoodie, and tugged him across the threshold.

“Get in before I change my mind,” he muttered.

Ilya exhaled...almost a relieved laugh...and stepped inside like he was entering holy ground.

Shane shut the door behind him.

“It’s late,” he said, heading for the hallway. “Crash on the sofa or whatever. Leave in the morning.”

Ilya nodded, following a few steps behind. His voice was quiet again. “Thank you. For… letting me stay.”

Shane stopped, turned, and gave him a look. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Right,” Ilya murmured. “Not weird.”

But it was weird. The air buzzing with everything they weren’t saying. The small-talk attempt in the car still lingering between them. The stupid hope in Ilya’s eyes that Shane tried...unsuccessfully...not to notice.

And maybe it was too late at night, or maybe Shane was too tired from pretending he didn’t care, but…

He didn’t mind the company.

Not tonight.

….

Shane disappeared into the bathroom to shower, leaving Ilya standing in the dim living room, vibrating with an emotion he refused to call hope. He pulled out his phone immediately.

Because of course he did.

Ilya to Hayden:
He pulled me inside.

Ilya to Hayden:
LIKE ACTUALLY PULLED ME..

Ilya to Hayden:
I’m in his apartment. I’m STAYING THE NIGHT.

He waited.

And waited.

One minute passed.

Then two.

Then three.

Finally Hayden’s reply came in...one single text, the textual equivalent of a sigh.

Hayden to Ilya:
It’s 00:23. Stop texting me. Go to sleep.

Ilya grinned.

Big. Wolfish. Mischievous.

Of course he didn’t stop.

Ilya to Hayden:
You’re not even happy for me? This is a BIG MOMENT.

Hayden to Ilya:
I’m happy in the morning. When I’m conscious.

Ilya to Hayden:
He said “don’t make it weird.” Should I make it weird?

Three dots appeared. Vanished. Appeared again. Then:

Hayden to Ilya:
If you make it weird, I’m disowning you from our nonexistent friendship.

Ilya stifled a laugh. This was too much fun.

Ilya to Hayden:
Ok so maybe I sit on his couch with my shirt off so he knows I’m comfortable?

This time Hayden didn’t respond with text.

He called.

Ilya answered with a cheerful, “Hi Pike...”

Hayden’s voice was a low growl of tired misery.

“If you take your shirt off in that man’s house, I’m driving over there and stapling it back onto your body. Go to sleep, Ilya.”

“But...”

“Sleep.”

“But...”

“Ilya.”

“…fine.”

“And stop texting me.”

Ilya hung up, still smiling like an idiot.

Annoying Hayden Pike might actually be in his top three joys in life.

But the fact that Shane had pulled him inside?

That was number one.

…..

Shane stood under the hot spray of the shower, palms pressed flat to the tiles, inhaling steam like it could steady him.

Should he tell him now?
Should he wait?
Should he… write a script first? Maybe practice in the mirror?

He groaned.

The truth was already sitting warm and heavy under his ribs.

Their baby.

God, he liked how that sounded.

He liked it more than he should.
He liked the way it made his chest feel full, like something was finally settling into place.

And Ilya…
Ilya loved him. That much was obvious now...after that desperate, broken call last week, the panic in his voice, the apologies spilling out of him like he couldn’t bear silence.

So yeah, now was a good time.
Probably.
Maybe.

Shane exhaled sharply and stepped out, drying off, tugging on a t-shirt that was starting to stretch a bit around the middle. He hesitated in the mirror, touched his small but noticeable bump, and whispered:

“Please don’t freak out.”

Then he left the bathroom.

….

Ilya was still on the sofa.

Still sitting exactly where Shane had left him.

And he wasn’t just sitting ... he was perched. Like a golden retriever waiting for the front door to open.

As soon as Shane appeared, Ilya sat up straighter, eyes going wide and hopeful.

Shane’s heart did a little painful twist.

“Uh...” Shane began.

“So...” Ilya said at the exact same moment.

They both stopped.

Shane swallowed.
Ilya gestured quickly, nervously.

“You go. Please.”

Shane nodded, but the words clogged in his throat.

How do you say I’m pregnant without sounding insane?
How do you say it’s yours without crying?
How do you explain the week of dodged calls and the grocery run and all the mixed signals?

“You can tell me,” Ilya said quietly. “Whatever it is.”

Shane’s chest squeezed. He looked down.
Then up.
Then...no. This was impossible to say out loud.

So he did the only thing left.

Slowly, he reached out, grabbed Ilya’s wrist, and guided his hand to the small swell of his stomach.

Ilya blinked.
His eyebrows knitted.
Then shot up.
Then scrunched again.

“Shane, are you… sick again?” he whispered.

Shane let out the longest, most exhausted sigh of his entire life.

“No,” he muttered, and handed him the positive pregnancy test from the coffee table.

Ilya stared at it.

Then at Shane.

Then back at the test.

Then at Shane again.

His face went through a hundred emotions in ten seconds:

Confusion.
Concern.
Shock.
More confusion.
Realisation.
Denial.
Joy.
Absolute terror.
And something very close to wonder.

And then...

THUD.

Ilya dropped straight forward off the sofa and hit the floor face first.

Shane dragged a hand down his own face.

“Yeah,” he muttered dryly, staring at his unconscious boyfriend on the carpet.
“That went great.”

….

Ilya woke up with the distinct certainty that he had died.

His face was pressed into carpet.
His neck hurt.
His pride hurt more.

He groaned and lifted his head, blinking at the blurry living room.

…Why was he on the floor?

…Why did his cheek feel like it had been kissed by gravity itself?

…And why did he vaguely remember...

No.
No way.

That had to be a dream.

Shane couldn’t have just taken his hand, put it on his stomach, and then...
And then...

No.
Impossible.
Ridiculous.

He must’ve imagined all of that.
It was late, he was tired, Shane was beautiful and soft, of course his brain made up things.
His brain made up a lot of things about Shane, especially at night.

Ilya sat up.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

And that’s when he saw him.

Shane.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch.
Staring at him like he was the world’s most pathetic animal.
Casually munching something.

Ilya squinted.

…Chocolate?
And...
…and cucumber?

What...

No, no, focus, focus.

“Shane?” he croaked.

“Yes, you’re awake,” Shane deadpanned around a mouthful of chocolate.

Okay.
Okay okay okay.

That combination of snacks was too specific and too cursed for his brain to have invented it.

Which meant…

Oh God.

He hadn’t dreamed it.

Ilya’s face went cold, then hot, then cold again.

He scrambled backward dramatically like a startled deer, pointing at Shane, voice cracking:

“YOU ARE PREGNANT?!”

Shane stopped chewing.
Slowly.
Very slowly.

He wiped his thumb on a napkin.
Took another bite of cucumber.
And said:

“Yes, Ilya. Congratulations on regaining consciousness.”

Ilya slapped both hands over his mouth.

He stared at Shane.
At his expression.
At the tiny swell under his shirt that was suddenly so obvious he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before.

A hysterical noise left him.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God. I am going to faint again.”

Shane narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t. I just cleaned the floor yesterday.”

Ilya crawled forward on his knees like a penitential monk, hands reaching out but stopping inches away from Shane as if he feared touching him again would snap reality in half.

“I didn’t dream it,” he breathed.
“No,” Shane said flatly.

“You’re actually...”
“Yes.”

“With a baby.”
“Yes, Ilya.”

“Our baby?”
Shane paused. The tiniest softness flickered in his eyes.
“…Yes.”

Ilya pressed his palms to his cheeks, overwhelmed and glowing like a broken lightbulb.

Shane, unimpressed, held out the bowl.

“Do you want some chocolate?”

Ilya shook his head violently.
Shane shrugged and popped another cucumber slice into his mouth.

Ilya whispered to the universe:

“Okay. Okay okay okay. Not a dream. Not dying. Ilya wake up...no wait you ARE awake...okay okay don’t faint...okay okay okay...”

