Archive of Our Own

Shane noticed it the same way he notices all important things. 

Quickly. 

And all at once. 

It’s not dramatic too. 

He doesn’t gasp or drop his mug— take a sharp intake of breath or even feel his eyes glisten… he’s just quiet. 

Aware. 

He watches as Ilya reaches past him for the coffee filters, sleeve riding up his forearm, skin bare where gold should be and all he does is blink. 

Shane blinks at it.

Again. 

Then again.

For a second, his brain refuses to cooperate. It offers him the image of the ring anyway. The familiar ring that’s always on his finger. Automatic and he can picture it perfectly: warm gold, slightly scuffed from years of wear, catching the light when Ilya moves his hands the way he always does. 

Expressive and careless and alive.

But it isn’t there.

The kitchen is still waking up around them. Early light spills in through the window, pale and soft, settling on the counter and the edges of the cabinets like it belongs there. The apartment smells like coffee grounds and toast and the citrus cleaner Ilya insists on buying because it reminds him of somewhere warm Shane has never been.

Ilya hums under his breath, already halfway through the morning like nothing has shifted at all.

“Sweetheart,” Ilya says, soft and distracted, already half-turned toward the counter, “you use last of filters, or is my turn to be hero this morning?”

Shane swallows.

“They’re there,” he says. His voice sounds normal to his own ears, which feels almost insulting. He nods toward the cabinet. “Bottom drawer.”

Ilya hums again, pleased, and crouches down to rummage. 

His sleeve slides higher this time. 

His wrist turns.

Still nothing.

The absence is loud enough that Shane feels it behind his eyes, a pressure he doesn’t have a name for yet. He looks away before it can turn into something else. His gaze lands on the calendar stuck to the fridge— January sixteenth circled in red for reasons he can't immediately remember. Doctor's appointment, maybe. Or Anya's vet checkup. Something routine that felt important when he wrote it down.

The kettle clicks off.

Shane pours the water too fast and it sloshes over the rim of the mug, splattering onto the counter. He barely registers it and wipes it up immediately, like if he keeps his hands moving his thoughts won’t catch up.

The paper towel tears when he pulls too hard, so he throws it away and grabs another. 

Behind him, Ilya straightens with a triumphant little sound. “Ah-ha,” he says. “I save day.”

Shane smiles. 

It comes easily enough. Reflexive. The kind of expression he’s practiced over years until it feels almost real when he needs it to. He keeps it on his face as Ilya turns back to the counter, busying himself with the small, familiar choreography of making coffee.

Ilya moves with confidence in their kitchen now. He measures without looking, scoops grounds straight from the bag instead of the container because he insists it tastes better that way, taps the filter twice against the rim like it’s a rule rather than a habit. He hums again, low and off-key, shoulders loose. The melody is something Shane doesn't recognize—probably Russian, probably from childhood, probably something his mother used to sing while cooking.

Shane watches for a second longer than he means to.

Because he loves watching Ilya like this. Loves the way he moves through their space like he owns it, like he's always belonged here. Like this kitchen, this house, this life—it's all just an extension of him. Shane could watch him make coffee for the rest of his life and never get tired of it. The way Ilya's hair falls into his eyes when he leans forward. The way his tongue pokes out slightly when he's concentrating. The way he hums those songs Shane will never know the words to but has memorized anyway by the cadence of Ilya's voice.

God, he loves him.

Then he looks down at his phone.

There’s nothing on it he needs to see. A few unread texts. One from his mom asking about dinner next week. Another from a number he doesn’t recognize, probably spam. A headline he doesn’t care about. Someone’s photo he scrolls past without really registering. His thumb moves anyway, automatic, like motion might keep his thoughts from circling back to the same place.

He scrolls.

Stops.

Scrolls again.

The movement feels pointless even as he does it, his thumb gliding over a screen he isn’t really seeing. Words blur. Faces pass. Nothing sticks. He could tell you exactly what the kitchen smells like, the way the light hits the counter, the sound of the kettle settling back into silence—but not a single thing on his phone.

An email notification pops up. Work-related. He swipes it away without reading. 

He lets the screen dim and doesn’t wake it again.

But then he feels him in his space. 

His chin settling on his shoulder and his arms coming around Shane’s waist from behind. And it feels so familiar. Fits there like it belongs.

Shane exhales. 

“You are very quiet today,” Ilya murmurs. “Is this because I steal blanket again, or is new reason?”

Shane breathes out. 

“I slept fine.”

Ilya hums. 

Kisses the side of Shane’s neck. 

“I make it up to you tonight,” he says. “Fluff pillows. Or pick up socks.”

Shane huffs out a quiet breath of a laugh. “Generous.”

“I am very generous husband,” Ilya says proudly.

The word lands strange. 

Shane feels it. 

He knows he feels it because it feels like every emotion he feels around Ilya. 

Too much. 

Always too much. 

His fingers tighten around the mug. He feels that too. The warm burn of the ceramic against his hand and he tries to focus on that, he really does, because the consuming, pulling feeling in his chest was enough to knock him over and he knows he’s being dramatic, but he can’t help it. 

He can’t help it. 

Because that's what loving Ilya does to him. It makes everything feel too big, too important, too real. Like every small moment could be the last one, even though logically Shane knows they have years ahead of them. Decades, if they're lucky. But his heart doesn't care about logic. His heart only knows that Ilya is here, in his arms, calling himself Shane's husband, and that feels like both the most natural thing in the world and and some kind of heartbreak because Ilya isn’t wearing his ring.

Ilya kisses his neck again and turns him around. Pulls him back just enough to look at him. 

His eyes are warm and they’re searching. 

“You coming to rink later, yes?” Ilya asks. “Coach say we have thing. Dinner. I do not know why.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Ilya’s smile softens. 

Still searching. 

Stop searching. 

Please search. 

And for a second Shane thinks he’s gonna say it. It’s on the tip of his tongue. You forgot your ring. It’s neutral. Factual. Harmless. The kind of thing people say every day without meaning anything more than what it is.

Because he could say it like that, right? He could make it casual. He could even joke. He could make it light. Make it nothing. A simple observation between two people.

But he didn’t. 

He couldn’t 

Instead, he looks at Ilya’s face. At the curve of his mouth. At the small scar near his temple from when he was six and fell off a swing. At the way his hair curls slightly at the ends when it's still damp from the shower. At the faint line between his brows that only shows up when he’s concentrating or worried or trying not to be late.

Shane nods.

God, he loves him so much. 

“Go,” he says, softly, “You don’t wanna be late.”

Ilya studies him for a second longer. 

Then he nods too. 

And steals one last kiss from Shane’s mouth.

“Then I go be good athlete,” he says. “Try not to embarrass family name.”

