What the Ice Takes First

by RimsHiddenQuill

Summary:

Shane Hollander has built his life on control — of his body, his instincts, his silence. As a secret omega in a league that still punishes vulnerability, secrecy is survival. Loving Ilya Rosanov has always been the one thing he’s never learned how to do safely.

When a brutal on-ice collision during a rivalry game leaves Shane fighting for his life, the careful balance holding his world together begins to fracture. Under stadium lights and thousands of watching eyes — including his parents — pain, fear, and unspoken love collide. And Ilya, furious and terrified, is forced to stand helplessly close while the truth remains buried.

Some things break loudly.
Some break quietly.
And some are never said at all.

Or, one brutal hit forces Shane to stop hiding and start feeling.

Chapter 1: The Things He Never Learned to Say

Summary:

A brutal collision on the ice leaves Shane fighting for his life. Trapped in his own pain and fear, he cannot speak, cannot explain, cannot protect the fragile secrecy he’s built around his identity and his love for Ilya. And Ilya, furious and terrified, is forced to watch helplessly as everything he cares about is at risk, under the eyes of thousands — including Shane’s parents.

The ice has always been the place where Shane learned how to endure discomfort without naming it.

It is cold in a way that makes sense to him, cold that behaves predictably, that presses back when he presses down. Even pain here is usually clean — a sharp edge, a bruise that announces itself clearly, a rule he understands. Tonight, though, the ice feels hostile in a quieter, more insidious way, like it has decided to stop keeping its promises. The sound is wrong first, not louder but sharper, individual noises slicing through him instead of blending together: the scrape of skates too close behind him, a shout that comes from the wrong direction, the hollow boom of the boards that rattles inside his skull long after it should have faded.

His helmet presses unevenly against his temples. The sensation is small, but it compounds, stacking on top of the other wrongness until his body feels misaligned, like something has slipped just far enough out of place to make everything ache. Sweat collects beneath his pads, sticky and distracting, and the chemical bitterness of suppressants coats his tongue, grounding and nauseating at the same time. He catalogues it automatically, the way he always does, checking for errors, for deviations in routine.

Across the ice, Ilya Rosanov moves like gravity is optional.

Shane doesn’t mean to look, but he always does. Some part of him tracks Ilya the way his brain tracks exits or memorises patterns without conscious effort. Ilya skates with an ease that looks almost careless, shoulders loose, movements fluid and unapologetic. Even in the wrong colours, even surrounded by players who are meant to be obstacles, he looks inevitable.

Beautiful, Shane thinks, helplessly, and the thought hurts in a familiar, hollow way.

They catch each other’s eyes — just for a second — and Ilya’s expression shifts, grin softening into something private, something that makes Shane’s chest tighten painfully. It is a look that never lasts, a look Shane never lets himself hold onto. He looks away immediately, guilt flaring hot and automatic.

Later, he tells himself.
There will be time later.

The lie sits heavy in his chest, as it always does.

The hit comes without warning.

It is not clean. Not part of the play. One moment he is skating, calculating angles and speed, his body moving in practiced harmony with the ice — and the next, something slams into him from the side with catastrophic force.

The air is ripped from his lungs so violently that it feels like his chest collapses inward, breath stolen in a single, brutal instant. His skates lose contact with the ice and the sudden weightlessness disorients him completely, his body briefly unsure which way is down.

Then his head strikes the ice.

The sound is dull and wrong, a crack that reverberates through his skull and down his spine, rattling his teeth. Pain follows a half-second later, blooming outward in an overwhelming surge that consumes everything. It is not sharp or focused; it is vast, crushing, a white-hot pressure that makes it impossible to think in anything but fragments.

He lands wrong.

The knowledge arrives instantly, even as his brain struggles to keep up. Something is misaligned, something critical has failed. He tries to move his legs and nothing happens, the absence of sensation so sudden and so complete that panic floods him faster than the pain ever could be.

This is how it ends, he thinks distantly. On the ice. In front of everyone.

The whistle screams, piercing and unbearable, the sound drilling straight through his skull until his vision blurs and darkens at the edges. The ice presses cold and unforgiving against his cheek, grounding and cruel at once. He wants to curl inward, to make himself smaller, but his body will not obey him.

Hands grab his shoulders.

Pain detonates.

The pressure sends lightning through his spine, agony flaring so violently that it steals what little breath he has managed to drag back into his lungs. His chest seizes, breath stuttering and failing, panic flooding his system in a hot, uncontrollable rush.

“Don’t,” he gasps, the word tearing out of him broken and raw. “Don’t touch me. Don’t— don’t touch me.”

The words loop uselessly, his brain latching onto them as if repetition might create safety. The world is too loud, too close, faces blurring above him, lights stabbing into his eyes.

“Shane!” Hayden’s voice cuts through, urgent and terrified. He skates into view, face pale beneath his visor, eyes fixed on Shane’s unmoving body. “Hey, hey. You’re okay. Stay with me, alright? Just stay still.”

Shane tries to focus on him, but the pain keeps dragging him under. His chest feels wrong, each shallow inhale scraping painfully, like his lungs have forgotten how to expand properly. His heart hammers too fast, each beat heavy and disorienting.

“Don’t touch me,” he repeats weakly. “Please. Don’t.”

Hayden swears under his breath and looks up at the trainers crowding too close. “Can you guys back up? He needs space. He needs—”

The air shifts.

It happens before Shane understands why — a subtle drop in pressure, a warmth that rolls through the space like a tide. His body reacts instinctively, relief and fear crashing together so hard it almost hurts.

Ilya.

“Move.”

Ilya’s voice slices through the chaos, rough and uneven, his accent thickened by something sharp and dangerous beneath it. “You move away from him. Now.”

Ilya drops to his knees beside him, movements abrupt at first and then painfully careful, as if every inch closer costs him something. Shane feels him before he can properly see him — alpha presence flooding the space, familiar and overwhelming, making his chest ache even as it heightens his panic.

When his vision finally cooperates enough to focus, the sight of Ilya’s face hurts more than the pain tearing through his body.

Ilya looks furious.

Not teasing anger, not the sharp-edged grin he uses to unsettle opponents. This is raw and stripped bare, eyes blown wide and bright, jaw clenched so tightly the muscles stand out beneath his skin. His breathing is uneven, chest rising too fast beneath his pads, and there is something wounded in the way he looks at Shane that makes Shane’s throat tighten painfully.

He looks beautiful like this, Shane thinks deliriously, and the thought devastates him.

“Shane,” Ilya says, voice breaking around the name. “Hey. Look at me. You hear me?”

Shane tries. The lights smear. His vision swims.

“Helmet,” Ilya snaps at the trainers. “Off. Slow. Very slow, blyat’.”

Someone protests weakly. Ilya cuts them off, Russian spilling out sharp and furious. “Ty chto, glupyy? You break him more, I break you.”

The helmet comes off.

The change in sensation is immediate and overwhelming. Cold air rushes across his scalp, pressure shifting too fast for his brain to process. The pain spikes brutally, a white-hot flare that makes him cry out, the sound thin and broken as tears spill uncontrollably.

Ilya swears softly, viciously, words tumbling out in Russian — curses and something that sounds like prayer tangled together. “Bozhe moi… fuck. Fuck.”

Shane’s breath stutters. His chest tightens painfully, panic spiralling as oxygen refuses to cooperate. He can smell blood — coppery and wrong — and the scent of his own fear curls sharp and unmistakable in the air.

The suppressants fail completely.

Omega distress floods the space.

Ilya freezes.

For a fraction of a second, instinct flashes across his face — dark and dangerous — before he drags it back with visible effort, shoulders shaking. His hands clench at his sides, fists white-knuckled, as if he is physically restraining himself from touching Shane.

“Stretcher,” he snarls, voice hoarse. “Now. Pozhaluysta. Now.”

They lift him.

The movement is wrong.

It is wrong in a way his body understands immediately, a violent shift that tears through him like something splitting open from the inside. The pain is no longer sharp or contained; it becomes total, a blinding, roaring presence that consumes every nerve at once. It feels as though his body has forgotten where it ends, as though sensation has flooded every available space and then kept going, spilling over into places that should not be able to feel at all.

His spine screams.