Shane sighed, sounding exactly like someone who regretted letting this man into his house.

“Ilya,” he said tiredly. “Please stop saying ‘okay.’”

Ilya looked up at him, eyes huge, blown wide, stupid with love and panic.

“Shane,” he whispered.

“What?”

“You are so beautiful and so pregnant and I think my soul just left my body.”

Shane buried his face in his hands.

….

At first, Shane thinks Ilya is just overwhelmed.

You know ... normal overwhelmed.
The kind where a man discovers he’s going to be a father and short-circuits for a second.

But then Ilya’s face crumples.

Not confused.
Not shocked.

Heartbroken.

And before Shane can react, Ilya is on his knees.

Literally drops to the floor like gravity tripled just for him.

Hands in his hair.
Shoulders shaking.
Breath breaking.

Shane freezes, half a piece of chocolate still in his hand.

“…Ilya?”

No answer.

Just a strangled, gutted sound.
The kind of sound someone makes when their ribcage is squeezing their lungs out.

Then...quiet, cracked:

“Oh God… Shane… I hurt you.”

Shane finally sets the chocolate down.

“Ilya...”

But Ilya isn’t listening.
He folds forward, elbows on his thighs, forehead almost touching the floor.

“I hurt you,” he says again, voice shaking, “and you were... you were...”

He can’t even say the word.

His throat closes.

“You were carrying our child,” he chokes, “and I walked out. I left you alone. I didn’t ask if you were okay. I didn’t stay. I didn’t...”

His voice breaks.

“I didn’t protect you.”

Shane inhales sharply.

He wasn’t prepared for this.

Not this level of regret.
Not this kind of collapse.
Not Ilya drowning in guilt like he’s been waiting a month to finally breathe it out.

“Ilya,” he says softly, stepping off the couch.

Ilya shakes his head violently, tears hitting the floor.

“No. Don’t... don’t comfort me,” he whispers. “I don’t deserve that. I should’ve been the one comforting you. I should’ve noticed you were tired. Sick. I should’ve taken care of you. But I...”

A sob punches out of him, ugly and raw.

“I fucked everything up.”

Shane kneels in front of him slowly.

Ilya tries to pull away, like he’s afraid of contaminating him with his presence.

Shane won’t let him.

He cups Ilya’s face firmly between both hands.

“Ilya. Look at me.”

Ilya refuses.
He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking through.

“Look at me,” Shane insists, softer this time.

Ilya hesitates.

Then he looks.

Eyes red.
Face blotchy.
Completely destroyed.

Shane’s chest aches.

“You didn’t know,” Shane says gently. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have,” Ilya rasped. “I should’ve felt it. I should’ve seen something. I should’ve...”

“You’re not psychic, Ilya.”

“I’m supposed to love you.”

Shane stops breathing.

The way Ilya says it...
Not dramatic.
Not loud.

Just broken.
Sincere.
Like a confession he should’ve made months ago.

“With everything in me,” Ilya whispers, “I’m supposed to love you. I do love you. And you were alone. Our baby was alone. Because I was an idiot and scared and... and I walked away. I walked away from the two people I’m supposed to protect with my life.”

Shane feels his own throat tighten.

He wasn’t ready for this either.

He slides his thumb under Ilya’s chin, lifting it gently.

“You are comforting me,” Shane murmurs. “Right now.”

“But I’m the one crying,” Ilya says miserably.

“Yeah,” Shane says, lips twitching, “and holding your crying boyfriend is allowed, you know.”

Ilya blinks.
Like he can’t process that word.

“Boyfriend?” he repeats, hoarse.

Shane shrugs lightly.
“Unless you plan to faint again, in which case we may renegotiate.”

Ilya lets out a choked, watery laugh.

Shane brushes his tear-wet hair from his forehead.

“You hurt me,” Shane says honestly. “You did.”

Ilya flinches.

“But you didn’t stop loving me,” Shane adds softly. “Even when you tried.”

Ilya swallows hard.

“And I...I still love you,” Shane admits quietly. “Even when I shouldn’t have.”

Ilya breaks again, sobbing harder this time...not from guilt, but from relief.

Shane pulls him in, arms around his shoulders, gently coaxing him to lean against him.

Ilya’s hands hover, terrified to touch, until Shane guides them to his own waist.

“See?” Shane murmurs against his hair. “You can comfort me.”

Ilya shudders, burying his face in Shane’s hoodie.

“I’ll spend my whole life doing that,” he promises, voice trembling.
“Just… don’t push me away again,” Shane whispers.

“I won’t,” Ilya vows. “I swear on everything...on our baby...I won’t.”

Shane’s breath catches at our baby.

He rests his forehead against Ilya’s.

“Then we’ll be okay,” he whispers.

And for the first time in months...

Ilya believes him

…..

Ilya is still kneeling on the rug, hands on Shane’s waist, forehead pressed to Shane’s shoulder, trying to breathe through guilt and relief. Shane smooths a hand down his hair, trying to calm both of them.

And then something shifts.

It happens in a single second ...
Ilya lifts his head, eyes still wet, and Shane sees something there.

Raw need.
A month’s worth of bottled hunger.
A desperation that mirrors his own.

Shane exhales shakily.

He expected Ilya to kiss him first ... Ilya always kissed him first.

But today?

Shane snaps.

He grabs fistfuls of Ilya’s hoodie, yanks him forward, and slams their mouths together.

Ilya freezes ... shocked ... then melts so violently it’s like his bones give up.

The kiss is messy, too hard, all teeth and need and apology. Shane keeps kissing like he’s furious Ilya ever stopped touching him. Ilya groans, deep and wrecked, gripping Shane’s hips like he might disappear.

Weeks apart.
Weeks of longing.
Weeks of not touching, not holding, not tasting.

They devour each other.

Shane pushes him back, and Ilya falls flat on the carpet with a grunt. Shane straddles him, both breathless, both shaking. He kisses Ilya so hard it steals every thought from the Russian’s mind.

Ilya cups Shane’s face, thumbs trembling.

“Shane...”

“No,” Shane growls against his lips. “Not done.”

He kisses him again, deeper, almost brutal, weeks of love and anger and heartbreak burning their lungs.

Ilya tries to sit up. Shane pushes him back down.

Ilya actually whimpers.

“Shane, you’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” Shane snaps, voice rough. “You deserve it.”

Ilya doesn’t even deny it.

He just drags Shane down for another desperate kiss.

Shane barely gives him a second to adjust before he kisses him again ... dizzying, hungry ... and Ilya’s hands slide under Shane’s thighs automatically.

And then...

Shane locks his legs around Ilya’s waist.

Ilya’s breath stops.

“Shane...” he croaks, voice cracking with want.

Shane kisses his jaw, his neck, his cheek, his mouth again, feral and sweet and punishing all at once.

“Ilya,” he whispers against his lips, “take me to the bed.”

Ilya doesn’t need to be told twice.

His hands grip under Shane’s thighs ... gentle, terrified of hurting him ... and he lifts him with ease. Shane clings tighter, mouth never leaving Ilya’s, kissing him like oxygen is optional.

Ilya stumbles into the bedroom, barely managing to close the door with his foot. He lowers Shane onto the bed, slow and careful, staying between his thighs, kissing him breathless.

He tries to go further ... instinctively, desperately ... but Shane presses two fingers to Ilya’s chest, stopping him.

Ilya’s whole body goes rigid.

Shane lies beneath him, lips swollen, hair a mess, hoodie rucked up just slightly… eyes dark enough to make Ilya’s head spin.

And then Shane smirks.

That dangerous, devastating little curve of lips that always ruined Ilya.

“Beg,” Shane whispers.

Ilya swallows hard.

“Shane...”

“No.” His voice is soft, lethal. “You don’t get to touch me like nothing happened.”
Shane’s fingers slide slowly down Ilya’s jaw. “You don’t get to fall into bed with me like you didn’t break my heart.”

Ilya’s chest heaves.