“Please do,” Shane says.

Ilya laughs and grabs his coffee. 

And that’s when it hits him. Because Ilya started grabbing everything. Everything he usually grabs before leaving the house. 

Phone. 

Wallet. 

Keys. 

And Shane’s watching intently like he’s seen this routine a thousand times because he has and he could probably do it in his sleep, could walk through it blind, could narrate every movement before it happens. 

Ilya pats his pockets— left for phone, right for wallet. Checks them both. Grabs his keys from the bowl by the door then hooks the keys on his finger. Spins them once out of habit before tucking them away. 

Jacket on.

Zipper up.

The jacket is the black one Shane got him for Christmas. Ilya had complained it was too nice for everyday wear and then proceeded to wear it every single day. 

“Love you,” Ilya says as he pauses at the door, accent rounding the words like he’s careful with them.

Shane gulps, “Love you.”

Then, Shane stops breathing once the door closes. 

Not all at once. Not in any way that would register as panic. His lungs keep working, technically. Air goes in. Air goes out. But the conscious part of it—the part that feels deliberate, anchored—goes missing.

He stands there, staring at the door like it might open again if he watches hard enough.

It doesn’t.

Okay, he thinks.

Okay.

It's fine.

People forget things. People forget things all the time and rings– rings are small. Rings slip off. Rings get left on sinks and nightstands and those stupid little dishes by the door that are supposed to prevent this exact thing. Ilya could have left it anywhere. The bathroom counter. The bedside table. That little shelf in the shower where he keeps his fancy soap.

Maybe he missed it? Maybe Ilya was actually wearing his ring or he had it on the chain and he just didn’t notice –

The thought hooks sharp. He replays the morning in fragments—coffee, filters, Ilya’s sleeve sliding up, the hum in his throat, the way his wrist turned when he reached for the cabinet. Did Shane just… miss it? Did he imagine the absence because he was tired, because he was too focused on one thing that he forgot everything else? Did his brain play a trick on him? 

He presses his lips together.

No.

He knows what he saw.

Or didn’t.

He exhales. 

Another thought creeps in. 

It’s quieter. 

Meaner. 

Did Ilya notice?

Clearly, not. Ilya, his..his... his whole fucking soul who notices when Shane switches shampoos or when his freckles change colours and he has to touch them because crime to not touch beautiful freckles, or when he’s emotionally off by a half a degree. His whole fucking soul who notices when Shane is quiet. Who asks if he’s okay even when Shane thinks he’s hiding it perfectly. Who can read him better than anyone ever has. 

So— did he notice and decide it didn’t matter? He searched his eyes and just…gave up? Did he look at his ring this morning and think, I’ll grab it later, like it wasn’t worth putting on? Like it wasn’t important enough to remember? 

Shane’s chest tightens.

It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. It can’t. Their life doesn’t hinge on a piece of jewelry. Their marriage isn’t that fragile. He knows this. He’s not twenty-two anymore, clinging to symbols like they’re the only proof he’s allowed to have.

They’re past that. 

They’re solid. 

Still.

He walks to the counter and sets his mug down with too much care, aligning it perfectly with the edge like precision might fix something. His hands feel strange, slightly numb, like they belong to someone else.

He glances at the door again.

Nothing.

Anya pads into the kitchen, nails clicking softly on the floor. She noses at Shane's hand, warm and insistent, and he scratches behind her ears automatically. She leans into the touch, tail wagging once, twice, then settles at his feet with a contented sigh.

Shane looks down at his mug. His tea has gone cold. He doesn't bother reheating it.

And his brain, unhelpful as ever, reaches backward instead.

—

They’d been on the couch that night. 

The TV was on but it was muted and some game was playing that neither of them was really watching. Shane was lying on the couch between Ilya’s legs, his back resting against Ilya’s chest. The position was one of Shane’s favorites. It made him feel safe and it was comforting in the way things become when you do them over and over until they’re second nature. 

Ilya had Shane’s phone in his hands, scrolling idly above him, thumbs slow and lazy. Every so often, he’d absentmindedly ran his fingers through Shane’s hair, the touch familiar enough that Shane barely registered it until it stopped.

“Look at this,” Ilya had said suddenly. 

Shane tipped his head back slightly, looking up at him. “What?”

Ilya angled the phone so Shane could see. A headline about some famous couple—actors, maybe—caught candidly leaving a restaurant. Married, according to the caption. Shane remembered that much.

One of them wasn’t wearing a ring.

Ilya squinted at the photo like it was a personal insult. “Why he no wear ring?” he demanded. “They say he is married.”

Shane smiled, tired and fond, “Maybe he forgot.”

Ilya made a face, “How you forget something like that?”

Shane shrugged. 

Ilya, apparently, disagreed.

He huffed softly, disapproving, and lowered the phone. His hands slid from Shane’s hair down to his arms. One thumb brushed idly over Shane’s wrist, right where his pulse lived and Shane felt his whole body buzz. 

“No,” Ilya said finally, quieter now. “This is not small thing.”

Shane felt him shift behind him, leaning forward, chest pressing lightly to his back. Ilya’s chin hovered near his shoulder as he reached for Shane’s left hand, guiding it up without asking. His fingers threaded through Shane’s, warm and certain, like the motion had been practiced.

He turned Shane’s hand slightly, just enough for the light to catch the band of gold.

“It is message,” Ilya said, voice gentle but sure. “It say: this person is chosen. This person is mine. I am not available for nonsense.”

“Nonsense?”

“Da, nonsense.”

“Like what nonsense? He’s not gonna cheat just cause –”

Ilya shook his head softly, brushing Shane’s fingers with his thumb. “No, da, not like that. Nonsense is… people think they can distract you. Tempt you. Make you look away from what is yours.”

Shane frowned. 

Because he couldn’t even imagine that. 

Not a single cell in his body could imagine that. 

Ilya’s lips curved into a mischievous little smile against the side of Shane’s neck. “They see you, quiet man, nice shoulders, very serious face with very beautiful freckles… and think maybe you want excitement. Maybe you bored at home.”

Shane rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m not bored.”

“No, because you already boring.”

“Wow.”

Ilya pressed a soft kiss just behind Shane’s ear. Once. Twice. Three times. Then, rubs his finger over the gold on Shane’s hand. 

“You never forget?”

Shane blinks up at him. 

Blinks up at his beautiful, Russian boy and swears he feels his heart grow ten times. 

“No,” he breathes out. “No, I never forget.”

Except Ilya forgot. 

Ilya forgot today. 

–

Shane doesn’t feel any better once he leaves the house. 

And it’s stupid really. 