His chest collapses inward, breath ripping out of him in a sound that is not quite a scream and not quite a sob, something animal and broken that echoes horribly around the rink. His vision fractures completely, lights smearing into long white streaks that burn behind his eyes. He tries to curl inward, to escape the pain by making himself smaller, but the restraints hold him in place, his body arching helplessly against them as his nerves misfire wildly.

It hurts too much to think.

It hurts too much to exist.

The noise comes back then — not as a wall, but as a thousand individual points of impact. Gasps from the crowd. Someone shouting his name. The hollow, echoing roar of the arena pressing down on him from every direction, impossibly loud, impossibly close.

They are still here.

Everyone is still watching.

They wheel him toward the tunnel, the stretcher rattling beneath him, every vibration sending fresh spikes of agony through his body. As they pass the benches, something catches his attention through the haze of pain.

His mother.

She is standing, hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wide and shining. His father is beside her, rigid and pale, knuckles white where he grips the railing.

The sight devastates him.

I didn’t mean for you to see this, he thinks, panic tightening painfully in his chest.
I tried so hard to keep everything safe.

The oxygen mask presses awkwardly against his face now, the plastic smell sharp and overwhelming, fogging faintly with each shallow breath. It feels like too much and not enough at the same time.

Ilya’s voice breaks through again, closer now, shaking despite the fury threaded through it.

“Shane,” he says. “You stay with me, da? You hear me?”

Shane tries to answer. His mouth opens uselessly, jaw trembling, but no sound comes out. Pain coils tighter, squeezing until the world starts to dim.

He sees Ilya’s face one last time as they turn into the tunnel — furious, terrified, devastatingly beautiful — stripped of all pretense.

I loved you so quietly, he thinks.
I thought silence was safer.

The tunnel swallows them.

Monitors begin to scream.

“No,” Ilya says somewhere above him, the word tearing raw from his throat. “No, no, no—”

The darkness closes in anyway.

And the last thing Shane knows is that everything that mattered most to him was never said out loud.

Chapter 2: Fractured Ice

Summary:

A dirty hit shatters the fragile equilibrium Shane Hollander relies on, leaving him critically injured and unconscious on the ice. Ilya Rosanov’s carefully curated rivalry fractures under the weight of fear he can’t disguise. Driven to the hospital by Marly, Ilya waits alongside Shane’s parents, guarding a secret that no longer fits neatly inside his chest. While Shane lies in a coma—sedated, broken, and unstable—he drifts in and out of awareness, trapped inside a body that will not respond, held tethered to the world by pain, memory, and the sound of Ilya’s voice.

Ilya sees it before it even happens.

A fraction of a second. Maybe less. The tilt of Shane’s weight just off, the slide too wide, the angle too sharp. Ilya’s chest tightens, a coil of instinct screaming, breath catching in his throat. His eyes narrow, tracking Shane’s motion like a hawk. He opens his mouth, a single, desperate syllable, half Russian, half English:

“Stoy! Wait—”

but it dies on his tongue. The arena noise swallows it whole. The collision happens.

Chaos detonates. The whistle shrieks like a knife through Ilya’s skull, skates scrape ice in frantic arcs, shouts fracture into shards. Every muscle in his body screams to move, to shield, to absorb the impact himself. He cannot. His feet feel rooted to the ice, taut and unyielding. Panic coils, hot and wild, tangling with the helplessness that curls in his gut. Only one thought pierces the haze: this will change everything.

Shane’s body crumples. Pain blooms everywhere at once—white-hot, indiscriminate, crushing, expansive. It steals the edges of sound and color, replaces the world with a kaleidoscope of agony. Shane is small. Fragile. Broken. Every heartbeat is a tremor, every exhale shallow, stolen.

Ilya’s eyes never leave him, burning with urgency he cannot voice. The helmet lifts slowly under fumbling hands; trainers hover, unsure. Ilya’s voice slices through, rough, jagged, threaded with fear and raw need, Russian spilling into clipped English:

“Helmet. Very slow. Blyat’! You break—him more, I—break you!”

The helmet comes off. Shane cries out. The sound rips through Ilya’s chest, jagged, unbearable. His hands clench, fists whitening, veins threading tight beneath the skin. Alpha instincts flare—desperate to shield, to take the pain for him—but he cannot. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

The stretcher slides beneath Shane, and every small jolt sends lightning through Ilya’s core. He follows like a shadow, taut, every nerve alive, every breath sharp and uneven.

The arena is still alive around them. Crowds press forward, a wave of panic and fascination. Commentators’ voices overlay, frantic, clipped, words half-heard but searing:

“…severe collision… may be career-ending… emergency—”

Ilya does not listen. He cannot. Shane’s body, trembling and tiny under the oxygen mask, is all that exists.

They pass the benches. Yuna is pale, scarf clenched to her chest, lips pressed thin, eyes wide with terror. David’s hands are locked white, jaw rigid, posture stiff. Hayden leans, silent but alert, jaw tight. Ilya barely registers them; the world is reduced to Shane’s shallow chest rising and falling, the flutter of fingers, the tremor of limbs.

“I am here… stay… da? Stay with me, blyad… please,” Ilya whispers, voice low, rough, trembling despite the effort to maintain control. He leans closer, careful not to touch, every micro-step measured, but the aura of alpha presence radiates like a tether. “Do… not… leave. Ne odin… I am here.”

Shane’s eyes flicker. Unfocused. Desperate. Every shallow breath, every twitch of a finger, every fragile pulse anchors him to Ilya’s presence. The tether hums between them, invisible but undeniable. Ilya can feel Shane’s panic, his need, the omega instinct reaching for him, reaching for protection, for solace, for grounding.

But he cannot take the pain. Not fully. Not yet. The arena, the crowd, the cameras, the world—they are too loud, too close. Shane shivers, tiny movements betraying instinctive awareness, scent-driven anxiety curling from him, each tiny tremor twisting Ilya’s chest

Ilya does not remember getting off the ice. Fragments come back in shards—the tunnel narrowing, the stretcher rattling beneath Shane’s unmoving body, the sound of his own heart hammering too loud in his ears. Every step is unbearable, every second stretched thin, and there is only one thing he can think: he has to stay close.

The trainers try to stop him at the tunnel mouth.

“Rosanov—”

Ilya ignores them, shoulder barreling through, skates scraping uselessly against concrete, balance chaotic, adrenaline raw and burning. Someone grabs his arm.

“Don’t. Touch me.”

Eyes turn. Voices murmur. People stare. Ilya does not care. Hollander is too still. The thought circles his mind again and again, relentless. Too still. Too quiet. Wrong. The monitors scream. The sound detonates in his chest. Pain he cannot feel yet echoes like fire in his mind. He stumbles, catching himself against the wall as doctors swarm the stretcher.

“No,” he gasps, voice hoarse, breaking. “No, no—”

Hands push him back, firm, practiced.

“We need space.”

“I stay. I stay right here.”

“You can’t.”

He laughs once, brittle, hollow.

“Watch me.”

They don’t. Two security staff step in, bodies blocking his view. For a terrifying instant, Hollander vanishes completely. Ilya lunges forward, alpha instincts screaming, the world narrowing into a single, terrifying focus.

“Move or we make you,” one of them says, firm.

A doctor steps in, voice clipped.

“Enough. You’re interfering.”

Interfering. Ilya freezes. Lets them push him back against the wall because any fight now would pull him farther from Hollander, and that thought is unbearable. The jersey is cut away. The sound is obscene. Ilya turns his face to the wall, breath hitching, heart hammering. His hands shake, nails digging into palms. He forces himself to stand still. Get it together.

Skates scrape behind him.

“Rosanov?” Hayden’s voice, careful, uncertain.

Ilya does not look.

“That hit was dirty. I mean—I’ve seen you go after guys before, but this? You almost—”

“Don’t.” Ilya snaps.

A heavy silence.

“I thought you two hated each other,” Hayden murmurs.

Ilya’s jaw tightens, knuckles white.

“People think lots of things. Doesn’t make them right.”

The rivalry has always been a cover—a convenient shield for the way he tracks Hollander without looking, the way he notices every tilt of his head, every shift of his balance. But this isn’t rivalry. This is fear. Pure, unfiltered fear.

Ilya does not remember sitting in the car. One moment he is standing in the cold, the siren’s echo thrumming through his chest. The next, he is buckled into Marly’s SUV, hands braced on his thighs, helmet discarded like dead weight at his feet.