Shane looks up at him with those impossible brown eyes ... hurt and temptation and command all at once.

“Kneel,” Shane murmurs.

Ilya’s breath shatters.
His hands tremble.
He lowers himself, eyes locked to Shane’s, more reverent than he’s ever been in his life.

Shane sits up slowly, cups his face with both hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

“Ilya,” he whispers, voice trembling now, “you almost lost me.”

“I know.”

“And you want me.”

“I do,” Ilya says, voice nearly breaking. “God, I do.”

“Then beg.” Shane leans closer, lips brushing his ear.
“Beg me to stay yours.”

Ilya’s whole body shivers.

He presses his forehead to Shane’s stomach ... protectively, lovingly ... and whispers:

“I’ll spend the rest of my life begging for you if I have to.”

Shane’s breath catches.

And that’s where it ends ...
the heat, the hunger, the wanting so sharp it hurts.

Before anything more can happen, Shane threads his fingers through Ilya’s hair and whispers:

“Then come hold me. Just hold me tonight.”

Ilya climbs into bed, pulls Shane against his chest, and the room quiets with their breathing tangled together ...
wanting, hurting, healing.

The world can wait.

....

author’s note:

HIIII besties 😭💕

Chapter 5 is finally hereee!!!

I literally wrote this whole thing while munching on cookies and didn’t even realize it almost hit 4k words ..

I hope you enjoy every bit of the chap and feels I poured in here!!

Don’t forget to comment and tell me what you think okay?? I love hearing from youuuu 🫶

Chapter Text

Ilya wakes before the sun fully rises.

It’s the quiet that pulls him out of sleep first, a soft, warm kind of silence he hasn’t felt in weeks. The blinds filter a thin, pale stripe of morning across the room, dusting the bed in gold.

And Shane.

Shane, draped over his chest like he belongs there, one arm thrown across Ilya’s ribs, one leg tangled between his, breath warm against the hollow of Ilya’s throat. His hoodie is rumpled, his curls flattened in places, his cheek smushed adorably against Ilya’s sternum.

Ilya doesn’t dare move.

His hand automatically finds its way into Shane’s hair, slow, reverent.

He tilts his head down to look ... really look ... and the sight punches the air from his lungs.

Shane’s freckles.

God.
Ilya forgot how much he loved those.

The soft morning light kisses them one by one, scattering them across Shane’s nose and cheekbones like constellations.

To Ilya, they look like tiny stars someone spilled onto Shane’s skin ... a private sky only he gets to map with his eyes. Each one feels like a secret he’s rediscovering. He traces them with the gentlest touch of his gaze, as if memorizing them will make this moment permanent.

He counts them slowly, because counting keeps him grounded.

Keeps him from panicking.

Keeps him from falling apart.

Because somewhere between freckle thirty-two and thirty-three, terror creeps into his chest ... quiet but sharp.

I’m going to be a father.

The thought makes his stomach twist.

Not in a bad way.
Not in a regretful way.

Just… fear.

Raw and honest.

He pictures his own father ... cold voice, tired eyes, expectations like chains. The way love was rationed like something expensive. The way silence filled more space than affection. The way disappointment was always waiting, like a shadow.

Ilya presses a trembling kiss to Shane’s hair.

I can’t be him.

The fear hits harder.
He squeezes his eyes shut, because suddenly his throat feels thick.

God, what if I sound like him one day?
What if I look at my kid and they ever... even for a second ... feel the way I felt?
What if Shane ever hears my voice go sharp like his and he flinches?
What if I ruin the two people I love more than anything?

His hand freezes in Shane’s curls.

He swallows a shaky breath.

“If I ever turn into him,” he whispers to the quiet room, to the morning light, to the sleeping boy on his chest, “just… kill me, Shane. Don’t let me hurt you. Don’t let me hurt our baby.”

His voice cracks on our baby.

Shane shifts faintly, snuggling into him, completely unaware of the hurricane of fear and devotion inside Ilya.

Ilya wraps both arms around him, tight, cradling him, protecting him even from the ghosts in Ilya’s own mind.

No ... he won’t be like his father.

He refuses.

For Shane, he would burn down the whole world and build a softer one from the ashes.

For their child, he would rewrite every instinct he learned from the man who raised him, even if he has to tear himself apart and remake himself from scratch.

He presses his palm gently over the slight swell of Shane’s stomach, so careful it’s almost a prayer.

“I’m going to love you,” he murmurs against Shane’s forehead, voice breaking but certain.
“Both of you. I’m going to protect you, and cherish you, and be every good thing I never had growing up.”

The weight of Shane’s body, warm and trusting, anchors him.

The soft rise and fall of his breathing steadies him.

And suddenly ... impossibly ... the fear shifts into something else.

Resolve.

Ilya kisses Shane’s freckles again, one by one, like vows sealed to skin.

“This...” he whispers, holding him closer, “...you and me… our family… I won’t mess this up. I won’t. I will love you the way you deserve. I swear, solnyshko.”

Shane sighs in his sleep, leaning up into Ilya’s touch like instinct, like home.

And Ilya stays there, counting freckles and promises, until the sun fully rises and the world begins again.

…..

Shane woke slowly, the kind of groggy half-sleep where his body still felt heavy with the safety of the night before. His hand reached instinctively toward the other side of the bed...warm sheets, but empty.

Empty.

His heart lurched.
No Ilya.

He sat up so fast the room tilted. The sunlight spilling through the curtains suddenly felt too sharp, too cold. His breath hitched as he staggered out of the bed, bare feet slapping the floor, eyes already stinging. Not again, not gone, not leaving...

“Ilya?” His voice cracked in the hallway, barely louder than a whisper but desperate enough to echo.

He was two seconds from yelling, from falling apart entirely...

...when he saw him.

Ilya stood in the kitchen, hair messy, shoulders loose, carefully pouring something steaming into a mug. The soft morning light touched him like it belonged to him.

And Shane’s knees nearly gave out.

Relief hit him so violently he had to grab the doorframe.

Ilya looked up at the small sound. He blinked, then smiled...sleepy, warm...until he registered Shane’s face.

Everything in Ilya stilled. The smile faded into something softer, aching.
“Oh… baby.”

He was in front of Shane in three strides, hands immediately cupping Shane’s cheeks.
Shane let out something between a sob and a breath as Ilya kissed him...forehead, cheeks, nose, eyelids...each press frantic and gentle at once.

“I’m here,” Ilya murmured between kisses.
“I’m here, I’m here, I’m right here.”
His thumb brushed a tear Shane didn’t even notice falling.

When Shane finally exhaled fully, Ilya pulled him into his chest, holding him like he was afraid the air itself might steal him away.

After a quiet moment, Ilya pulled back just enough to lift the mug he had made earlier.

“Here,” he said softly. “Ginger tea. Hayden told me it’s really good for morning sickness. And he said it helped Jackie a lot.”

Shane blinked, confused through the last of his leftover panic.
“…Since when do you talk to Hayden?”

Ilya shrugged, already turning toward the counter to butter some toast like this was all perfectly normal.
“I just texted him too much about you until he got annoyed and replied,” he said lightly. “Don’t be jealous. He tolerates me.”

He paused.
“And he saved my contact as ‘Mosquito.’”

Shane stared.

Ilya, completely unfazed, added:

“He spelled it wrong but I didn’t tell him.”

Shane huffed out something like a laugh, something like a sob.

The knot in his chest loosened just enough for him to breathe...and all he could think as he watched Ilya fuss around the kitchen was:

Thank god he stayed.
Thank god he’s still here.
Thank god he’s mine.

….

Shane sat at the counter, shoulders finally relaxed but still wrapped in Ilya’s hoodie like a shield. The ginger tea warmed his palms. Ilya moved around the kitchen with that quiet, early-morning softness he only ever had for Shane...barefoot, hair sticking up, t-shirt sliding off one shoulder.

It was domestic.
It was tender.
It was almost too good to be real.

