Chapter Text
Ilya is on Shane’s couch when it happens, which feels like a detail that should matter more than it does.
The couch is expensive in a way that pretends not to be—neutral fabric, deep cushions, the kind of furniture chosen to suggest adulthood without committing to taste. Montreal afternoon light slips through the blinds in pale stripes, catching on the edge of a practice bag, the heel of Ilya’s sock, the glass of water sweating on the coffee table. He’s folded in on himself out of habit, not discomfort. Guests do that. Even when they’ve been told they aren’t guests.
The apartment smells like detergent and stick tape and whatever Shane insists isn’t cologne. The bathroom door is shut. The shower has been running long enough that steam will have softened the mirror, the edges of Shane’s voice when he talks to himself in there, the tight coil he always brings home after practice.
Ilya scrolls because it’s easier than thinking. He scrolls because North America has taught him this reflex: phone in hand, attention split, silence filled with movement. He’s halfway through a news article he isn’t really reading when his phone vibrates.
Once.
Then again.
Then—
Mara added Lily to “Away Crew.”
Ilya blinks.
Lily.
The name sits at the top of the screen, neat and unbothered, like it’s always belonged there. He reads it twice, waiting for recognition to click into place. It doesn’t. It’s just a name. A soft one. A name without weight.
Below it, the chat loads.
Away Crew
Mara. Noelle. Rin. Tess.
Four names. Not the big group. Something smaller. Purpose-built. The kind of chat that exists to get things done, not to be loud about it.
A message appears almost immediately.
Mara: Hey! Hope this is okay — we realized Shane’s partner wasn’t in here and figured it was overdue.
Partner, not girlfriend. That helps.
Another message follows, a beat later.
Mara: Also, I had your number saved as Lily from the Boston trip — please correct me if that’s wrong!
Ilya exhales slowly.
So that’s it. A label applied out of convenience, not curiosity. It doesn’t feel malicious. It feels practical. Correcting it would mean explaining, and explaining would mean deciding how much of himself to hand over to a room he has just entered.
He looks at the name again.
Lily doesn’t come with history. Lily doesn’t raise eyebrows. Lily doesn’t invite questions.
For now, Lily can stay.
The others chime in, spaced and unhurried.
Noelle: hi!!
Tess: hello 😊
Rin: welcome 💛
They don’t flood him. They don’t interrogate. The chat pauses, like they’re waiting to see what kind of presence Lily will be.
Ilya types.
Deletes.
Types again.
English always asks him to choose between precision and safety. He chooses safety.
Lily: hi
It lands. Gently.
Noelle: polite queen
Tess: omg hi
Rin: hi! glad you’re here
Mara: This chat’s mostly for travel chaos + venting. Super low pressure.
Low pressure. He files that away.
Lily: thank you. my english is not great. sorry if slow.
Rin: you’re doing great
Noelle: english is fake anyway
Tess: agreed
The warmth is quiet. It doesn’t demand anything from him.
Down the hall, the shower shuts off. Steam escapes when the bathroom door opens, and Shane’s voice follows it—muffled, distracted, already decompressing. Ilya keeps reading, watching the rhythm of the chat settle into something manageable.
Schedules. Flights. A complaint about hotel coffee.
When Lily answers, she answers simply.
Lily: bus usually leaves early on back-to-backs.
Lily: traffic bad near arena tonight.
Mara: 👍
Noelle: thank you!!
The chat moves on.
It’s easy. That’s the dangerous part.
Shane emerges shirtless, hair damp, towel slung low on his hips. He heads straight for the kitchen, opens the fridge, stares into it like it has personally failed him.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, glancing over.
“Nothing,” Ilya says automatically.
Shane hums, unconvinced but uninterested in pushing. He grabs a water, twists the cap with his teeth, drinks half in one go. “You want food?”
“Later.”
Ilya’s phone vibrates again.
Mara: Are you in Montreal right now or still Boston-based?
He answers without thinking.
Lily: montreal now.
Tess: yay
Noelle: if you ever want to sit with us at a game, just say so
Rin: no pressure!
No pressure again. He appreciates the repetition.
Before he can stop himself, he adds:
Lily: shane is in shower. i am on couch.
The response is immediate, but contained.
Noelle: LMAO
Tess: 😭
Rin: “i am on couch” is killing me
Mara: relatable honestly
Ilya’s mouth curves. He doesn’t let it become a smile.
Shane drops onto the couch beside him, towel gone now, sweatpants on, hair still damp at the ends. His knee presses into Ilya’s thigh, familiar and grounding.
“You’re smiling,” Shane says.
“I am not.”
“You are,” Shane says, pleased. “Who’re you texting?”
“A group chat,” Ilya says.
“With who?”
Ilya lifts the phone slightly, then lowers it again. “Montreal.”
Shane squints. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” Ilya says calmly.
Shane watches him for a moment, curiosity flickering, then lets it go. He leans back, arm stretching along the back of the couch behind Ilya like an afterthought.
The phone buzzes again.
Noelle: okay serious question
Noelle: what is shane like at home
Ilya considers the truth—how Shane softens in quiet, how he gets worse before he gets better, how he wants closeness but hates asking for it.
He types something else.
Lily: same. but less clothes.
The chat pauses, then resumes with contained delight.
Tess: OH
Rin: 😂
Mara: fair answer
Noelle: noted
Shane glances over. “What’d you say?”
“Nothing important,” Ilya says.
Shane laughs softly. “You’re being weird.”
“You are always weird,” Ilya says.
“Rude,” Shane says, but he’s smiling.
Later, when the chat quiets and the apartment settles, Ilya reads back through the messages. Not obsessively. Carefully. He notices how often Lily is tagged now. How quickly people accept her presence.
By the end of the week, Lily has answered more questions than she’s asked.
No one has asked to meet her directly. Not yet. But the idea hovers at the edges of conversation—eventually, next time, when schedules line up.
Ilya sets his phone face-down on his thigh, letting the vibration hum through the fabric. Shane’s shoulder presses into his. The TV murmurs something forgettable.
They call him Lily.
For now, he lets them.
Wine night, he thinks—not now, not soon.
Eventually.