“Seatbelt,” Marly says quietly.

Ilya obeys automatically.

The city slides past in blurry streaks of light. Every stoplight feels accusatory. The ambulance is gone, swallowed by distance, by everything he cannot control.

“You scared the hell out of people back there,” Marly says eventually.

“I don’t like dirty hits,” Ilya replies, low, detached.

“Yeah,” Marly hums quietly.

The hospital smells like antiseptic and fear. Too bright, too loud, too clean. Shane’s parents are already there. Yuna sits rigid, hands trembling just under control, jaw tight, eyes wide. David leans against the wall, knuckles white, face rigid. They look up as Ilya enters. He does not move toward Shane yet. The monitors, the tubes, the still pale figure—he takes it in, silent, almost frozen.

Ilya does not speak. Not yet.

Shane exists in fragments. Pain roils through him in a coiled, grinding pressure, static under his skin. He cannot move. Cannot speak. Can only hear. He hears Ilya’s voice. Low, careful, tethering him through the fog.

“Hollander.”

It is enough.

Even under sedation, his body reacts: pulse drops a few beats, chest rises a fraction more evenly, a finger twitches under the sheet. His brain notes the rhythm of Ilya’s breathing nearby, slow and steady. A thread of safety sparks in him, tiny but real. The monitor mirrors it—a subtle decline in heart rate, a faint rise in oxygen saturation. Each small shift is a lifeline.

The doctor kneels to Yuna and David.

“We need to discuss Shane’s care. These questions are important for his physiology and must remain private.”

“Of course,” Yuna nods immediately.

“Anything,” David says, jaw locked.

The doctor glances at the monitors, then back at them.

“Shane has sustained a severe spinal injury. Several vertebrae are fractured, and there is concern for both structural instability and nerve damage. His chest and ribs took a significant hit as well, complicating his breathing. He’s sedated to control pain and prevent further movement that could worsen his condition.”

Yuna’s hand goes to her mouth, trembling. David grips the railing beside him, knuckles white.

“We’ve observed that his vitals respond—heart rate, blood pressure, breathing—to the presence of a specific person. Has anyone recently had that effect?”

Yuna and David exchange wary glances.

“No… not that we know,” Yuna says, voice tight. “He’s close to friends, but nothing like this.”

“He is an omega. In cases like his, a bonded alpha—even recent or superficial—can trigger physiological stabilization. Heart rate slows, breathing steadies, even neural activity can improve. It is medically significant. We must know if such a person exists, and it must remain private.”

Ilya swallows, barely moving. He nods minutely, acknowledging the truth without speaking. Shane hears it. Every word, every omission, every nod. His pulse dips, chest rises steadier, fingers flex and curl under the sheet. The monitor confirms it: his body responding, tethered to a presence he cannot touch.

“We… we don’t know anyone like that,” David swallows hard.

“And we… we want to keep this private,” Yuna whispers, hands trembling, voice raw.

“Understood. We’ll manage it carefully. The bonded alpha’s presence may help him, but confidentiality is paramount,” the doctor says.

Shane drifts between sedation and pain. Voices thread in and out—doctors, nurses, Yuna, David, and always Ilya. Every time he hears Ilya, a fragile tether pulls him back from the abyss. Every time it fades, the pain spreads like wildfire. He tries to scream, move, say anything—but his body refuses.

“…pressure’s still elevated…”
“…adjust the sedation…”

Then Ilya speaks again.

“Hollander.”

It anchors him.

The name cuts through pain and fear, sharp and hot. The monitor records the subtle miracle: pulse drops closer to baseline, breathing deepens, micro-tremors fade. Pain surges, but he steadies.

“You’re stubborn,” Ilya murmurs, low and intimate. “Figures.”

The machines beep, then slow, then stabilize.

Ilya swears under his breath in Russian. “Easy. I know.”

Even in pain, even unconscious, Shane responds. Even broken, he follows. Darkness presses, thick and merciless, but Ilya threads through it.

Then, almost imperceptibly, Ilya shifts back an inch, distracted by the monitors. The reaction is immediate. Shane’s pulse spikes sharply. Breathing stutters. Tiny tremors ripple through fingers and toes. Monitors scream in response.

Ilya freezes, eyes widening, panic shooting through him. His hands hover over Shane, desperate to restore proximity.

“Hollander,” he murmurs urgently, voice rough, tethering.

Instantly, the vitals start to normalize. Pulse falls, breathing steadies, tremors fade. The tether holds again, fragile but real.

Even in darkness, even in pain, Shane knows who waits for him. He cannot let go.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! I hope this chapter left you feeling the tension, the fear, and the fragile threads between Shane and Ilya. If something in the story moved you—or if you just want to share your thoughts—I’d love to hear from you. Comments, thoughts, or even little reactions are always welcome and mean a lot. Thank you for being part of this story with me!

Chapter 3: The Weight of Ice

Summary:

Weeks after Shane’s devastating hit, he drifts in and out of sedation, trapped between pain and awareness. The pain never fades—it rearranges itself—but Ilya’s constant presence, tethered humor, and careful attention give him fragile anchors. Outside the room, media speculation grows, rumors of rivalry, omega status, and next-season availability swirl—but Shane can only respond with subtle micro-movements and physiological reactions. The neuro consultant performs a full exam, confirming his awareness, while Ilya nearly loses control trying to protect Shane, ultimately tethering him with presence and words.

The pain does not fade so much as it rearranges itself.

Shane learns this slowly, in fragments, drifting through a half-state where sensation arrives before thought, where his body reacts long before his mind can catch up. Sometimes the pain is sharp and blinding, a sudden white-hot flare down his spine that steals the breath right out of his chest, leaving him gasping, lungs stuttering like they’ve forgotten their job. Other times it is dull and crushing, a constant, grinding pressure that makes simply existing feel like labor. There is no rhythm to it, no warning. It comes when it wants. His body braces instinctively, even when there’s nothing he can do to prepare.

Time loses shape. He can’t tell if minutes pass or hours. He measures everything in pain spikes and the spaces between them, in the steady beep of the monitor and the soft hum of machines keeping parts of him going that no longer seem trustworthy.

He tries to move again.

Nothing happens.

The realization lands fresh every time, sharp and disorienting, like waking up into the same nightmare over and over. Panic follows immediately, hot and vicious, racing through him before he can contain it. His chest tightens, breath going thin and uneven, shallow gulps that don’t feel like enough. His heart starts to hammer, too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to escape his ribcage.

The monitor notices before anyone else does, its calm rhythm breaking into urgent, irregular protest.

“Easy,” Ilya says at once.

The word cuts through the panic like a hand closing firmly around Shane’s wrist in the dark. It doesn’t erase the fear, but it stops the spiral, arrests the freefall just short of catastrophe. Shane’s breathing stutters, then slows, syncing instinctively with the cadence of Ilya’s voice. The pain remains—present, relentless—but it shifts into something survivable, something he can endure instead of drown in.

“That’s it,” Ilya murmurs, quieter now, almost coaxing. “You’re okay. Don’t fight it, da? You fight, you lose. Body always wins.”

Shane hates how much he wants to listen. Hates the way his body responds without permission, the way it softens when Ilya is near, like it knows something his mind refuses to accept. It feels like weakness, like something deeply private being exposed under harsh fluorescent lights, witnessed by strangers and machines and people who are not supposed to know him this way.

At some point, he hears his mother cry.

The sound is soft, barely there, but it cuts deeper than any spike of pain. It tears straight through him, ruthless and precise. He wants to tell her he’s sorry. That he didn’t mean for this to happen. That he tried so hard to keep everything contained, controlled, safe. His throat tightens, muscles straining uselessly, but no sound comes. His jaw trembles. His eyes burn.

“I know,” Ilya says quietly—not to her, not to the room. To Shane. “She’s scared.”

The understanding in his voice hurts almost as much as the pain. It feels too intimate, too accurate, like Ilya can see straight through him even now, even like this.

Another spike hits without warning, brutal and immediate. White-hot agony rips through Shane’s spine, detonating outward. His body arches helplessly against the restraints, every nerve screaming at once. A broken sound tears out of him that never quite becomes a scream, trapped somewhere in his chest. The monitor erupts, alarms sharp and frantic.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes, the word torn out of him, rough and unfiltered. “What did you do?”