And then, suddenly, it hit him.

Last night.
The crying.
The panic.
The comfort.
The whispers of “I’m here.”

Shane blinked and frowned.

“…Wait,” he said slowly, “what were you even doing in Canada? I thought...weren’t you supposed to be in Russia right now? With your family? Or in Boston? Or...”

Ilya froze mid-movement, toast half-buttered.

Then he turned, leaning against the counter, and gave Shane the look...the one equal parts fond and exasperated, like Shane had just asked why the sky existed.

“The season is over,” Ilya said simply. “Why would I stay away?”

Shane opened his mouth, but Ilya continued, stepping closer with quiet determination in every word.

“You told me we would talk later. Later, Shane. What if you wanted to talk yesterday? What if you needed me?”
His voice was soft but fierce, an emotional gravity only Ilya could create.

“I would be far away in Russia.”
He shakes his head.
“How can I get to you fast enough from there?”

He placed the toast down, hands bracing on either side of Shane’s thighs as he stood between them.

“So I came early,” he finished, like it was the easiest decision he ever made.

Shane swallowed, touched and confused all at once.
“Ilya… you flew halfway across the world just because I said we’d talk later?”

“If you call, I come,” Ilya said simply. “Always.”

Shane’s throat tightened.

But then Ilya’s expression shifted...nervous, excited, terrified, proud...all layered at once like he was bracing for impact.

“There’s… something else,” he murmured.

Shane blinked. “What?”

Ilya inhaled deeply, like he needed the air.
“My agent made some calls. And then the Centaurs sent scouts. And… I got drafted.”

Silence.

Shane stared at him, frozen.
The ivy-green mug slipped slightly in his grip.

“…Drafted?” he repeated, barely breathing. “Ilya, you’ve been with Boston since your rookie year. You love Boston. Your entire career...your whole...”

Ilya lifted a hand, gently brushing Shane’s cheek with his thumb.

“Ottawa Centaurs,” he clarified softly. “They want me. And I want…” His voice faltered only a little. “…to be close to you.”

Shane blinked helplessly. “You...you what...?”

Ilya’s next words came out raw, unfiltered, carved straight out of his chest.

“I want to be with you,” he said. “I want to wake up and know I can reach you in minutes, not hours or borders. I want to shout to the world the love I have for you. But I cannot have both...the career I built in Boston, and you like this. Not the way I want you.”

Shane’s breath caught.

Ilya leaned in, lowering his forehead to Shane’s.

“So I choose,” he whispered.
“Every time, I choose you.”

Shane made a broken little noise.

“I choose you over cities, over teams, over everything anyone ever told me should matter more. I choose you over ice. Over glory. Over the name on the back of my jersey.”

His voice cracked, and his fingers curled in the fabric of Shane’s hoodie, desperate to anchor himself.

“If it costs me everything, if it ends me, if it slows my whole life...then it ends with me loving you. That’s my choice.”

Shane’s eyes blurred instantly.

“Ilya…”

“I will always choose you,” he repeated, firmer this time, as if stamping a vow into the air between them. “Again and again. Every day. Every moment.”

Shane grabbed onto him...fists bunching in his shirt, forehead pressed against Ilya’s collarbone...because he didn’t know how else to hold something so enormous, so impossibly tender.

Ilya wrapped his arms around him, kissing the top of Shane’s head.

“My future is you,” he whispered into Shane’s hair.
“And I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in years, Shane let himself believe it.

…

Soft, measured footsteps creaked across the wooden floor of the living room, too slow to be a stranger. Shane stiffened instantly, every inch of him going cold.

They both froze.

“Oh no,” he whispered, eyes widening in horror.
“I forgot my parents come check on me in the mornings.”

Ilya went rigid.

And then...like a curtain lifting...David and Yuna appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Yuna’s eyes softened instantly at the sight: Shane in Ilya’s arms, Ilya holding him like he was the most precious thing on earth.

Her lips parted with pure relief, like she’d been praying for this exact outcome but didn’t dare hope.

David?

David looked like he had been waiting three whole weeks for this moment.
Waiting.
Preparing.
Sharpening arguments in the shower.
Practicing insults for Ilya in the car.

His eye twitched. His jaw locked. His arms crossed so tightly his biceps bulged.
He did not look relieved.

He looked like someone had just rung the bell for round one.

“…So,” David said slowly, voice flat.
“I see the asshole has returned.”

Shane groaned internally.
Yuna pinched David’s arm immediately, whispering a furious, “David, stop it.”

Ilya stood very still, tense but straight-spined, hands resting hesitantly on Shane’s hips like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to keep touching him in front of his parents.

Shane felt him shift...felt the instinctive urge to step back, create space, avoid confrontation.
And Shane… refused to let him.

He looped his fingers around Ilya’s wrist and held on.

“Dad,” he groaned.

But David was already stepping forward, finger raised.

“I have just one question, Ilya.”
His tone suggested he had about thirty-seven, alphabetically categorized.

Ilya swallowed and faced him directly, voice quiet but respectful.
“Yes, sir.”

David’s nostrils flared.

“Why,” he began, “should I not throw you out of my son’s apartment for making him cry for three straight weeks?”

“DAD!” Shane hissed, appalled.

But Ilya didn’t flinch.
In fact, he stepped slightly in front of Shane...subtle, protective, instinctive.

His voice was steady.

“Because I love him.”

David blinked.

Ilya continued, firmer now, chest rising with conviction he didn’t waver from.

“Because I came back the second I understood how badly I hurt him. Because I will not leave again. Because I will protect him, and our child, and our life together with everything I have.”

David’s face looked like he was still thinking of punching Ilya.

Shane slapped a hand over his face.

David took a slow step forward.
Not yelling.
Not exploding.
Just… quiet. Calculating.

“So let me understand this,” he said.
“My son is pregnant. You vanished for weeks. And now you return...which is good...but you also casually drop this news at seven in the morning like you’re announcing the weather.”

Shane winced.
Ilya nodded solemnly.
“That is correct.”

David inhaled deeply, like he was preparing a speech that would scorch earth.

And Ilya watched as David’s face went through three stages:

1. fury
2. realization
3. utter resignation

He rubbed his forehead and muttered,
“I need coffee before I kill anybody.”

Shane whispered to Ilya, “This is the best-case scenario, trust me.”

Ilya whispered back, “…Should I faint again?”

“No.” Shane squeezed his hand. “Please do not.”

….

Breakfast felt like a battlefield.

Not a loud one.
Not a violent one.
But definitely a psychological war zone.

Ilya stood in the kitchen like he owned it.

No...worse.

He stood in the kitchen like he had claimed it.

Shirt sleeves rolled up. Muscles flexing casually as he flipped pancakes with terrifying domestic competence. He hummed softly to himself, completely unbothered by the fact that David Hollander was basically trying to set him on fire with his eyes from across the dining table.

Shane sat between his parents, sipping juice and trying not to look at either man.

Yuna was openly smiling.

She looked… happy. Relieved. Peaceful. Like the universe had corrected itself slightly.

David looked like he was swallowing nails.

“You don’t have to cook,” David said flatly, loudly enough to carry.
“This isn’t… your responsibility.”

Ilya flipped a pancake without looking. Perfect golden brown.

“I like cooking,” he replied cheerfully.
“I want my family to eat good food.”

Shane choked on his drink.

David’s eyebrow twitched.
“Family.”

Yuna clapped her hands softly. “Oh, Ilya, you’re so sweet!”

Ilya turned and gave her a charming smile.
“For Shane, Always.”

David’s soul briefly left his body.

Shane whispered, “You’re about to be murdered.”

Ilya whispered back, “Worth it.”

He came over with a plate stacked high and placed it directly in front of Shane first.

“For the love of my life,” he said softly, with a kiss to Shane’s forehead.

David’s fork bent.

Then he served Yuna...beaming, thanked him, patted his arm.

And finally, he brought a plate to David.

David eyed it like it might be poisoned.