Because he almost skips a red light, trips over his own two feet, and completely forgets their clothes in the car as he makes his way into the cleaners. The bell above the door jingles too loudly when he pushes inside, the sound sharp enough to make him flinch. He stands there for a second, empty-handed, staring at the counter like it’s betrayed him, before he realizes—right—the garment bag is still sitting in the back seat.

He exhales and rubs a hand over his face, mutters a quiet apology to no one, and turns right back around.

It’s not like him. Shane prides himself on being put together, on knowing where things are, on being steady. Reliable. This morning, everything feels just slightly out of reach, like he’s a half-step behind himself.

It doesn’t get much better when Coach texts him and tells him he needs to be at the rink a little earlier for some emergency team meeting.

Shane stares at the message for a beat longer than necessary. His phone feels heavier than it should. He types back a quick will be there because he doesn’t want to stand there and think about the fact that his husband hadn’t texted him, telling him that information instead. 

It’s so stupid. 

Shane almost drops the protein powder at the store. 

He catches it just in time though, the plastic tub knocking awkwardly against his forearm before he manages to pin it to his chest. A woman beside him pauses, eyebrows lifting, and Shane gives her a tight, automatic smile before turning his attention back to the shelf like nothing happened.

His hands feel clumsy. Too big. 

Like they don’t belong to him today.

He sets the protein powder into his basket more carefully than necessary and stands there for a second, staring at rows of identical containers. Chocolate. Vanilla. Cookies and cream. He always gets vanilla. He reaches for it—then stops. Stares. Pulls his hand back.

Get it together, he tells himself, not unkindly, but firmly.

He grabs the cookies and cream and moves on.

The store is busy in that quiet, weekday way. Carts squeak. Someone coughs down the aisle. The automatic doors hiss open and closed in a steady rhythm that starts to grate on his nerves. Every sound feels too loud, too present, like the world has decided to insist on itself all at once.

He picks up eggs. Checks the carton for cracks. Puts it back and grabs a different one for no real reason.

Milk. Whole, because Ilya refuses to drink anything else.

Bread. The kind with seeds that Ilya likes and Shane tolerates.

Shane’s phone vibrates in his pocket and his heart stutters before he can stop it.

He pulls it out too quickly.

Not Ilya.

Just a notification from some app he forgot he downloaded. A sale. A reminder. Something that has nothing to do with him. Shane locks the screen again, jaw tightening, and shoves the phone back into his pocket like it’s embarrassed him.

He’s busy, Shane tells himself.

Except the thought doesn’t settle. It just… sits there. Heavy. Unresolved.

At checkout, the cashier greets him cheerfully, asks how his day’s going. Shane hears himself say, “Good,” out of habit, the word smooth and practiced. He taps his card, waits for the receipt, thanks her, and walks out before the automatic doors are fully open.

Outside, the air feels colder than it did earlier. He loads the groceries into the trunk and then just stands there for a second, one hand braced on the car, breathing in slowly through his nose. His chest feels tight, like something’s wrapped around it and pulled just enough to be uncomfortable.

A car honks somewhere behind him. He closes the trunk. 

He looks down at his left hand again.

The ring catches the light, dull gold against his skin. Familiar. Solid. A weight he never notices until he thinks about it, and then suddenly its all he can feel. 

You never forget, Ilya had said.

Shane swallows.

He gets in the car and drives. 

– 

Hours pass and Shane finally makes it to the rink. 

It’s colder than usual. 

He pulls his hoodie tighter around himself as he walks down the corridor, rubber soles squeaking faintly against the floor. The overhead lights hum. Somewhere down the hall someone laughs too loudly, the sound ricocheting off concrete walls.

Shane nods at people. Says hi when spoken to. He knows he’s doing all the right things because no one looks at him twice. No one asks if he’s okay. He hates and appreciates that in equal measure.

The room is already half-full when he arrives. Long table, plastic chairs, the kind of setup that screams mandatory attendance. There's a projector screen on one wall, blank for now. A whiteboard with last week's drills still written on it in fading marker.

He takes his usual seat in the meeting room, third chair from the end, close enough to the aisle that he can stretch his legs out if he needs to. The chairs are cold plastic. The table smells faintly of disinfectant and old coffee. Someone’s left a stack of paper cups near the wall; Shane pours himself water he doesn’t really want and wraps both hands around the cup like it might steady him.

People filter in gradually. Conversations continue. Someone mentions lunch. Someone else complains about the cold. Normal. 

Everything is normal.

Then Ilya walks in.

Shane feels it before he really looks—like a shift in the air, a familiar gravity settling into the room. Ilya’s hair is still damp at the temples, jacket unzipped, mouth already curved like he’s halfway through a joke only he knows. He drops into a chair next to Shane, long legs stretching out, sneakers nudging Shane’s foot under the table.

Normally, Shane would look up right away. Normally, there would be a smile. A look. Something small and private.

Today, Shane notices Ilya’s hands first.

Bare.

Ilya talks with his hands. Always has. Fingers cutting through the air as he greets someone, palm up as he shrugs, knuckles rapping lightly against the table when he laughs. Every gesture is another reminder. Another empty space where gold should be.

Shane forces his eyes away.

He stares at his water cup instead. At the small bubbles clinging to the inside. 

Someone else sits down beside Ilya. They start talking about something—practice, probably, or a play they're working on. Ilya engages easily, laughing at something Shane doesn't catch, gesturing with his hands again.

Shane drinks his water even though he's not thirsty.

Coach claps his hands once, sharp and loud. “Alright. Settle down.”

The room quiets. Chairs scrape. Someone coughs. Shane sits up straighter and folds his hands together on the table. He listens.

Coach talks about logistics first. Schedule changes. The emergency meeting that pulled them in early wasn't really an emergency—just a shift in tomorrow's practice time to accommodate some media thing. A reminder about keeping things tight with playoffs coming up. His voice is steady, practiced, the kind of voice that fills a room without trying.

Shane nods at the right moments. Takes mental notes. He’s good at this part. He’s always been good at this part.

“Also," Coach continues, "we've got that team dinner tonight. Seven o'clock. You all got the address, yeah?"

A murmur of acknowledgment around the table.

"Media will be there," Coach adds. "So look presentable. Be on your best behavior. This is good PR, not a free meal."

Someone groans. Someone else laughs.

Halfway through, one of the centaur players—big guy, broad shoulders, always a little too loud—leans back in his chair and mutters to no one in particular, “You guys see that article this morning?”

Coach shoots him a look. “Save it.”

“It’s about Rozanov,” the guy says anyway, grinning. “Some outlet calling him ‘still the hottest player in the league.’”

There’s a ripple of laughter. A few whistles. Someone says, “Hottest?” like it’s a joke.

Ilya laughs too. Loud and bright. “Is very serious journalism”

More laughter.