The question isn’t aimed at the staff scrambling into the room. It’s for Shane, even though he knows Shane can’t answer. Even though he knows the truth.

Hands move quickly. Voices overlap. Someone calls out numbers. Cold medication floods into Shane’s veins, the sensation almost shocking in its clarity, like ice water poured straight into his bloodstream. The pain blurs at the edges, dulling just enough to stop consuming him whole, but it never leaves. It lingers, coiled and watchful, like it’s waiting for him to relax.

“We need to keep him as still as possible,” the doctor says firmly. “Any sudden movement could worsen the spinal injury.”

“He didn’t move,” Ilya says flatly, anger sharp beneath the calm. “It just hit him.”

The truth settles heavy and unyielding in Shane’s chest. There was no mistake. No miscalculation. Just bad luck and worse timing. He drifts again, exhaustion dragging him under, fear clinging stubbornly to the edges of his consciousness.

Don’t leave me alone.

“I’m still here,” Ilya murmurs, softer now. “I’m not going anywhere. Even if you’re pain in ass.”

The words almost make Shane laugh. Almost.

The night stretches on. Hospital time warps and bends, minutes bleeding into hours without meaning. Shane exists inside the steady beep of machines and the constant echo of pain, drifting between sedation and awareness. Sometimes the absence of sensation below his waist terrifies him more than anything else, a hollow nothingness that feels wrong in ways he can’t articulate. Sometimes he’s too tired to feel fear at all.

Outside the room, the world refuses to slow down.

Screens fill with slowed footage of the hit, replayed endlessly, dissected frame by frame until it no longer looks real. Analysts gesture at paused screens, draw lines, speculate. Headlines multiply, sharp and merciless.

HOLLANDER IN CRITICAL CONDITION
CAREER IN JEOPARDY AFTER DIRTY HIT
ROZANOV ABSENT FROM TEAM ACTIVITIES

Ilya hears it all without ever looking.

Nurses whisper when they think he can’t hear. Phones buzz constantly. Someone turns the television toward the wall and it still feels too loud, the speculation bleeding through anyway.

Will Rosanov play next season?
Was the rivalry real—or something else?
Unconfirmed reports suggest Hollander may be an omega.

The word omega slices straight through Shane, even through sedation. His heart rate spikes violently. The monitor shrieks its protest.

“No,” Ilya says immediately, leaning in, voice sharp with refusal. “Don’t listen to that. They don’t get you. They don’t get shit.”

The numbers ease again, slowly, reluctantly, like his body is choosing to believe Ilya over the noise.

Yuna watches it happen. She’s been watching for a while now—the way Shane’s body betrays him, the way it calms only when Ilya is close. The way Ilya never leaves the chair beside the bed, never truly rests, never lets his focus drift from her son. The way exhaustion lines his face deeper every hour.

“You can sit closer,” she says softly at one point.

Ilya looks startled, like the thought never occurred to him. “This is fine.”

“You calm him,” Yuna says simply. “That’s not nothing.”

David nods once, arms folded tight across his chest. “We see it.”

Ilya swallows. No explanation. No denial. Just a small, contained nod.

“Thank you,” Yuna says quietly.

Shane hears that, too, and something inside his chest aches in a way no medication can touch.

Hayden Pike shows up a day later, awkward and careful, eyes flicking between Shane’s still body and Ilya’s rigid presence.

“Well,” he says, attempting lightness. “This sucks.”

Ilya doesn’t look away from the bed. “You here to stare or talk?”

Hayden exhales. “Fair. How is he?”

“Alive,” Ilya says. “Unstable. Stubborn. Very annoying.”

Hayden winces. “Yeah. That tracks.” He hesitates, then smirks faintly. “So… do I call you Rosanov, or Lily?”

Ilya finally looks at him, unimpressed. “You call me nothing if you want leave with teeth.”

Hayden lifts his hands quickly. “Kidding. Mostly. You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I’m not hiding,” Ilya says flatly.

“They’re asking if you’ll play next season,” Hayden murmurs.

“I don’t care.”

“And the rivalry stuff?”

“Let them talk.”

“And the omega rumors?”

Ilya’s gaze goes cold. “They don’t get that.”

Hayden shrugs, smirks faintly, and leaves the room.

The quiet settles again. Shane drifts closer to full awareness, pain spiking, mind sharpening just enough to register the weight of everything waiting for him: decisions, consequences, truths. Weeks have passed since the hit, but the ice’s cost lingers. Every second Shane spent believing control was enough, every moment of pretending safety could be guaranteed, has left its mark.

Outside his awareness, voices gather.

“His intracranial pressure has stabilized,” the neuro consultant says, calm and precise. “Which means we can start lightening the sedation.”

Yuna inhales sharply. “Is that safe?”

“It’s necessary,” the doctor replies. “We need to assess neurological function. Responsiveness. Awareness. We won’t remove all sedation—just enough to see how he reacts.”

Ilya stands rigid beside the bed, arms folded tight, jaw set hard enough to ache. “It will hurt,” he says, not a question.

“There may be discomfort,” the consultant agrees evenly. “But we’ll monitor him closely. If his vitals spike too much, we stop.”

“He’s already in pain,” Ilya says flatly.

The doctor meets his gaze without flinching. “I know.”

Shane hears none of this clearly. Only the shift. The change in pressure. The slow, creeping return of sensation like nerves waking up angry, resentful, and loud.

Cold slides through his veins.

Then fire.

His body reacts before his mind can. Muscles tense reflexively. His breathing stutters. Pain sharpens, focusing itself cruelly along his spine, radiating outward until it feels like every nerve is lit at once.

“Easy,” Ilya says immediately.

The word reaches Shane like a tether thrown into deep water.

The pain doesn’t disappear, but the panic pauses, stalled just long enough for him to breathe again. The monitor flares, then steadies.

“That’s it,” Ilya murmurs. “Stay with me. Don’t go anywhere stupid.”

Shane tries to move.

Nothing happens.

The realization crashes into him, disorienting and fresh, panic surging hot and fast before he can stop it. His chest tightens, breath turning shallow and erratic. The monitor protests sharply.

“Shh,” Ilya says. “I know. I know. You’re awake now. Or… awake-ish.”

Wake.

The word rattles through Shane’s skull. His thoughts surface slowly, heavy and misaligned, like furniture shoved into the wrong rooms. He tries to open his eyes. They burn, muscles refusing to cooperate.

“Nope,” Ilya says at once. “Bad idea. Very bad. You open eyes later. Eyes are optional.”

There’s humor there—thin, strained—but it grounds Shane anyway. His breathing slows, syncing despite himself.

A penlight flickers faintly near his face. “Shane,” the consultant says gently. “If you can hear me, don’t try to move. Just stay calm.”

As if calm is a choice.

The doctor watches the monitors closely. “Heart rate’s elevated but responsive. That’s good.”

Pain rolls through Shane again, deeper now, grinding and cruel. His body arches uselessly against the restraints, a broken sound tearing out of his throat. The monitor shrieks.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes. “What did you do to him?”

“We’re stopping,” the consultant says immediately. “Increase sedation slightly.”

Cool floods in again, blunting the edges just enough to keep Shane anchored to consciousness instead of tearing free from it.

“He’s responding,” the doctor adds. “That’s important. Awareness is there.”

Good. Important. Meaningless words when his body feels like this.

The consultant steps back. “We’ll let him rest. This was enough for now.”

The room quiets.

The first thing Shane becomes aware of is the weight.

Not pain—not exactly. That comes later, sharp and blooming and familiar now in its cruelty—but the weight arrives first, pressing down on him from the inside, like gravity has decided to settle somewhere deep in his chest and stay there.

He tries to breathe.

It works. Barely.

Sound comes next. The steady beep of the monitor. A chair shifting. Fabric rustling.

And then—

“Hollander.”

The name is quiet. Close.

It lands in him with startling force. Shane’s awareness sharpens abruptly, panic flaring before he can contain it. His heart rate jumps.

“Nope,” Ilya says immediately. “Don’t do that. Is bad idea.”

A pause.

“You are very dramatic,” Ilya adds softly. “But you wake up. This is good thing. Very good thing.”

Shane wants to answer. His mouth opens uselessly. His tongue feels thick, heavy.