Ilya leaned down slightly and said, just for him:

“I didn’t burn it. I promise.”

David stared.

“You’re very… comfortable,” David said slowly.

Ilya tilted his head, fake thoughtful.
“I feel very at home here.”

Shane slammed his forehead lightly on the table.

Yuna covered her giggle with her napkin.

David pressed his lips together so tightly they went white.

“Ilya,” he said, voice calm in the most dangerous way, “you seem… very confident for someone who broke my son’s heart.”

Ilya didn’t flinch.

He just met his gaze evenly, still polite, still calm, but something firm sitting in his spine.

“I am confident because I know what I almost lost,” he said quietly.
“And I am confident because I love him enough to never do that again.”

Silence fell like snow.

Then Shane felt something warm lace into his fingers under the table.

Ilya’s hand.
Holding his.

Gently.
Securely.

Yuna noticed and smiled into her coffee.
David noticed and looked like he needed a second cup.

But still...he didn’t say anything.

Ilya turned back to the stove after that, humming again, flipping pancakes like a man who had just won a small war.

And Shane watched him, heart full and terrified and impossibly grateful.

Yeah.

This was going to be interesting.

….

The room felt too warm.
Too quiet.
Too alive.

Shane’s breath hitched softly, fingers tangled in the fabric of Ilya’s t-shirt as the headboard gave the faintest protest behind them. Their movements were slow, careful, unhurried ... not rushed or reckless, just the kind of closeness that existed only when two people had missed each other too much.

Shane’s phone, cruel and badly timed, started buzzing violently on the bedside table.

Shane let out a breathless, annoyed sound.
“Don’t.”

Bzzz

BZzzzz

Ilya hesitated for exactly two seconds before reaching for it.
“If it’s emergency...”

He answered.

“Hello?”

Pause. Then: “Shane?” Hayden’s voice.

Ilya smirked slightly, breath uneven but voice surprisingly calm.
“It’s Ilya.”

Shane’s hand pressed to his chest like a warning. Like a plea.

Hayden’s sigh was audible.
“Great. Where’s Shane?”

Ilya’s hand settled on Shane’s hip almost reflexively.
“He is… very occupied.”

Silence.

“Occupied with what?”

Ilya thought for a beat. Then decided to be awful.

“I am giving him… riding lessons.”

There was a faint, very deliberate creak of furniture behind them.

Hayden paused.
“…Horse riding?”

Shane slapped Ilya’s chest.

Hayden added quickly, suddenly businesslike, “Because that’s not actually recommended during pregnancy.”

Ilya leaned slightly closer, voice low ... not graphic, just honest.

“I never said it was a horse.”

Silence.

Longer silence.

Then Hayden said, very flat, very tired:
“I hate you.”

Click.

Call ended.

Shane dropped his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder in mortification.

“You’re disgusting.”

Ilya smiled, softening instantly as his hand brushed soothingly down Shane’s back.

“Worth it.”

....

A/N:
Hiii besties!! 🌸

Chapter 6 has finally entered the chat 😌

Shane’s parents have finally made an appearance (ik ik… took them long enough 😂). Alsoooo Ilya has proudly unlocked a new hobby: annoying David 24/7 ....Like boy is having the time of his life 😭

Tried my hand at some domestic Shane & Ilya moments too and omg I’m obsessed??? 😭🫶

Hope you guys enjoyyy!! Don’t forget to drop a comment 

Chapter Text

Ilya Rozanov stopped caring about the rest of the world somewhere between Google searches and burnt toast.

He woke up earlier than he ever had in his life just to quietly check if Shane was breathing okay.

Search history:
How to make ginger tea
Best sleeping position for pregnant partner
How to care for pregnant partner
Is it normal to cry more during pregnancy
Best vitamins for pregnancy support
What week does baby kick
How to know if partner is overwhelmed

Shane watched all of this from the couch most days, wrapped in blankets, safer than he’d felt in years.

Ilya cooked.
Ilya cleaned.
Ilya hovered.

He pressed kisses into Shane’s hair without thinking about it.
He tucked blankets around him like he was wrapping something precious.
He carried grocery bags and scolded Shane for lifting anything heavier than a pillow.

Doctor appointment days were different.

Ilya looked like he was going to war every time they entered the clinic.

He held Shane’s hand so tight he forgot about his own heartbeat.

Then the screen came on.

And suddenly there was… something.

Small. Blurry. Real.

The tech pointed gently.
“There.”

Ilya leaned forward, squinting.

“…It looks like a tiny peanut,” he whispered.

The tech smiled.
“That’s pretty accurate.”

Shane laughed. Soft. Wet.

Then the sound started.

The heartbeat.

Fast. Strong. Real.

And Ilya broke.

There was no warning. No pride. No armor.
Just quiet, broken tears sliding down his cheeks as he pressed his forehead to Shane’s shoulder.

“Is… ours?” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to say it.

Shane squeezed his hand.
“Ours.”

From that day, something rewired inside him.

But Shane didn’t feel as steady.

He felt slower now.
Tired sooner.
Soft in places that used to be sharp.

Some days he struggled to recognize himself in the mirror.

He didn’t say it out loud, but the thought lived behind his ribs:

What if Ilya stops wanting me?

He noticed the way his body changed. The way his balance shifted. The way he needed help tying his shoes. The way he could no longer move through the world without being aware of himself at every second.

One night, he sat quietly on the bed while Ilya folded laundry.

“I feel… wrong,” Shane whispered.

Ilya froze.

“What?”

“I feel…” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Slow. Heavy. Different.”

Ilya crossed the room in two seconds and knelt in front of him.

“Look at me.”

Shane lifted his eyes.

Ilya’s expression was raw, honest, undone.

“You are not less to me.” His voice was low and fierce. “You are more.”

Shane blinked.

“I am just… very bad at saying it.” Ilya huffed a soft breath. “Because if I say you are beautiful, you think I am lying. And if I say I want you, you think I am only saying it. And if I say you are perfect, you think I am stupid.”

A small, broken laugh fell out of Shane.

Ilya gently pressed his forehead to Shane’s.

“But an aroused look,” he added quietly, thumb brushing a slow, warm line along Shane’s jaw, “I cannot fake.”

Shane’s breath hitched.

Because yeah ... he could see it.

In the way Ilya looked at him like he was sacred and devastating all at once.
In the way his gaze lingered a second too long.
In the way he touched Shane like he was made of light.

He still wanted him.

Maybe even more than before.

That night, Shane fell asleep with Ilya’s hand resting protectively against his stomach while Ilya whispered in badly accented English to a baby that definitely couldn’t understand him.

Even if Shane still felt fragile…
He didn’t feel alone.

Not anymore.

…

Five months later:

The hospital room was chaos.

Not loud chaos ... just the kind that lived in rushed footsteps, squeezed hands, shaky breaths, and the way the air felt too tight.

Ilya had never been more terrified in his life.

Shane squeezed his hand so hard Ilya was fairly sure one of his fingers had ceased to be a finger.

“Breathe,” the nurse said calmly.

Shane did not look calm.

“This,” he managed between clenched teeth, “is the last time...”
He paused, inhaled sharply.
“The last ... time ... you are ever ... touching me!”

Ilya leaned closer immediately, despite the pain in his hand.

“You are doing so good,” he whispered frantically, brushing sweat-damp hair from Shane’s forehead. “So strong. So perfect.”

“Shut,” Shane breathed, gripping harder.
“Your ... stupid ... mouth.”

There was a sudden jolt of pain that stole Shane’s breath completely.

Ilya instinctively brought his hand closer.

Bad choice.

Shane bit him.

Not hard enough to break skin.
Not soft enough to fake.

“OW...”

“YOU DID THIS TO ME,” Shane snapped through tears.

“I DID NOT...”

“You DO NOT HAVE EMPATHY.”

A nurse pushed back a laugh.

Ilya didn’t even care that his hand was numb at this point.