Shane feels something in his chest tighten, sharp and immediate. He keeps his face neutral, eyes on the table, but his gaze betrays him anyway—flicking up just long enough to see Ilya shrug, hands out, ringless fingers catching the fluorescent light.

Still the hottest player in the league.

Shane swallows.

Someone leans back. “Must be hard being married to that.”

Ilya answers immediately. “Shane handles it.”

Shane's mouth twitches. He looks down at his hands, folded neatly on the table. His ring catches the light. Solid. Present. Undeniable.

Coach clears his throat, brings them back on track. Talks about expectations at the team dinner tonight. "Be present," he says. "Be respectful. It’s a big night boys."

Ilya leans forward, elbows on the table, and nudges Shane’s foot again under the table, just a light bump. Shane doesn’t react. Doesn’t look up. The contact feels distant, like it’s happening to someone else.

Ilya glances at him then and Shane can feel it without seeing it. 

He keeps his eyes forward.

Coach drones on about pairings, seating, timing. Shane listens, really listens, because it’s easier than thinking about anything else. Easier than the way Ilya’s hands start making its way to his knee. Easier than the quiet, creeping thought that this—this distance—is worse than any argument they’ve ever had.

At one point, Ilya murmurs something low, meant only for Shane. A joke, probably. Something about Coach's tie, or the terrible lighting, or how long this meeting is taking. Shane catches the cadence of it, the familiar warmth, but not the words. He nods automatically without meeting Ilya's eyes.

Ilya stills.

Coach finishes up. “Alright. Dinner in an hour. Don’t be late.”

Chairs scrape back. The room fills with noise again. Guys stand, stretch, talk over each other. Shane stays seated a beat too long with his hands clasped tight. 

Ilya stays next to him, leaning over slightly. “Moya lyubov,” he says softly and he’s rubbing his hands again. Rubbing his hands up and down Shane’s knee. 

Shane looks up then.

He sees Ilya’s face, open and bright and his. Completely his. Then, he sees the faint crease between his brows like he knows something’s off but doesn’t know what. Shane’s chest aches with it. With love. With hurt. With the stupid, irrational weight of a missing ring.

He smiles anyway.

It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You okay?” Ilya asks. 

“Yeah,” Shane says. “Just tired.”

Ilya studies him for a second, like he's deciding whether to believe it. Then he nods, straightens up, “Come. We go home and take nap.”

“Dinner’s in an hour.”

lya shrugs. “Exactly. Forty-five minutes nap.”

Shane lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “You set a timer now?”

“For you?” Ilya says easily. “Always.”

–

The drive home is quiet. 

Shane thought it was inconvenient how they took two separate cars to get to the rink, but are only leaving in one. His. Ilya said he didn’t care about leaving his car there because he’d rather drive them home right now. 

llya drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console. Close enough to reach, but Shane stares out the window, not moving an inch. 

"You want me to make something?" Ilya asks eventually. "Before dinner. Small snack."

"I'm okay."

"You say you okay a lot today."

Had he? 

"I am okay," Shane says.

Ilya’s unconvinced. 

But he doesn’t push. 

At home, Anya greets them like they’ve been gone for weeks instead of hours—ears back, tail wagging furiously, nails skittering across the floor as she barrels into Shane’s legs. He crouches automatically, rubbing her ears, and pressing his forehead briefly to hers.

“Hey, girl,” he murmurs.

Ilya laughs, drops his keys into the bowl by the door. “She miss you. You her favorite.”

“That’s because I feed her,” Shane says.

“Excuse me, I also feed her. I just give more love.”

Anya chooses Shane anyway, leaning all her weight into his chest. Shane scratches her neck, steadying himself on the familiar warmth. It helps. A little.

They move through the apartment together in practiced choreography. Shoes off. Jackets hung. Ilya heads to the bedroom, already pulling his shirt over his head as he walks.  

“Come,” he calls back. “Nap time.”

Shane follows after a moment, stopping to refill Anya's water bowl on the way. He finds Ilya already in bed, sprawled across the mattress in just his boxer briefs with one arm hanging over the edge of the bed. 

"Come, sweetheart. Please." Ilya begs. 

Shane takes off his shoes. Pulls his shirt over his head and takes off his jeans. He knows he should shower and remind Ilya to shower too, but right now…he couldn’t feel bothered. He was tired and they would shower right before heading out anyway. 

Once he’s within arms reach, Ilya pulls him into the bed. 

He immediately rolls toward him too and wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him close. Ilya tucks his face into Shane's neck and sighs, long and content, like this is exactly where he's meant to be.

"Better," Ilya murmurs against his skin.

Shane's chest tightens.

He stares at the ceiling, Ilya's weight solid and warm against his side. He can feel Ilya's breath evening out, already halfway to sleep because he's always been able to fall asleep anywhere, anytime, within minutes.

Shane can't.

He lies there, wide awake, hyperaware of everything. The sound of Anya's tags jingling as she settles in her bed. The distant hum of traffic outside. The way the afternoon light filters through the blinds, casting stripes across the wall.

The way Ilya's left hand rests on Shane's chest.

Bare.

Shane closes his eyes.

Tries to breathe.

Tries not to think.

Fails at both.

Ilya's breathing deepens. His body goes heavy, relaxed, all the tension draining out of him the way it does when he sleeps. Shane envies that. Envies the way Ilya can just... let go. Can trust that everything will be there when he wakes up.

Shane can't remember the last time he felt that way.

Maybe he never has.

He turns his head slightly, just enough to look at Ilya's face. His features are soft in sleep, peaceful, the worry line between his brows smoothed away. He looks younger like this. Vulnerable.

Shane loves him so much it physically hurts sometimes.

Like now.

He carefully extracts himself from Ilya's grip, moving slow and gentle so he doesn't wake him. Ilya makes a small noise of protest, reaching out automatically, but settles again when Shane pulls the blanket up over him.

Shane sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, just watching him sleep.

Then he stands.

Anya lifts her head when Shane walks past, tail wagging hopefully.

"Shh," Shane whispers. "Let him sleep."

He goes to the living room, sinks onto the couch, and pulls out his phone.

Nothing.

He wasn't expecting anything. But some part of him was hoping anyway.

He opens his messages. Scrolls through. His mom’s text about dinner next week is still unanswered. He types out a response—sounds good, what time?—and sends it before he can overthink it.

A notification pops up. Instagram. Someone he went to college with posted a photo of their kid. He scrolls past.

Another notification. Twitter. Someone quote-tweeted something about the team. He doesn't read it.

His thumb hovers over his text thread with Ilya.

Their last exchange was from this morning. Shane asking if they needed milk. Ilya saying yes. Shane sending back a thumbs up emoji. 