“Hey,” Ilya says, leaning closer. Shane feels the warmth of him, the familiar pressure of presence his body recognizes even now. “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to do anything. Just be awake. I do rest.”

The pain spikes again. A small, broken sound escapes Shane.

Ilya’s knuckles rest lightly against the mattress near Shane’s shoulder, close but careful. “I know,” he murmurs. “Is bad. But you’re still here. That matters.”

Tears slip from the corners of Shane’s eyes.

“Oh,” Ilya says softly. “No crying. I am terrible with crying.”

A beat.

“I lie. I am very good. But still.”

Shane’s fingers twitch faintly beneath the sheet.

Ilya freezes.

“There,” he whispers, reverent. “You did that.”

Hope is dangerous. It settles anyway.

When Yuna’s voice comes—soft, careful—Shane hears it, and this time, he stays.

The neuro consultant begins the full exam, speaking calmly but firmly. Shane hears everything:

“Shane, I’m going to check reflexes now.”

“Let’s start with fingers,” the consultant continues. “Can you wiggle them for me?”

Shane’s fingers respond in tiny, imperceptible twitches. The monitor records the micro-movement.

Ilya leans so close his shoulder almost brushes Shane’s, voice low: “See? Good boy. Very stubborn. Very clever.”

Next, the toes, then arms. Shane hears each instruction, each observation, but cannot answer. Every command is agony and hope tangled together.

“Now we’ll check pupil response.” A penlight flashes briefly across Shane’s eyes. He sees—or thinks he does—the glow, the faint reflection.

Shane wants to speak. To move. To tell them he is awake. But he cannot. His body refuses.

Ilya swallows hard, lips pressed into a thin line, hands gripping the edge of the chair. Outside the room, his knuckles are white. A nurse steps near; he nearly shoves her back without thinking, control fraying.

“Rosanov,” someone says gently, and Ilya jerks back, ragged. He presses his hands into his lap, breathing uneven, muttering to himself in Russian. “Stay calm… stay calm…”

Shane hears it all. The frustration, the fear, the raw alpha presence threatening to snap. He feels the tether again—the invisible thread holding him steady.

“Heart rate elevated,” the consultant says, eyes on the monitors. “BP fine. Pupils reactive. Good responses.”

Shane absorbs it, even trapped. Every word is proof that he exists. That he is still fighting.

When the exam ends, Ilya leans in close once more, voice quiet, tethering, humorous even in exhaustion:

“Hollander. You do very good. Very good boy. Rest now. I do not leave.”

And Shane does. Pain remains, awareness remains, but he holds on.

Notes:

Hi everyone! 💛
This chapter dives deep into Shane’s pain and Ilya’s unwavering presence—there’s a lot of intensity and quiet moments of connection. Writing it was emotionally heavy, but I hope the way their bond threads through even the hardest moments comes through for you.
If you’re enjoying the story, the tension, or just want to share what you’re feeling about these characters, a comment really brightens my day. Your thoughts and theories about Shane and Ilya’s secret connection, or even just your favorite small moments, mean so much!
Thank you for reading, and for letting me share this messy, painful, tender part of their story with you.
—💙

Chapter 4: Ice Between Heartbeats

Summary:

Emotions run high as friends and loved ones gather in a tense hospital setting. Bonds are tested, loyalties weighed, and decisions must be made under pressure. Amid the clinical routines and urgent discussions, moments of connection and understanding reveal the depth of care between them, highlighting the fragile, unspoken threads that hold people together in times of crisis.

 

It had been a few days since the consultant had tried to rouse Shane, and each time the doctors came and went, their voices calm and measured, repeating the same words: he will wake when he’s ready. And still, the odds hung stubbornly at fifty-fifty, as if the universe itself refused to tip the scales.

The room held him like a fragile monument, each hum of the machines and hiss of the ventilator marking time with cruel precision. Even in stillness, Shane was there—tenuous, tethered to a world he could not yet touch, hovering between silence and the faint stirrings of return. Every shallow rise of his chest, every twitch in his fingers, was amplified in the quiet, a reminder that life lingered just beneath the surface, fragile and waiting, as if daring the world to notice.

Yuna sat so close to Shane’s bed that the edge of the metal frame pressed into her knee, a dull, grounding pain she hadn’t moved away from. She hadn’t shifted in a long time. Her body had gone stiff, locked into position as if motion itself might invite catastrophe—as if the smallest change could tip something already precarious into freefall.

Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers laced together too tightly. The skin across her knuckles had gone pale, stretched thin beneath the pressure. She didn’t seem to notice. She hadn’t noticed much of anything except Shane.

His face was still. Not peaceful—she refused that word—but emptied out. Too smooth. Too quiet. The places where tension should have lived were slack, erased, as if someone had carefully taken him apart and reassembled him without putting everything back where it belonged.

The neurologist had been here less than an hour ago. Lights in Shane’s eyes. Firm voices. Requests he hadn’t been able to answer.

Shane. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.

He had—barely. A tremor of movement, more instinct than intention. Enough to mean something. Enough to mean he was close.

Too close for this room to feel safe anymore.

The machines never stopped. They breathed and clicked and hummed around him, filling the space where conversation should have been. Soft beeps marked time with cruel precision. A ventilator released air in slow, measured sighs, patient and unyielding. Electricity ran through cords and screens and tubing, a steady artificial pulse pretending it was enough.

I hear all of it, Shane thought dimly. I hear everything. I just can’t tell anyone I’m still here.

“Ilya,” Yuna said at last. Her voice barely survived the distance between them. It sounded fragile, like glass under strain, like speaking too loudly might fracture something already splintering.

“You should go,” she continued carefully. “Just for a little while. Get some sleep.”

The words landed on Shane like weight.

Ilya stood on the other side of the bed, unmoving. He hadn’t changed position in what felt like hours. His posture was rigid, spine held too straight, shoulders drawn tight as if bracing against something invisible and relentless. His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers curled into his palms hard enough that it bordered on pain. His gaze was locked on Shane’s face with an intensity that felt almost feral—an alpha’s focus dragged taut by instinct and fear and something he refused to name out loud.

“I cannot leave,” he said. The words were measured. Controlled. Each one placed with care, as though precision itself might keep the world from tipping any further off its axis.

“He is not well. My place is here. Even if he cannot move. Even if he cannot speak.”

Something twisted violently in Shane’s chest.

I can hear you. Please don’t talk about me like I’m already gone.

“You’ve been here for hours,” Yuna said more softly. “You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept. Shane will still know you’re here when you come back.”

Ilya shook his head. Once. Slow. Absolute.

“My heart will not rest while he is like this.”

There was no embellishment in it. No drama. Just truth, stark and unyielding. Shane felt it anyway—the way Ilya’s entire world had narrowed down to the bed, to the shallow rise and fall of his chest, to the terrible, hovering possibility that it might stop.

This is my fault, Shane thought, panic flaring hot and useless. I did this. I trapped him here.

Yuna leaned forward, resting her forearms on her thighs. Even the movement looked heavy.

“Ilya… you don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to stay every second to be enough.”

For one brief, devastating moment, the mask slipped. Fear flashed across Ilya’s face—raw, unguarded, stripped of discipline and years of careful restraint. It was gone almost instantly, crushed back into place, but it was there long enough to do damage.

“If I leave,” he said quietly, voice tight, “and something happens—”

“It won’t,” Yuna said immediately. “And if it did, we would call you. You would be here.”

Silence flooded the room, thick and pressing.

Then Ilya moved. He stepped closer to the bed, close enough that his shadow fell across Shane’s chest. Close enough that Shane could feel him—could sense his presence like gravity pulling him back toward the surface, anchoring him to this side of consciousness.

Ilya leaned down slightly, invading his space as if proximity alone could tether him to life.

“Милый,” he murmured.

Sweetheart.

The word trembled, just barely, balanced on the edge of collapse. Shane’s fingers twitched. The movement was pathetic in its smallness. A reflex. A whisper of rebellion from a body that refused to fully surrender.

But Ilya saw it. His breath hitched, sharp and silent. Relief cracked through his chest with dangerous force, splitting something open that had been clenched too long. He froze, afraid that even acknowledging it might make the moment disappear.

I’m here, Shane screamed inside his own head. I’m still here. Please don’t let go of me.

Yuna didn’t notice. She looked away instinctively, giving them space without realizing she was doing it.