He stayed.
Every second.
Every breath.
Every whispered:

“I am here.”
“I love you.”
“You are not alone.”

Then came the sound.

A new sound.

Small.
Sharp.
Real.

Crying.

Ilya froze.

Frozen solid.

Shane was shaking now, exhausted, breath unsteady, eyes wet with everything.

Before he even looked at the baby, Ilya cupped Shane’s face.

“Are you okay?” he asked immediately, voice breaking.
“Does it hurt? Do you feel okay? Do you need me?”

Shane blinked at him.

Then laughed.
Actually laughed.

“He came out,” Shane said softly. “So… yeah. I think it was worth it.”

And only then did Ilya look.

They placed the baby gently into Shane’s arms.

A tiny, scrunched face.
Red and perfect and real.

Ilya’s mouth fell open.

“That… is human,” he whispered.

“He is our human,” Shane said.

Ilya slowly reached out, terrified to breathe too hard.

“What is his name?” the nurse asked softly.

Shane looked at Ilya.

Shane swallowed, voice trembling:

“Leo.”

Ilya smiled.
“Leo.”

Ilya bent down, pressing his forehead against Shane’s.

“You were everything,” he whispered.
“You are everything.”

And when he finally dared to touch their son, his hands shook so badly he had to bite his own lip to stay upright.

He’d skated on broken ribs.
He’d played through torn ligaments.

Nothing had ever scared him like loving something this much.

He looked back at Shane first.

Always Shane.

Always okay?
Always breathing?
Always here?

Only then did he let himself fall in love with the small, crying miracle in Shane’s arms.

….

The door opened quietly.

Shane barely noticed at first. He was too tired, too dazed, too full.

Then he heard his mom’s soft gasp.

“Oh, baby…”

Yuna crossed the room in seconds.

Not loud. Not demanding. Just warm hands smoothing Shane’s hair back, her thumb brushing under his eyes like she was trying to wipe away every ounce of pain the world had ever given him.

“How do you feel?” she whispered, voice already breaking.

David followed, slower ... but his eyes were just as soft.

He hovered instead of crowding.

“Hurting?” he asked gently. “Dizzy? Cold?”

Shane let out a weak laugh.
“Tired.”

Yuna smiled instantly. “That is allowed.”

She carefully placed a small container on the side table.

“Your favorite soup,” she said.

David pulled the chair closer, like he’d done a thousand times when Shane was small.

“You did good,” he said, quieter. “Really good.”

And then they saw him.

Leo.

Yuna froze.

Her hands flew to her mouth.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “He’s… he’s so small. He is perfect”

David leaned in slowly, like the baby might shatter if he breathed wrong.

“That’s my grandson?”

He sounded stunned.

Like the word didn’t belong to him yet.

Yuna looked at Ilya then.

Really looked at him.

There was no tension in her face now.

No uncertainty.

Just gratitude.

She stepped closer, her hand briefly touching his arm.

“You stayed,” she said softly.
“You took care of him.”

Ilya didn’t know what to say.

He just nodded.

David came over too ... not stiff, not hostile.

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” he said. “For taking care of him.”

Ilya just smiled.

They stood together in a strange, soft circle around the bed.

Shane, tired and glowing.

Leo, sleeping.

Yuna tucked the blanket up a little higher around Shane’s shoulders.

David rested his hand briefly against Ilya’s shoulder.

Not a threat.
Not a warning.

Something closer to trust.

And Shane just watched them all.

The love.

The warmth.

The quiet miracle of being safe.

For once, it didn’t feel like something that could be taken from him.

It felt like something that had been built.

….

Hayden cornered Ilya in the hallway like a predator.

“Let’s get something straight.”

Ilya blinked. “Good morning to you too.”

Hayden didn’t smile.

He stepped closer instead.

“I was here when Shane thought he was unlovable. I was here when he cried himself sick. I was here when he tried to pretend you didn’t break him.” His voice dropped, lethal. “So if you even think about hurting him again, I will end you. You disappear”

Ilya held up his hands. “I breathe wrong and you’ll bury me under the hospital, da?”

Hayden didn’t answer.

Because Shane’s soft voice floated in the room.

“Hayden?”

The switch flipped.

Instantly.

Hayden turned, face rearranged into sunshine.

“Oh my God, Shane!” he gasped, suddenly rushing forward. “You look incredible! Like… glowing. They let you stand already? Don’t stand, sit...where is he?”

He practically glided to the bassinet.

And melted.

“Hi, baby,” he whispered, finger soft against Leo’s tiny fist. “Hi, you perfect little human.”

He looked back at Shane, eyes warm.

“I am so happy for you.”

Then he glanced back at Ilya.

Smile gone.

Flat.

“You,” he said quietly, “are still on probation.”

Ilya gave him a lazy grin.

“I like a challenge.”

Hayden snorted and muttered, “I’m stealing this baby for cuddles,” as he leaned closer.

Ilya leaned toward Shane and whispered under his breath:

“Your friend frightens me.”

Shane, tired and smiling, whispered back:

“He is harmless.”

…..

Months later, the room felt like it existed underwater.

Everything moved slower here. Softer. Quieter.

Shane lay propped against the headboard, a cocoon of pillows at his back, the edges of the world distilled down to warmth and slow breathing and the gentle rise and fall of chests.

Across from him, Ilya slept sitting upright, head tilted slightly, one arm curved instinctively around the tiny body asleep on his bare chest.

Their son.

Leo was sprawled there like he owned the place ... which he did ... a tiny fist curled in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt, cheek pressed against his heart.

The rhythm of them was ridiculous in its perfection.

Shane had never imagined this.

Not truly. Not like this.

A year ago, his life had been all noise and heartbreak and distance. Loneliness disguised as routine. Love swallowed before it ever had the chance to breathe.

Now it was… this.

A warm room.

Soft lamplight spilling over tangled blankets.

A man who loved him so much it showed in the way he slept.

A tiny human who existed because that love had been real enough to leave a mark on the world.

He rested a hand over his own chest, feeling it tighten.

He really had everything.

A baby with his eyes and Ilya’s stubborn mouth.

A future that didn’t feel like something to run from.

Next season, he’d be on the ice with Ilya again ... same team, same jerseys, same city. Ottawa. A word that felt like promise now instead of change.

A family waiting at home.

A reason to come back healthy.

A reason to keep dreaming.

Shane looked at them again.

Ilya’s head shifted slightly in sleep, chin brushing Leo’s hair.

Leo sighed ... a tiny, content sound ... and curled closer.

Shane smiled so softly it almost hurt.

Whatever came next ... the pressures, the games, the tired days, the loud years ... he was sure of only one thing.

With Ilya beside him, with this little heartbeat between them…

He could face anything.

....

A/N:

hiii babes 💖

chap 7 is HEREEE tadaaaa ✨

ANDDDD omg BABY LEO HAS FINALLY ARRIVED .... i legit feel like the proudest auntie rn pls,,, my heart can’t take it 😩💗

next chap is the LAST one  but omg i hope y’all enjoyed the preg chaos as much as i loved writing it 😭💕

don’t forget to drop a comment, okay?? i’m watching 👀

love uuu 💗💗

Chapter Text

The arena was loud in the way only love could be.

Crowds roared, skates cut clean across ice, sticks clashed like thunder. Everything shimmered with motion and noise...but Shane felt wrapped in something quieter.

Warmth.

Leo was strapped securely to his chest, bundled in tiny layers, his little body bouncing with each excited wiggle he made.

Shane smoothed a gentle hand over the soft black curls at the top of Leo’s head.

The curls he stole from Ilya.

Tiny earmuffs swallowed his ears, barely staying in place as Leo kicked and squirmed against the straps, drool-covered fingers waving happily at absolutely nothing and everything at once.

“This is your first game, baby,” Shane murmured, adjusting the baby carrier. “You’re gonna think hockey is just loud men yelling forever.”

Leo kicked harder, clearly in agreement.