Normal.

Everything was normal.

Shane locks his phone and sets it face-down on the coffee table.

He leans back, closes his eyes, and tries to figure out why a forgotten ring is making him feel like the world is ending.

–

The alarm on Ilya’s phone goes off forty-five minutes later.

He wakes Ilya gently, hand on his shoulder, voice soft. "Hey. We need to get ready."

Ilya groans, rolls over, pulls the pillow over his head. "Five more minutes."

"We need to shower."

"I hate shower."

"Ilya."

Another groan, longer and more dramatic. But he sits up, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still half-closed. He looks at Shane with the particular brand of betrayal only achievable when waking someone from a nap.

"You are mean," Ilya announces.

"I know."

"You left bed."

I know. 

Ilya stumbles to the bathroom, still mostly asleep and Shane follows, already slipping off his boxers.

The shower fogs the bathroom quickly, steam curling around the ceiling. Shane stands under the spray longer than usual, letting the heat pound against his shoulders, his neck. He closes his eyes.

Water runs over his face, his chest, his arms. Over his left hand.

The ring stays on.

He feels it when he scrubs his hands together. Feels the solid circle of gold, grounding and heavy and real. He doesn't take it off. Never does. Even when it would be easier—when he's working with his hands, or exercising, or doing anything that might scratch or damage it.

He doesn't take it off.

Behind him, the curtain shifts. Ilya steps in, warm and solid, pressing close in the small space. He rests his chin on Shane's shoulder, arms sliding loosely around his waist.

"You smell like rink," Ilya says.

"Mm."

Ilya kisses the damp skin at the base of Shane's neck. Then another. Then another. The touches feel small. Whole. Casual. The kind Shane wouldn’t trade for anything. He leans into it despite himself, eyes fluttering shut.

The water is too hot. It always is when Ilya gets in, because he likes it just shy of scalding. Shane's gotten used to it. Learned to like it, even.

"You still quiet," Ilya murmurs against his skin.

Shane exhales slowly. "I'm fine."

Ilya still doesn’t push. 

Instead, his hands slide down Shane's arms and his fingers brush over his left hand. 

He stills.

Ilya doesn't say anything. Just holds Shane's hand for a moment, water streaming over both of them, steam thick in the air.

Then he lets go.

"You want me to wear blue shirt or black?" Ilya asks, casual, like nothing happened.

"Black," Shane says. His voice is steady. He's proud of that.

"Black is sexy or black is boring?"

"Both."

Ilya laughs, loud and close to Shane's ear. The sound echoes in the small space. "You are very helpful today."

They finish showering. Ilya hums some song Shane doesn't know, lathering shampoo into his hair with more force than necessary. Shane rinses the conditioner out, feeling Ilya's presence behind him like gravity.

After, they move around the bedroom, toweling off, changing. Shane buttons his shirt carefully, fingers steady even though his chest feels tight. Ilya watches him from the bed, elbow propped on his knee, head tilted.

"You mad at me?" Ilya asks finally.

Shane pauses. Then resumes buttoning. "No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Ilya squints. "You lying?"

Shane huffs a quiet laugh. "I'm not."

Ilya studies him for a moment, then stands to pull on his own shirt. The black one, like Shane said. It fits him well, hugs his shoulders, makes his eyes stand out. "Okay. But if you want to yell at me later, I allow."

Shane smiles. It fades quickly.

He watches Ilya button his shirt, movements quick and efficient. Watches him tuck it in, buckle his belt. Normal. Everything is normal.

Except.

Before they leave, Shane kneels to scratch Anya behind the ears again. She groans happily, tail thumping against the floor. Ilya leans in the doorway, watching him with that soft, searching look.

"What?" Shane asks without looking up.

"Nothing," Ilya says. Then, quieter, "You feel far."

Shane freezes for half a second. Then he stands, grabs his jacket.

"Let's go."

Ilya doesn't argue.

He just follows.

–

The restaurant is louder than Shane expects.

It’s not rowdy…just full. Full of voices layered over each other, cutlery clinking, glasses chiming softly when people gesture too wide. The kind of upscale place that tries to feel intimate but never quite manages it when you pack too many important people into one room.

They’re seated near the center. Of course they are.

The table is long, seats maybe twenty people. Guys from the team are already there, some with partners, some alone. Coach sits at the head like he's presiding over something official. PR people float around the edges like they're on strings, smiling and nodding and steering conversations away from anything controversial.

A couple of cameras flash even though they're not supposed to yet. Shane sits with his back straight, shoulders squared, hands folded neatly in his lap when he's not lifting his glass

Ilya sits beside him.

Too close to ignore. Too far to reach.

Someone's already telling a story, something about a game from last season. Laughter ripples around the table. Ilya leans in to listen, smiling, nodding, fully present in the way he always is.

Ilya's foot bumps Shane's under the table again, casual, affectionate. Shane adjusts his footing so it doesn't happen twice.

Ilya notices.

He doesn’t comment.

The waiter comes by with menus they don't need because it's a fixed menu for events like this. Ilya listens to the options anyway, nodding along, asking questions in that charming way he has. The waiter laughs at something Ilya says. Shane smiles politely at the right moments.

He watches Ilya’s hands the whole time.

They’re everywhere—gesturing, pointing, resting on the table, wrapping briefly around his water glass. Bare every time. No glint of gold. No familiar circle grounding the movement.

Shane looks away. Focuses on his own water glass. On the condensation forming on the outside. On the slight ring it's leaving on the white tablecloth.

Someone across the table leans forward. Jenkins, one of the older players, grin already in place. "So, Ilya…how's married life treating you?"

It’s said lightly. Teasing. Safe.

Ilya grins. “Very good,” he says easily. “I recommend.”

A few chuckles. Someone raises their glass.

Shane lifts his too, a fraction of a second late.

“Yeah?" Jenkins continues. "What's the secret?"

"Secret is marry someone patient," Ilya says, glancing at Shane with a smile. "Very, very patient."

More laughter. 

Shane’s chest tightens. 

Another camera flash goes off. Shane turns just in time to see a photographer lower his lens, eyes still trained on Ilya. On his face. On his hands.

On the absence.

Shane swallows.

The first course arrives. Some kind of salad, artfully arranged, the kind where you're not sure if you're supposed to eat the flowers. Conversation shifts. Someone talks about travel schedules. Someone else complains about flights being delayed.

Shane answers a question about training automatically, his voice steady, practiced. Inside, he feels like he's slowly sinking through his chair.

The salad tastes like nothing.

He eats it anyway.

At some point, Ilya leans in close, mouth near Shane's ear. "You okay?" he murmurs again, quieter this time and with concern threading through the words.

Shane nods. "Yeah."