“Ilya,” she said softly, “letting someone else hold things for a moment doesn’t make you weak.”

“I feel everything with him,” Ilya said as he straightened slowly. His voice was controlled, but the strain beneath it was unmistakable. “Every pain. Every fear. If I sleep… if I turn away… I am afraid I will miss something.”

“You won’t,” Yuna said. “You’re human. Even guardians have limits.”

The word tightened his jaw. Guardians did not fail.

“I will go,” he said finally, the decision dragged out of him like something torn free. “But only a little. Then I return.”

Yuna nodded. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Ilya hesitated, then leaned down once more. Shane’s fingers twitched again, weak and searching, like reaching through water.

“I am here,” Ilya whispered. “I am not leaving you.”

Then he turned and walked out. The door clicked shut behind him—too loud, too final.

Don’t go, Shane thought, terror surging. I’m still here. I need you.

Yuna let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

 

Hours—or minutes—passed. Time bent strangely, half inside himself, half trapped in machines. Then a soft, careful knock. Hayden entered first, restrained, almost reverent. David followed, his face composed but brittle, holding too many outcomes in their head at once.

“Yuna,” Hayden said quietly, “we need to talk.”

She didn’t look away from Shane. “I know.”

“There are leaks,” David said, voice low. “Medical records. Someone is talking.”

“How bad?” Yuna asked.

“Bad enough,” Hayden said, shifting slightly, hands sliding into jacket pockets, posture careful. “The League’s Medical and Status Oversight Committee will get involved if this keeps spreading. They already flagged the incident because of the nature of the injury and the suppressant levels in Shane’s system.”

Ilya returned quietly then, holding a small container of food in both hands, careful, deliberate. He stopped at the door, gaze locked on Shane, sensing every pulse, every shallow breath. Shane’s fingers twitched at the presence, the tether barely there but unbreakable.

Ilya’s jaw tightened. “Suppressants are legal,” he said finally, voice low.

“They are,” David said evenly. “But only up to a point. Regulation 12.4. Any omega competing at elite level is required to disclose secondary sex status to the League’s private medical board once suppressant dependency exceeds threshold variance.”

Yuna’s head snapped up. “Private,” she said sharply. “Not public.”

“In theory,” Hayden said. “In practice, confidentiality holds only until there’s a question of player safety. Spinal trauma combined with suppressant failure puts him under Section Nine.”

Ilya turned slowly. “Explain.”

Hayden met his gaze, unwavering. “Section Nine allows the League to suspend an omega indefinitely if they determine that competition poses an unreasonable biological risk. No appeal without an alpha sponsor on record. The only way to bypass this is for a public claim by a compatible alpha.”

Shane felt the words like punches. Suspend. Indefinitely. The ice flashed behind his eyes—the only place his body had ever made sense. You can’t take that from me. It’s mine.

“And if there is no sponsor or…claim?” Ilya asked.

David’s voice lowered, steady. “Then Shane cannot return to professional play. Not this season. Possibly not ever.”

The machines filled the pause: beep, breathe, beep.

Yuna pressed her palm flat against her thigh. “You’re talking about him like he’s already been ruled on.”

“I’m talking about timelines,” Hayden said. “Once the narrative shifts from accident to biology, the League steps in fast. Especially with interconference rivalries involved.”

Shane caught that. Rivalries. You mean him.

Ilya’s shoulders drew back instinctively, bracing. “They will accuse him of manipulation.”

“They already are,” Hayden said grimly. “There’s speculation his performance metrics were artificially stabilized. That the hit—” He hesitated, glancing at Shane. “That the hit happened because his body was compromised.”

“That’s a lie,” Ilya said immediately, rougher than before. “He was targeted.”

David nodded. “We know. But narrative doesn’t care about truth. It cares about liability.”

Shane’s chest tightened, breath hitching against the ventilator rhythm. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t reckless. I was good.

Ilya stepped closer, settling his hand over Shane’s. Deliberate, gentle. Shane felt it like warmth flooding numb limbs. The monitors steadied almost instantly.

Yuna noticed. She always noticed.

Behind him, the conversation continued, but Ilya’s thoughts sprawled into the empty room, long and mournful.

Russia would close its doors—not loudly, not officially, but in every way that mattered.

His mother’s grave would become memory instead of place. He would never stand there again, never brush snow from the stone, never whisper to her in the voice he only used when alone.

If his father died, he would not be allowed to attend the funeral. He would grieve from afar, forced to watch absence swallow the rituals he had once relied on to hold meaning.

His niece would grow up with stories instead of visits. The moments when she still needed him, the shoulder rides, the laughter, the quiet secrets—they would vanish like smoke, untouchable, irretrievable.

Friends, colleagues, allies—all of them would turn away. The people he had trusted, who had counted on him, would become strangers. Or worse—they would see his choice as betrayal, as weakness.

Family, society, the life he had known, the world he had built—it would crumble into dust.

Or he could still have everything.

If he did not choose love.

If he turned away from Shane.

If he preserved everything else but lost the one thing that mattered.

He would leave the room, leaving Shane tethered to monitors, to machines, to the fragments of his own body and breath. Each shallow rise of Shane’s chest would gnaw at him, an echo of what he could not give. The quiet beeping, the hiss of ventilators, the whisper of cords and tubing—they would mock him with life he refused to anchor.

He would see the faint twitch of fingers, the almost imperceptible shift toward the absent hand. He would know, in the core of him, that Shane reached, that Shane needed, and he would not bridge the gap.

The choice would preserve his world, his family, his home. But the cost—

The cost would be a heartbeat gone untended. A soul left untethered. A love denied.

And the room would feel colder for it.

Shane would stir, barely, eyes half-lidded, searching for what was no longer there. The hand hovering just out of reach, the warmth that had tethered him… gone.

Ilya would step back, shoulders tight, chest aching with a weight he could not lift, heart breaking in silence. He would walk out of the room, each step an echo of loss, each breath a reminder that he had chosen everything else over the one life that mattered more than any law, any country, any family expectation.

The door would click shut behind him, final and absolute. Shane’s eyes might open, or might not. But the tether—the fragile, unbreakable bond—would fray in his absence.

And in that silence, Ilya would feel it—the crushing, impossible ache of what he had refused.

Because he had survived the world, only to lose the one thing worth living for.

He leaned closer to Shane their foreheads touching, the air between them thick with everything unspoken, every risk, every loss, every consequence stacked like stones on his chest. His voice came low, raw, trembling just enough to betray the control he had fought to maintain for hours. “I choose you.”

Shane’s fingers, still weak, still trembling, reached instinctively and curled around his. Just a touch, just enough to tether himself to the presence that had been his anchor through hours of suffocating fear and unbearable stillness.

And then—the world shifted.

Shane’s eyelids fluttered, fragile wings of consciousness breaking through the haze. A shallow inhale. A flicker of recognition. His chest lifted against the ventilator’s rhythm, uneven, yet alive. The faintest stir of breath, a tremor in his limbs.

And at last—at long, agonizing last—he opened his eyes.

Notes:

This chapter explores the fragile spaces between presence and absence, the quiet tension of waiting, and the small threads that tether us to one another in moments of uncertainty. Sometimes, life feels suspended—like walking on ice—where every heartbeat and breath carries weight, and hope exists in the smallest stirrings. Also, can we just take a moment to appreciate Episode 5 of Heated Rivalry? Hudson and Connor absolutely deserve an Emmy—so much emotion and intensity, it was impossible not to be inspired while writing this chapter.

Also please leave a comment - I love reading your thoughts.

Chapter 5: Thawing Ice

Summary:

Shane awakens in the hospital, tethered to a body that feels both fragile and foreign. Pain and fear surge as he confronts his limitations, while the presence of someone he trusts becomes a lifeline amidst the sterile chaos. Every movement is measured, every breath monitored, and every moment spent relearning control is tempered by the quiet, grounding support of the person by his side. Amidst the uncertainty, a fragile hope begins to flicker, offering warmth in the cold stillness of recovery.

Consciousness did not arrive gently.

It tore its way in.

Pain came first—not sharp, not blinding, but deep and suffocating, rooted at the base of Shane’s neck and spreading downward like something heavy had been bolted into his spine. His body felt wrong. Anchored. Held in place by braces, wires, and tubes stronger than will.

He tried to move.

Nothing answered.