And then Shane saw him.

On the ice.

Ilya.

Fast, focused, beautiful in the way only he could be.

Skating like he belonged to the ice, like he’d always belonged to it.

His eyes flicked up toward the stands...and found Shane instantly, like a magnet.

Like it had never been hard to find him.

Shane lifted his hand and blew a kiss.

Without hesitation, Ilya grinned behind his visor, lifted his gloved fingers like he was catching it mid-air, pressing it theatrically to his chest.

Then he “threw” two back.

One.

Two.

One for Shane.

One for Leo.

The jumbotron shifted.

CAMERA FOUND THEM.

The crowd roared even louder.

Text splashed across the screen:

“BIGGEST FANS IN THE BUILDING.”

Leo blinked up at the giant screen, eyes wide.

And then he saw him.

The ice. The player. The man he knew without understanding.

His tiny hands clenched in the straps and he bounced so hard it made the carrier creak.

“M’papa! Papa! Papa!” he shouted, voice high and delighted and slightly wet with drool.

The sound cut straight through Shane’s chest.

The crowd laughed. Some people actually went awww.

The broadcast cameras zoomed a little closer.

Shane felt warmth flood his face.

Softness.

Love.

And jealousy.

Of course.

“Yeah yeah…That’s your Papa,” Shane muttered under his breath, adjusting Leo again. “I carried you around for nine months and you pick him as your favorite?”

Leo responded by pointing at the ice and squealing.

“Papa! Papa!”

Traitor.

Shane pressed a kiss into the soft curls at the top of Leo’s head, smiling despite himself, eyes drifting back to Ilya.

Ilya caught the moment ... saw Leo’s little hands, heard the tiny voice.

His skating faltered for half a second.

Then his entire face softened behind the visor.

He pressed his glove to his heart.

Just for them.

Just for his family.

And from the stands, wrapped in noise and love and tiny arms and borrowed jerseys, Shane thought:

Yeah.

This is home.

….

The horn blared.

The arena burst open with noise.

The puck hit the back of the net and the crowd exploded.

Ilya didn’t even hear his teammates shouting.

Didn’t feel the way they tackled him in celebration.

Didn’t process the numbers flashing across the scoreboard.

All he saw was the stands.

Shane.

Leo.

He peeled away from the noise without thinking, skating so fast it almost burned. His gloves hit the ice as he stopped at the glass in front of the tunnel where families were allowed down.

Shane was already there.

Jersey on. Leo still strapped to his chest, tiny hands gripping the fabric like he owned it.

Ilya leaned over the boards, helmet still on, breath fogging up the glass.

For one second they just looked at each other.

Grinning.

Breathless.

Warm.

And then Ilya tapped the glass twice.

Shane lifted Leo up just enough.

Ilya reached up, tugged his helmet back an inch, and pressed a fast, solid kiss to Shane’s mouth through the open space.

The crowd behind them lost it.

Leo made an indignant noise like he’d been personally offended by being ignored.

So Ilya leaned over again and pressed a soft kiss right to Leo’s round, squishy cheek.

Leo squealed instantly, tiny hands grabbing at the edge of Ilya’s visor, kicking his legs so hard the straps of the carrier creaked.

“Papa!” he chirped, like it was always obvious who was going to win.

Shane laughed into Ilya’s shoulder.

“You scored,” he whispered.

Ilya rested his forehead briefly against Shane’s.

“I always do,” he murmured. “For you.”

One last squeeze of Shane’s hand.

One last tap of his glove to Leo’s tiny hand.

And then his teammates were dragging him back onto the ice, celebration swallowing him whole.

But even as he was pulled away, Ilya skated backward for a second, eyes still locked on them.

Shane. Leo.

His whole world pressed against the glass, smiling, flushed, real.

Leo wiggled harder, slapping his tiny hand against the barrier like he wanted back on the ice with him.

And Shane thought, watching the way Ilya looked at them:

We won way more than just this game.

….

Ilya couldn’t sleep.

Not because he wasn’t tired ... he was exhausted ... but because Shane was curled against him, warm and soft and too beautiful to ignore.

One arm draped across Ilya’s chest. One leg tangled with his. His face half-buried in Ilya’s shoulder, lips slightly parted, breathing slow and steady.

Peaceful.

Something Ilya never thought he’d deserve.

After his mother died, he’d thought that was it.

That loneliness was permanent.

That silence was the natural state of things.

He learned how to live in it. Harden in it.

And then Shane had come into his life.

Loud. Gorgeous. Stubborn.

Shane had turned lights on in rooms inside Ilya that he didn’t even know had existed.

Had taught him laughter could feel like safety. Had taught him he could belong somewhere.

And then Leo.

Small. Wrinkly. Loud.

The second best thing that had ever happened to him.

Ilya shifted slightly, careful not to wake Shane, and whispered into the soft of his hair, “My home.”

This is what peace feels like.

That was when the peace shattered.

Yeah, Spoken too soon.

A scream erupted from the baby monitor like a fire alarm being stabbed to death.

Leo’s cry from the crib near their bed.

Loud. Offended. Dramatic.

The kind of cry that said: I am mildly inconvenienced and this is a human rights violation.

Ilya froze for a second.

“...I tempted fate,” he whispered.

Shane stirred immediately, face scrunching up like someone who had been betrayed by the universe.

“Mmnh,” he mumbled into Ilya’s chest.

The cry got louder.

Shane didn’t open his eyes.

Just lazily shoved his hand into Ilya’s face, palm landing directly on his cheek.

“You’re… on diaper duty, He is your son.” he slurred.

Ilya blinked down at him.

“Excuse me?”

Shane squinted at him, one eye barely open. “You said… last night… ‘I will handle everything forever because I am a hero.’”

Ilya huffed. “That is not what I said.”

Leo’s cry turned into something that sounded dangerously close to rage.

Shane patted Ilya’s cheek twice, comforting. “Go, soldier.”

Ilya stared at the ceiling for a long, dramatic second… then carefully untangled himself from Shane and slid off the bed.

From the crib, Leo let out a cry that could only mean: If you don’t come now, I will end this entire bloodline.

“I am coming, tiny dictator!” Ilya called back, stumbling to his feet.

Shane let out a sleepy laugh behind him and rolled over, burrito-ing himself in blankets.

By the time Ilya reached the crib, Leo was red in the face, tiny fists clenched, furious at life.

Ilya leaned over the crib.

“Oh,” he breathed in fake horror. “You have survived thirty whole seconds without me. Brave man.”

Leo blinked up at him.

Hiccuped.

Then looked personally insulted.

The diaper was… a crime scene.

Ilya gagged softly. “Okay. This is biological warfare.”

He worked through it carefully, tongue poked out in concentration, whispering a dramatic running commentary.

“You are lucky you are cute.”

Leo babbled back.

“You are so spoiled.”

Leo grabbed his finger.

“And I love you more than my own life.”

By the time he finished, Leo had calmed down, fingers fisted into Ilya’s shirt, eyes already drooping again.

When Ilya carried him back to the room, Shane was half-awake, squinting at them.

“All good?” Shane murmured.

Ilya carefully placed Leo in the bassinet.

“Crisis contained,” he whispered. “Our prince is clean and deeply offended.”

Shane let out a quiet laugh, reaching out blindly to grab Ilya’s shirt and tug him back into bed.

Ilya curled around him instantly, warmth settling again.

Leo let out a tiny sleepy sigh.

Peace returned.

Softer now.

Quieter.

Real.

And Ilya thought, as Shane’s face softened back into sleep and Leo shifted gently behind them...

Yeah.

A little less peaceful.

A lot more perfect.

Only one thing left to do.

….

Shane deserved this.

That was Ilya’s mantra for the day.

Shane deserved to be out. Deserved the sunshine and his parents fussing over him and being more than just home and routine and baby schedules.

Deserved a day where he wasn’t counting naps or tracking feed times or worrying if Leo had slept long enough.