It feels like a lie now.

Ilya reaches down and brushes his fingers over Shane’s thigh under the table. It’s meant to be reassuring. Anchoring.

It almost works.

The main course arrives. Chicken, probably. Shane isn't really paying attention. It looks good. Smells good. He cuts into it mechanically, takes a bite, chews, swallows. Repeat.

Across the table, conversation continues. Someone mentions playoffs. Someone else talks about stats. Normal shop talk, the kind that happens whenever you put this many players in one room.

Ilya engages, laughs, and contributes. His hands move constantly, punctuating his words, drawing pictures in the air, but his right hand stays on his thigh.

Shane sets his fork down carefully.

Dessert menus arrive. Someone jokes about calories. Ilya laughs, tilting his head back. The overhead lights catch the sharp line of his jaw, the familiar curve of his smile.

Shane loves when he laughs like that. 

Like he’s throwing his whole body into a laugh. Loves the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his hand squeezes Shane's thigh when something is particularly funny. Loves him. Loves him. Loves him so much that this ache in his chest feels like it might crack him open.

Fuck, his chest feels even tighter. 

A reporter edges closer, emboldened by wine and proximity. “Ilya,” she says, smiling too wide, “any thoughts on that article today? About you being—” she makes air quotes, “—the hottest player in the league?”

The table goes quiet.

Ilya blinks, then laughs. “People write silly things,” he says easily. ““I am not—how you say—rating.”

A few chuckles ripple out.

“I am very much—” He reaches for Shane’s hand.

Misses.

Because Shane has moved it.

Just slightly. Enough that Ilya’s fingers close on empty air.

The pause is brief. Almost imperceptible.

Ilya recovers quickly, resting his hand back on the table, smile still in place. “—taken,” he finishes.

The reporter nods, satisfied. Someone else jumps in with a joke. The noise returns.

Shane’s heart is pounding.

Too fast. Too loud. He can feel it in his throat, behind his eyes, in the steady press of blood in his ears. The room feels smaller all of a sudden, the noise closing in, every laugh and clink of glass landing too sharp.

He takes a slow breath.

Then another.

“I’m gonna—” Shane clears his throat, sets his napkin down carefully beside his plate. “I’ll be right back.”

No one questions it. Coach nods absently. Someone else is already talking.

Shane pushes his chair back and stands, legs steady even though his chest feels like it’s caving in. He walks away from the table without looking back, weaving between tables, past a server balancing a tray of wine glasses, past a mirrored wall that briefly reflects his own face—too pale, too tight around the eyes.

He looks like he’s barely holding it together. 

He is barely holding it together. 

The bathroom is down a short hallway, blessedly quiet. He pushes the door open and steps inside.

It smells like soap and something vaguely floral. The lights are softer here. He grips the edge of the sink, leans forward, stares at his reflection. 

He looks fine. He always does. That’s the problem.

Shane exhales shakily and lets his head drop for a second.

You’re being ridiculous, he tells himself.

The door opens behind him.

Shane straightens immediately.

Ilya’s reflection appears in the mirror—jacket open, expression stripped of its easy smile, something intent and worried in his eyes. He closes the door quietly behind him.

Locks it. 

“Hey,” Ilya says.

Shane swallows. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” Ilya says gently. He steps closer, stopping just behind Shane, close enough that Shane can feel the heat of him without being touched. “But you run away.”

“I didn’t run.”

“You walk very fast.”

Shane huffs a weak breath.

They stand there for a moment, the hum of the lights filling the silence. Ilya watches him in the mirror, eyes searching, piecing things together.

“You been strange all day,” Ilya says finally. “Quiet. Far. You move when I touch you.”

Shane grips the edge of the sink harder.

“I do something?” Ilya asks, voice lower now. Careful. “You mad at me?”

Shane closes his eyes.

“No,” he says. He opens his eyes again, meets Ilya’s gaze in the mirror. “No, I’m not mad.”

“Then what?” Ilya presses softly. “Because this is—” he gestures between them, small and uncertain, “—this is not us.”

Shane’s chest tightens. He can feel the truth pressing up against his ribs and it feels so desperate to be let out.

He looks down at his hands instead.

At his left one.

At the gold band sitting there. 

He doesn’t say anything.

Ilya follows his gaze.

And freezes.

His eyes drop to Shane’s ring. Then flick down to his own left hand.

Bare.

The realization hits him all at once.

Shane sees it happen in real time.

The way Ilya’s eyes drop—not casually, not distracted—to Shane’s left hand. The way his brow furrows, just slightly, like he’s noticed something out of place but hasn’t named it yet. The way his attention sharpens, zeroing in.

Then Ilya looks at his own hand.

Shane watches his fingers flex once. Empty. Bare.

The change in him is small.

Devastating.

It’s in the way Ilya’s shoulders sink a fraction, like something inside him has suddenly gone heavy. It’s in the way the brightness drains from his face, smile disappearing so fast it’s like it was never there at all. His mouth parts, then closes again, like he’s forgotten how to speak.

Shane’s chest tightens painfully.

Ilya doesn’t accuse. Doesn’t laugh it off. He just stares at his own hand for a second longer than necessary, thumb rubbing at the place where the ring should be, like his skin remembers it even if the metal isn’t there.

He looks back up at Shane.

There’s hurt there. Real, unguarded hurt. The kind Ilya almost never shows anyone. His eyes are too bright. His expression carefully neutral in a way that screams effort.

“I—” Ilya starts, then stops. Swallows. Tries again. “I forget,” he says, voice softer than Shane has heard it all day. “This morning. I did not—”

He trails off, shaking his head once, sharp and frustrated. “I never forget.”

Shane nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak yet.

“I am sorry,” Ilya says, immediate and sincere, stepping closer like he might touch Shane and then stopping himself, hands curling into fists at his sides. “Moya lyubov, I am sorry. I—”

Shane finally turns fully toward him.

He takes Ilya’s face in all its small tells—the crease between his brows, the tightness around his mouth, the way his chest rises a little too fast. Shane sees the guilt settle into him, heavy and absolute, and it hurts worse than the forgetting ever did.

“We should go…but I know,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya blinks. “You know?”

“I know you didn’t mean it.”

That seems to make it worse.

Back at the table, things continue like they never left.

That’s the worst part.

Ilya sits down beside Shane, posture perfect, smile polite. He laughs at the right moments. Answers questions succinctly. When someone asks him something directly, he responds without the usual flourish, hands still, folded neatly in front of him.

Shane notices it immediately.

Ilya never keeps his hands still.

A reporter leans in again, asking about training, about the season. Ilya answers calmly, eyes forward. When the reporter gestures animatedly, Ilya mirrors none of it. His hands stay clasped. Contained.