Panic followed immediately, cold and fast. His chest jolted as air forced its way through the tube in his throat, lungs filling and emptying on a rhythm not his own.

No. No—

His eyes flew open.

White ceiling. Blinding light. Blurred shapes rushing in and out of focus.

Then—abrupt, devastating—

Ilya.

Forehead nearly touching Shane’s, breath warm against him, eyes wide and unguarded, fear leaking through every crack. One hand braced low at Shane’s hip, grounding him. The other hovered, restrained by rules, wires, and terror of doing the wrong thing.

Shane latched onto him. Relief crashed through his chest so violently it hurt. He tried to speak. A broken, strangled noise tore from his throat. His hips jerked instinctively; pain detonated down his spine.

Alarms screamed.

“Don’t move him—”

“Spinal—hold his shoulders—”

“Stay still—”

Hands descended, firm and immediate, pressing him back down. Pressure locked his shoulders, chest, hips. Fire tore along his neck, radiating downward until his vision blurred.

Ilya reacted on instinct.

“No—he has spinal injury,” he snapped. “Do not let him move.”

“Sir, step back!”

“He is awake. He is afraid!”

“We need space!”

Shane’s eyes never left Ilya’s. Don’t let them take you. His fingers found Ilya’s hip again—weak, shaking, but desperate. Pupils blown wide, breath stuttering against the ventilator rhythm. Monitors spiked.

“We need him out. Now.”

Hands closed around Ilya’s arms, decisive and unyielding. He didn’t fight—not really—but every line of him strained toward Shane.

“Shane,” Ilya said urgently. “Look at me. Do not move. You hear me?”

Shane made another broken sound, chest heaving.

Ilya leaned forward despite them. “You are safe. I am here.”

Then they pulled him away.

The contact broke. Shane’s grip slipped, fingers scraping uselessly against the mattress. Eyes followed Ilya until the door closed—too loud, too final. Panic surged. Heart racing. Breath tearing. Vision tunneling.

A cool burn slid into his IV. The room softened.

Shane’s chest heaved unevenly. Every line, every tube—the feeding, the oxygen, the ventilator—was being removed, leaving him raw, exposed, and completely untethered. Panic clawed at his chest, jagged and immediate.

“Stay still… just stay still,” a nurse instructed, pressing firm hands on his shoulders. Her voice was calm, distant, meant to ground him—but it was like shouting through a hurricane. Shane’s fingers dug into the sheets, nails scraping uselessly against the mattress, but there was nothing to hold onto.

The first tug—the nasal tube—sent a spike of pain along his spine. He jerked, tried to push away, but the nurse’s hands pinned him gently but firmly. His lungs flared, desperate for air, alien and jagged without the rhythm of the ventilator.

Then came the tube from his throat. Every instinct screamed, every nerve ending flared. He rasped a strangled sound, but his voice betrayed him. His chest convulsed, panic coiling tighter in his stomach, hot and suffocating.

Small tugs at the remaining lines brought fresh stabs of pain—each one a reminder of weeks spent tethered, silenced, restrained. Sweat ran down his temples, chest heaving, limbs trembling. Every breath was jagged, every movement alien. For a moment, Shane thought he might tear free, reach for something solid, anything to anchor himself—but there was nothing.

Then the drugs coursing through the IV began to spread. The edges of his panic dulled, but so did his strength. Vision blurred. Sounds slowed, warped. The chaos inside him didn’t vanish—it was still there, screaming—but his muscles no longer obeyed. Limbs went slack. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven bursts.

He tried to cry out, to scream for Ilya, to demand grounding—but the strength wasn’t there. The raw panic that had surged moments before softened into a fog, thick and heavy. His fingers twitched weakly, scraping at the sheets, searching for something solid, but it slipped away under the haze.

Colours bled at the edges of his vision. The world tilted. Heart hammering, mind racing—then dulled, slowed, suspended in the weight of the drugs. Panic remained, lurking, muted, a shadow of what it had been, while exhaustion, helplessness, and the sedatives pulled him under.

Finally, Shane let go.

Eyes half-closed, body sinking into the mattress, the machines’ hum and the distant, measured voices of the nurses became his only tether. Alone, exposed, and fading, Shane drifted somewhere between terror and release, utterly aware of how fragile he was, and yet powerless to do anything but surrender to the haze.

 

When awareness returned again, it came slower.

He did not try to move this time. Pain lingered—contained, wrapped tight and controlled by braces, restraints, and wires.

He breathed. Smaller lines burned faintly along his arms, taped carefully. Chest rose and fell with help, steady and deliberate.

He was awake. Fragile, aware, tethered.

Yuna sat at his side. Her eyes filled immediately when she saw him. Hand hovered above him, hesitant.

“Oh, Shane,” she whispered. “You scared us.”

“M-Mum…” His voice was barely more than a rasp, ragged and cracked. Pain shot through his throat with every word, dry and raw from weeks of silence.

Her hand settled gently over his, grounding him. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry you thought you had to hide from us.”

Shane’s chest heaved violently. The weight of secrecy, fear, and exhaustion pressed down on him, and suddenly it all broke. Tears spilled unbidden, hot and fast, sliding down his cheeks. His throat burned with the effort of speaking and crying at once, rasping painfully with each sob.

“I… I didn’t want… to upset you,” he managed between shuddering breaths, voice trembling. Pain lanced along his throat, making every word a struggle.

“You could never upset us,” Yuna said softly, brushing tears from his face. “We were just scared… scared you felt you had to hide who you are. Shane… you don’t have to hide from us. Ever.”

Shane’s fingers twitched weakly, reaching for hers. “I… I didn’t know how… to tell you,” he whispered, each syllable scraping painfully through his throat. “I thought… I had to handle it alone.”

“Oh, my baby…” Yuna’s voice broke as she held his hand firmly. “You never had to handle anything alone. We love you—all of you. Always have. Always will. Nothing you feel… nothing you hide… changes that.”

The tears flowed freely now, mingling with the raw ache in his chest and the sharp burn in his throat. He let himself cry, each sob tearing and ragged, yet somehow grounding him. Relief, guilt, fear, and love twisted together until he felt something fragile—hope—thread through him.

“I… I’m sorry,” he whispered again, throat raw and voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to hide it… or hurt anyone.”

“You could never hurt us,” Yuna said, pressing a gentle hand to his cheek. “We just want you safe… happy… and free to be yourself. That’s all we’ve ever wanted.”

His gaze flicked to the door.

“I know,” she said softly. “He’s here. They just needed to stabilize you.”

Relief tremored through him.

A man in a white coat stepped forward, calm and measured. Another followed. All careful to stay in Shane’s line of sight.

“I’m Dr. Kline,” the first said. “Neurosurgery.”

The word landed heavy.

“You sustained a cervical spinal injury,” Dr. Kline continued. “There was instability. We operated to decompress and stabilize your spine. Right now, movement is restricted to protect your spinal cord.”

Shane’s breath caught his throat raw.

“You’re not paralyzed,” the doctor said carefully. “We did a full response check while you were under. Your reactions were positive. You may not remember, but we will go through it again to ensure nothing has changed. Monitoring, rehabilitation, and strict precautions are necessary.”

Time. Monitoring. Braces. Restraints. Awareness.

The door remained closed. Shane stared at it, chest rising and falling with the machine, body held together by other people’s hands.

He was awake. His body was broken in ways he did not yet understand.

And somewhere just outside the room, Ilya was waiting—held back by rules, doors, and the fragile line between keeping him alive and letting him fall apart.

The door clicked open again, quieter this time.

Ilya stepped in, careful, deliberate, holding himself back even as his eyes locked on Shane. Every inch of his body radiated alertness, readiness to steady, to catch. Shane’s fingers twitched instinctively, brushing the sheets, searching for something familiar.

“I am here,” Ilya whispered, voice low, threading through the hum of machines. His shoulder hovered close, warmth radiating, careful not to disturb the braces or wires. Shane’s hand moved slightly, brushing against him. That tiny contact, almost accidental, made Ilya’s chest tighten.

Dr. Kline watched the interaction, expression measured. “We need to ensure stability first,” he said, glancing at the monitors. “Any sudden movement could compromise the fusion. Range of motion is restricted. Physical therapy will begin cautiously—under strict supervision.”