So when Yuna had practically kidnapped Shane for a “family day,” Ilya had smiled, kissed Shane goodbye, and waved like a perfectly normal man.

The moment the door closed behind them, he panicked.

“Okay,” Ilya said out loud to absolutely no one. “We have six hours.”

Hayden Pike stared at him from the couch like he’d just been personally wronged by existence.

“I left my house,” Hayden said flatly, “to blow balloons.”

Ilya tossed him a packet anyway. “Stop complaining. You like me.”

“I tolerate you,” Hayden corrected, ripping open the plastic aggressively. “And only because Shane would kill me if I abandoned you before something this important.”

Ilya paused, chest tightening for a split second.

Important.

Yeah.

He looked around the house ... their house now ... half-decorated with strings of soft lights, candles waiting to be lit, the little box hidden safely in the kitchen drawer like it might bite him if he looked at it too long.

“I should have done this sooner,” Ilya muttered.

Hayden snorted. “You literally have a baby.”

“Exactly,” Ilya said, glancing toward the dining table.

Leo sat in his high chair, absolutely destroying a bowl of blueberries.

Blueberry-stained fingers. Blueberry-smeared mouth. Blueberry juice somehow on his cheek, his nose, and his hair.

And that smile.

That ridiculous, heart-ending smile.

Leo caught Ilya looking at him and immediately lit up ... eyes crinkling, cheeks puffing, a tiny bunny tooth peeking out as he let out an excited babble and slammed both hands on the tray.

Blueberries went flying.

“Oh no,” Ilya whispered. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Leo giggled.

Ilya abandoned the ribbon spool instantly and crossed the room, crouching in front of the high chair.

“You are sabotaging me,” he told him seriously.

Leo grabbed his finger with both sticky hands and tried to shove it into his mouth.

“I love you,” Ilya said helplessly. “But you are ruining the timeline.”

Hayden watched this with deeply unimpressed eyes. “I swear, if you forget to propose because you’re cuddling Leo...”

Ilya scooped Leo up anyway, pressing a kiss into his curls. “This is my son. He is perfect.”

Leo squealed and headbutted his chest affectionately.

Ilya rested his forehead against Leo’s, breathing him in.

“This is for you too, malysh,” he murmured softly. “I wanted you here. Wanted you to see.”

Leo responded by drooling on his collar.

Hayden, “Sentimental and moist. Amazing combination.”

Somehow, between Hayden’s nonstop complaining, Leo’s emotional support cuddles, and Ilya pacing like a man waiting for a verdict, the house slowly transformed.

Lights were strung.

Candles were placed.

Photos of Shane and Ilya ... old ones, new ones, some with Leo ... lined the mantle.

The ring box stayed hidden.

Waiting.

Yuna texted updates every hour like a covert operative.

🧡 Still shopping
🧡 He’s suspicious but distracted
🧡 David almost blew it, but I kicked him

Ilya laughed softly, nerves twisting tighter with every passing minute.

By the time Leo was back in his high chair ... chewing thoughtfully on a piece of banana now, blueberries long forgotten ... Ilya stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, heart pounding.

Hayden surveyed the setup, finally nodding.

“Okay,” he said. “This is… good.”

Ilya exhaled shakily. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hayden said, then pointed a warning finger at him. “You have done well.”

Ilya smiled ... nervous, hopeful, completely undone.

“Yeah I guess,” he said quietly.

He looked at Leo again.

At the way his son smiled at him like the world was simple and safe.

“I promise.”

Outside, a car door closed.

Voices approached.

Ilya’s heart slammed against his ribs.

Hayden clapped him on the shoulder. “Showtime, Mosquito.”

Ilya swallowed, straightened his shirt, and whispered one last thing to Leo:

“Wish me luck.”

Leo squealed like he already knew the answer.

….

Shane knew something was wrong the moment Ilya kissed him goodbye that morning.

Not wrong wrong.

Just… suspicious.

Ilya had smiled too softly. Hugged him too tightly. And when Shane had teased him about it, Ilya had just said, “Have good day, lyubov,” in that careful voice he used when he was hiding something.

The last time Shane had left Ilya alone at home for an entire day, he’d come back to find Leo’s hand- and footprints framed on the wall, a half-assembled crib that Ilya had sworn “came with no instructions,”.

So yes.

The bar was high.

Still, Shane wasn’t prepared.

The front door opened.

His parents stepped in behind him.

And Shane stopped breathing.

The house was glowing.

Soft lights strung across the ceiling. Rose petals scattered like a trail meant to be followed. Balloons hovering gently, brushing against the walls. Candles flickering with a warmth that felt almost sacred.

“Wow,” His dad whispered behind him.

Shane’s heart began to pound.

Slowly, he walked forward.

Each step felt heavier, fuller ... like walking into a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

The hallway walls were lined with photographs.

Him and Ilya ... younger, sharper, cockier.

Him and Ilya mid-laugh, mid-fight, mid-love.

Photos from hospital rooms, locker rooms, quiet kitchens.

Leo in so many of them.

Leo asleep on Ilya’s chest.

Leo gripping Shane’s finger.

Leo between them, always between them.

There were photos with his parents. With friends. With Hayden, scowling in half of them and smiling in the other half like he’d been caught unaware.

A life.

Their life.

Shane’s eyes burned.

By the time he reached the living room, his chest hurt from holding his breath.

And there ... at the end of the petals ... was Ilya.

Kneeling.

One knee on the floor. Hands shaking just slightly. Eyes locked onto Shane like he was the only thing keeping the world in place.

“I...” Ilya started, then stopped, swallowing hard. He laughed breathlessly, nervous and undone. “I had speech. Very good speech. Now my brain is gone.”

Shane let out a broken laugh, tears already spilling.

Ilya tried again, voice low and earnest.

“Shane Hollander,” he said, like the name itself was a prayer. “You came into my life when I was not looking. When I thought love was distraction. Weakness. Something to lose.”

He shook his head.

“I was wrong. About everything.”

Ilya’s eyes shone.

“You are home,” he said simply. “You are light. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Shane’s knees felt weak.

“I hurt you once because I was afraid,” Ilya continued, voice rough. “And I will regret that for my entire life. But every day since, I choose you. I choose us.”

He glanced briefly toward Leo ... now in Hayden’s arms, bouncing excitedly, completely unaware he was witnessing the greatest romantic gesture of Shane’s life.

“I cannot promise I will be perfect,” Ilya said. “But I promise I will love you loudly. Protect you fiercely. And spend rest of my life proving that you and Leo are my greatest victories.”

He opened the ring box.

The ring caught the light ... simple, elegant, perfect.

“Shane,” Ilya whispered, voice breaking. “Will you marry me?”

Shane didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes,” he choked out. “Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.”

Ilya exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.

He stood, hands trembling as he slid the ring onto Shane’s finger ... then pulled him into a kiss so full of love it stole the air from Shane’s lungs.

Applause erupted.

Yuna and David was openly crying.

Hayden lifted Leo higher, bouncing him.

Leo squealed happily, clapping his tiny hands.

Leo was passed into his arms immediately, wriggling with joy.

Shane kissed Leo’s curls, then looked back at Ilya ... his fiancé ... glowing, smiling, real.

This was it.

This was everything.

And Shane thought, heart overflowing...

Yeah.

....

Author’s Note:

Episode 4 actually ended me. Like I was lying on the floor staring at the ceiling kind of ended me.....
Did I rewatch it anyway? Yes. Immediately. With zero self control. Pleaseeeeeee pray for meeeeee.

So think of this fic as a tiny sweet treat for all of us who survived ep 4 together 🫶
I’m genuinely so sad to say goodbye to this story because these idiots have fully moved into my heart and refuse to pay rent.

But don’t worryyyyyyyyyy..... I’ll be back very soon, pinky promise.

I’m already cooking up another story 

Thank you sooo muchhhhhhhhh for all the love, the comments.
See you super soon 🤍add a wink here i couldnt find the emoji