Someone tells a joke down the table. Ilya smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It fades too fast.

At one point, a waiter refills Ilya’s glass and their fingers brush. Ilya flinches.

Shane feels something twist in his chest.

Ilya leans toward him once, murmurs, “You cold?” like he’s trying to return to normal, and drapes his jacket over Shane’s shoulders even though Shane isn’t cold at all.

The gesture feels like an apology he’s said multiple times. 

When dinner finally ends, the relief is almost dizzying.

They stand, thank people, make their rounds. Ilya keeps a careful hand at Shane’s back, grounding himself with the contact. Shane lets him.

They’re halfway to the exit when a voice calls out.

“Ilya! Shane!”

A reporter—young, eager, sharp-eyed—steps closer, microphone already lifted. “Quick question before you go. Some people online noticed you didn’t have your wedding ring on tonight. Any truth to rumors of relationship trouble?”

Shane feels Ilya go rigid beside him.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Ilya beats him to it.

“There is no trouble,” Ilya says, voice tight. “We are married.”

The reporter presses, undeterred. “Then why–”

Ilya doesn’t respond. 

Which is so unlike Ilya because he always responds. 

Responds to every joke, every jab, every stupid question they’ve ever thrown at him about him. About Shane. About their marriage. Because Ilya is like that. Fierce. Loyal. Protective. 

Except this time he doesn’t.

The cameras flash. Too bright. Too close.

Shane steps forward. “We’re done for tonight,” he says calmly.

They don’t wait for a response.

And then, they leave. 

–

The car ride is silent.

It’s not uncomfortable. Just... heavy. Like the air between them is thick with everything they're not saying.

Ilya stares out the window with his jaw clenched and hands folded tightly in his lap. Shane drives, but checks the mirrors more often than necessary, hyper-aware of every small movement Ilya makes.

Before they know it, Shane turns onto their street.

Parks in their usual spot.

Turns off the engine.

They sit there for a moment, neither moving to get out.

"I made it worse," Ilya says finally, voice quiet.

Shane looks over. "You didn't."

"I didn’t answer reporter. Now they think—" He stops. Swallows. "They think something wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

Ilya doesn't respond. Just keeps staring at his hands.

Shane reaches over, covers one of them with his own. "Come on. Let's go inside."

Ilya nods.

They get out of the car.

—

At home, Anya knows immediately that something's wrong.

She meets them at the door, tail wagging but uncertain, ears back. She noses at Ilya's hand, then Shane's, whining softly.

"Is okay, devochka," Ilya murmurs, crouching down to her level. She licks his face, enthusiastic and concerned, and he buries his face in her fur for a moment.

Shane watches them, as he locks the door and sets his keys in the bowl. 

When he turns back, Ilya is still crouched with Anya, one hand scratching behind her ears, the other just... resting on her back. Grounding himself.

"You want some water?" Shane asks.

Ilya shakes his head.

"Cigarette?"

Ilya doesn’t even crack a smile.

Shane crosses to him, crouches down beside him. Anya immediately tries to lick his face too, tail wagging harder now that both her people are on her level.

"Hey," Shane says softly, hand on Ilya's back.

Ilya doesn't look at him. Just keeps petting Anya, movements mechanical, like he's on autopilot.

"Talk to me," Shane tries.

"I don't know what to say."

"Anything. Nothing. Whatever you need."

Ilya finally looks at him. His eyes are wet, not quite crying but close. "I hurt you," he says simply. "All day. I see it now. I see how you were and I was too stupid to understand why."

"You weren't stupid."

"I was." Ilya's voice is firm. Final. "You were far and I notice but I don't... I don't connect." He looks down at his left hand, at the bare finger. "I don't see."

Shane takes that hand, holds it between both of his. "I should have just told you."

"Why you didn't?"

It's a fair question. Shane doesn't have a good answer.

"I don't know," he admits. "I think I was scared it would sound stupid. Like I was making a big deal out of nothing."

"Is not nothing." Ilya's voice cracks slightly. "You know is not nothing."

They're quiet for a moment and Shane thinks nothing else needs to be said at the moment as they both get up and make their way towards the bedroom.

"I need shower," Ilya says eventually. "I feel... I need shower."

Shane nods. "Okay."

Ilya heads to the shower, while Shane makes his way towards the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Cold. With Ice. The way Ilya likes it. 

He sets the water on the nightstand before he starts undressing. 

Shane feels stupid. He feels so stupid because his Ilya, God, his Ilya is something else and Shane should’ve known it was stupid to keep something like this to himself. To let it bother him all day. Now because of him, he hurt his partner. His husband. 

His whole fucking soul. 

The one person in the world who makes everything feel both possible and terrifying. The person Shane would burn the world down for if it meant keeping him safe. The person who, even now, even hurt and guilty and trying to wash the day off in scalding water, is still the most beautiful thing Shane has ever known.

The bathroom door opens.

Steam spills out into the bedroom, carrying the clean, sharp scent of soap and something warmer underneath—familiar, unmistakably Ilya. He doesn’t say anything. Just pads across the room, towel slung low on his hips, shoulders still tense like he hasn’t quite come back into his body yet.

Shane looks up from where he’s undoing his cufflinks.

Ilya doesn’t meet his eyes. He drops the towel onto the chair and slides straight into bed, no boxers, no hesitation, curling onto his side beneath the covers like that’s where he belongs. Like that’s the only place he knows how to land right now.

Shane’s chest tightens.

He loves him like this too. 

He turns back to his own hands, slower now. Button by button. The soft sounds of fabric moving feel too loud in the quiet room. He hangs his shirt over the back of the chair, throws off his socks, gives himself something to do so he doesn’t stare too hard at the shape of Ilya under the blankets. At the way his shoulders are drawn inward instead of open and easy like they usually are.

Neither of them say anything. 

Shane thinks that’s okay too. 

But eventually, the mattress shifts. Ilya turns his face into the pillow and breathes in and out. The room feels small around them, close with the weight of everything that’s finally being said.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says quietly. 

Shane pauses. Then finishes undoing his belt.

“I’m sorry too,” he says. 

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Ilya says at last, muffled. “You feel something. You are allowed.”

“Ilya–”

“I never want to hurt you.”

Oh, God. 

“I know, baby.”

“I forget,” Ilya says, voice cracking. “I forget and I make you feel—” He stops, breath stuttering. “I make you doubt.”

Shane’s chest tightens. He needs to get these clothes off fast because–

“I see it now,” Ilya continues, pushing himself up just enough to look at him. His eyes are red, glassy, already wet. “All day I see you pull away and I don’t understand why and now I know and I—” His hands twist in the sheets. “I hate that I did this.”

Shane shakes his head, “You didn’t mean to.”

“I still did.” Ilya’s voice rises, then falters. “You are the most important thing. You are everything to me. And I forget ring like it doesn’t matter, like we don’t matter, and I–”

“Stop,” Shane interrupts. “Please stop, baby. You’re not being fair to yourself–”

"I should remember. I promise I remember. I say I never forget and then I—"

"Ilya." Shane says it firmly enough that Ilya stops, mouth still open, eyes wide and wet. "You made a mistake. That's all. You forgot something. It happens."

"Not this. Not this thing."

"Even this thing."

Ilya looks at him like he can't quite believe Shane is being this kind. Like he doesn't deserve it.

Shane feels like crying now. 

God, what had he done? 

Shane steps out of his pants and folds them without thinking. He stays standing at the edge of the bed and grounds himself by running his hand through Ilya’s wet curls. They feel soft. Safe. So him. Ilya nudges his head closer to his hand. 

​​"I don't want you to feel like before. Like when we hide. Like when we pretend."

Shane’s heart crumbles. 

Because he understands. He understands exactly what Ilya means. The years when they couldn't be public. When they had to be careful about how long they looked at each other. When loving Ilya felt like a secret Shane had to keep locked inside his chest.

"I don't," Shane promises. "That's not what this was."

“But, I wear ring for reason,” he says. “I fight for wear this. And today I look like I throw it away.”

His breathing starts to change and then Ilya turns his head. 

Shane knows what that means.

So, he’s suddenly there. Suddenly in Ilya’s space. He moves faster than Ilya can process. Ready with his hands, warm and steady, on Ilya’s cheek, pulling him close. 

“Hey,” Shane says, voice low. “Hey. Look at me.”

Ilya tries. Fails. His chest stutters, breath coming uneven and shallow, like he can’t quite remember how to breathe without thinking about it.

“Ilya,” Shane says again, firmer now, one hand coming up to cup his face, thumb brushing carefully beneath his eye. “You didn’t throw it away.”

That’s when Ilya breaks properly.

A sob tears out of him, sudden and uncontained, his body folding toward Shane. He presses his forehead into Shane’s shoulder, right into the crook of his neck while his fingers clutching at his chest like it’s the only solid thing left.

“I don’t want to be without you,” he chokes. “Even one day. Even one hour. I hate how fast it feel like before.”

Shane’s arms wrap around him fully and Shane swears he feels his own tears start spilling too. 

“I know,” Shane murmurs, pressing a kiss into Ilya’s hair, over and over again. “I know.”

They lay like that for a while. 

With Shane holding Ilya, letting his tears hit his neck while his own stream down his face because he’s so stupid. So stupid. He made a big deal out of nothing and hurt the love of his fucking life and now he was crying. Crying in Shane’s arms.

What kind of husband was he? 

“It’s my fault,” he said out loud. “It’s my fault. I should’ve said something the second I noticed…the second I noticed it bothered me, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. I never do until something is and then—”

Shane breathes. 

“No,” he says quietly when he pulls back just enough to look at Ilya’s face because he knows that look. He knows that look all too well, so he can’t help it when he brushes his thumbs gently under Ilya’s eyes, wiping at tears like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “This isn’t you falling back. And it isn’t me being hurt beyond repair.”

Ilya’s lips tremble.

Shane kisses him right away. Soft and sure and full of everything he can't quite put into words.

“I should’ve told you,” Shane continues, voice rough now, honest in a way he doesn’t always let himself be. “I let it sit. I let it turn into something bigger in my head because I didn’t want to seem… ridiculous. I didn’t want you to think I was making a mountain out of nothing.”

He swallows hard.

“But it wasn’t nothing. It was something to me. And that means it deserved to be said. Right away.”

Ilya shakes his head weakly. “It does.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu. I love you so much.”

He presses his forehead to Ilya’s, breath mingling, grounding them both. “I’m sorry I pulled away instead of leaning in. I’m sorry I made you feel like you’d done something unforgivable when you hadn’t.”

Ilya lets out a shaky breath, hands clutching at Shane’s chest. 

“You don’t lose me over forgetting a ring,” Shane says softly. “You don’t lose me over one bad day. You don’t lose me at all.”

Ilya sobs again, but this time it sounds different. Lighter. Like something has loosened.

“I am here,” Shane adds, holding him tighter. “I’ve always been here. I just… need you to know when something gets to me, I’ll say it. Next time. I promise.”

Ilya nods against his chest, breath hitching. “I promise too,” he whispers. “We don’t keep things inside. Is not us anymore, moya lyubov.”

”It’s not.”

They lay like that some more. 

For a while actually. 

And they don’t mind. 

Well, Shane doesn’t mind until Ilya taps his waist, right at his boxers and Shane knows what that means too. He tries not to crack a smile and slips his boxers off. Never letting go of Illya. Always holding him close. 

Ilya lays his body right on him. Half on his husband. Half not. Skin to skin in the way that makes everything feel more real, more present.

Shane's hand finds its way into Ilya's damp hair again, fingers carding through the strands in that slow, rhythmic way that always seems to calm them both.

"I find ring," Ilya says after a moment. "Is in bathroom. By sink."

Shane pauses. "Oh?"

"Da. I take off this morning to wash face. Then forget to put back on." Ilya's expression twists with guilt again. 

Shane kisses him again. 

"I love you" 

Ilya's eyes well up again. "I don't deserve you."

"Shut up."

"I don't."

"Yes, you do." Shane kisses him again. Once. Twice. Soft and quick. "Now stop being an asshole to my husband."

That gets a small, watery laugh out of Ilya. "Your husband is asshole."

"My husband is tired and being too hard on himself."

"Maybe little bit."

"Definitely a lot."

Ilya huffs a quiet breath, something that's almost a laugh. Shane finishes off by giving him a couple more kisses. Once on the cheek. Two on the forehead. Three on his perfect cupid’s bow. 

"I love you," he whispers.

"I love you," Ilya mumbles back, already mostly asleep. "Vsya moya dusha."

Shane's chest tightens in the best way.

Then, he holds Ilya a little closer, loving the feeling of the solid, real weight of him. He feels so home. Like home. His home. He holds him a little tighter as he feels Ilya’s breath evening out, his body going heavy and relaxed against Shane’s. Shane can’t help but lean down and kiss his husband’s hair. Twice. 

Ilya doesn’t say anything. Just nuzzles a little closer in Shane’s neck and Shane feels himself dozing off. Eyes heavy. Heart full. 

Too full. 

Like his husband's hand that now has a gold ring on it. 

Shane pulls his hand towards his mouth and kisses it. 

Then him. 

Always him. 

And then, Shane falls asleep to the sound of Ilya's breathing.

Quickly.

And all at once.