Shane’s eyes flicked to Ilya. Even through the haze of sedation, the braces, he could read the determination. Ilya’s hand rested near his hip, grounding him without words. Shane’s chest tightened. The public eye, the staff—they must never see the closeness, the unspoken bond that ran deeper than protocol.

Ilya leaned slightly toward Dr. Kline, lowering his voice. “Doctor… he asks… will he be able to play again? Skating? Competitions?”

Shane’s pupils dilated. He wanted to answer, to assert control—but his body betrayed him, tied up in wires and braces, his voice trapped under the pain.

Dr. Kline’s eyes softened, choosing words carefully. “We focus on recovery first. His cervical spine must consolidate. Neurological function is stable, but any return to athletic activity—especially at competitive level—requires full rehab and confirmation of strength, flexibility, and coordination. No shortcuts. Premature stress could reverse the surgery’s success.”

Ilya exhaled slowly, swallowing hard, glancing at Shane with that subtle attentiveness. “He… wants to play. It is important. He cannot imagine life without it,” he said softly, voice low enough that only Shane could hear.

Shane’s hand twitched again, brushing weakly against Ilya’s sleeve. That quiet, private tether pulsed between them.

Dr. Kline nodded toward the team. “We’ll start with assisted movement tomorrow. Pain management is optimized. Reflexes, coordination, and strength monitored daily. You responded well in prior checks; this is to ensure nothing has changed.”

Ilya’s thumb brushed lightly across Shane’s brace, careful not to disturb it. Shane’s fingers clenched weakly around it, holding onto the presence that had carried him through hours of darkness.

“You hear that?” Ilya murmured softly, almost a private conversation. “Step by step. You do not rush. But yes… you will skate again. And we… we will see.”

Shane’s gaze flicked from the monitors to Ilya, wary and exposed, and yet, for the first time in days, he felt the tiniest spark of control. The tether remained unbroken.

Dr. Kline added clinically, “ICU precautions remain. Any unsupervised movement could compromise stability. We’ll adjust therapy as we monitor vitals and neurological signs.”

Ilya’s hand lingered a moment longer, thumb brushing Shane’s wrist. “Rest. I am here. I stay. You… do nothing but survive.”

Shane let his fingers slack slightly, still wary, still cautious. The room softened around the harsh machines. The monitors breathed. Shane’s pulse raced, both with fear and with a fragile thread of hope.

And Ilya would not leave.

 

Morning came slow. Light filtered through blinds, soft and indirect, cutting across Shane’s pale, restrained form. The monitors hummed, steady and familiar, and the ventilator rhythm had become almost a background heartbeat.

Yuna and David had left at some point.  Ilya had not left. He stayed close, quiet, presence steady. Shane’s eyes tracked him instinctively, seeking the familiar thread of calm in the haze of exhaustion, wires, and pain.

Shane blinked, chest rising with effort around the tube. Pain lingered, dull and constant, but manageable. He felt alive. Alert. Grounded.

Dr. Kline entered with the morning team, calm, methodical, his white coat crisp against the soft hum of machines. Shane’s chest tightened at the sight of him. The faint metallic scent of the tools mixed with antiseptic, making him acutely aware of every wire, every monitor, every small, sharp line of light across the room.

“Vitals stable,” Dr. Kline said, voice cutting through the rhythmic beeping. “Pain management adjusted overnight. No complications.” His eyes scanned Shane’s face, noting the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his pupils tracked every movement. Shane flinched slightly, feeling exposed, but also… observed. Not for judgment, only for survival.

“Today we begin assisted movement,” Dr. Kline continued, his tone calm but insistent. “Very gentle. Closely monitored. Any sudden motion could compromise the fusion.” The words pressed against Shane’s chest like weights, reminding him of the fragile thread his body now hung on. His pulse raced, body itching for freedom even as he was tethered by braces and straps. The omega instincts lingering from the night—the restlessness, the desire for grounding—coiled tightly in his stomach, an undercurrent he could neither deny nor fully control.

Shane’s eyes sought Ilya. The Alpha was there, steady, almost impossibly still, grounding him with the pressure of his hand against Shane’s hip. That contact alone was enough to anchor some of the chaotic energy swirling inside him. It was a lifeline, quiet and intense.

Dr. Kline crouched slightly beside him. “We will support every movement,” he said. His voice lowered, softer, almost private. “Pillows under the spine, straps to guide the shoulders. We are not asking for strength yet. Only responsiveness, coordination, and feedback. Your body will tell us what it can handle.”

Shane felt the pillows slide beneath his arms, the soft weight nudging against his sides. Small straps were fastened gently but firmly, keeping his shoulders aligned, his chest lifted just enough. Each minor adjustment sent a pulse of awareness through him. It wasn’t pain. Not sharp. Not unbearable. But it was a reminder of everything his body had lost over the past weeks, everything he could not control.

“You may feel strain,” Dr. Kline said, eyes flicking to the monitors again. “Not pain. Your body will signal what it can tolerate. Listen. We will stop if anything is unsafe. We are guiding, not forcing.”

Shane’s chest rose and fell with the monitor’s rhythm. He tried to focus on the tiny signals his body sent him: the subtle twitch of a finger, the way his shoulder lifted fractionally under the nurse’s guidance. He could feel the braces biting lightly against his skin, the tape along his nose and chest sticking like a reminder that he was still held together by other people’s hands.

Ilya’s thumb traced slow, deliberate circles along Shane’s wrist, grounding him. Shane’s fingers twitched, seeking more contact, almost instinctively, searching for the tether that made the room feel less alien. His omega instincts hummed, a low, steady vibration through his chest and stomach, calming the restlessness, threading a faint warmth into his limbs. The sensation was soothing, like coming home after being lost for months.

“Okay, Shane,” Dr. Kline said, voice steady. “First, a small tilt. We lift your upper body just slightly. Tell us if anything hurts.”

Shane’s eyes followed the team’s hands, memorizing the movement before his body even tried to comply. The tilt was gentle, almost imperceptible, but every nerve ending screamed awareness. His chest lifted with the support of the pillows, his head barely moving, yet he could feel every fraction of his spine adjusting. His stomach coiled with the tension, but Ilya’s presence pressed into him, warmth radiating, and the restlessness ebbed just enough to let him breathe.

“I can… feel it,” Shane whispered, voice fragile, nearly lost beneath the soft beeps. “The tilt… it moves… but it doesn’t hurt.” His words trembled, half amazement, half relief.

Ilya leaned close, hand firm against his hip. “Good. You are doing exactly what you should. Nothing more.” His voice was low, carrying a weight Shane didn’t need to translate—it settled inside him, smoothing the spikes of anxiety coiling in his stomach.

Shane let out a soft moan, the sound of something warm coiling in his body. Relief, fear, desire, and the grounding of Ilya’s presence all coiled together. It felt like coming home. Familiar. Necessary.

“Very good,” Dr. Kline said, nodding at the team. “We will now extend the legs slightly, just enough to assess response. Keep your arms relaxed. Support comes from the straps. Gentle.”

Shane felt the gentle lift, the careful straightening of his legs. A tremor ran through his spine, small but immediate. He clenched his jaw, waiting for the pain that didn’t arrive. Instead, he felt a slow, spreading warmth—the mixture of his body awakening, his instincts settling, and the tether to Ilya radiating through him like a silent anchor.

Ilya muttered under his breath, a single word in Russian, low and urgent, almost a curse at the world for making Shane suffer. Shane’s stomach coiled tighter at the sound, responding, relaxing, shivering slightly against the controlled, careful motions. His lips parted, a small, unintentional sigh escaping as the restlessness drained, leaving him grounded and tethered to Ilya.

The first movement complete, Shane’s eyes found Ilya’s, pupils wide, heart hammering with awareness of both vulnerability and trust. The team adjusted pillows and braces again, murmuring soft guidance. Shane felt every detail—the subtle pressure of support, the measured lift, the hum of the machines. He could hear every heartbeat, every shift of the ventilator, every quiet word from Ilya threading through the sterile, humming room.

And for the first time since waking, he felt a fragile, tentative control returning. His body was tethered, restrained, yet alive. The restlessness, the omega instincts, the coiled anxiety—all settled, soothed by touch, guidance, and presence.

Ilya’s hand pressed just a little firmer, anchoring him to the moment, and Shane let the words hang between them, fragile but necessary.

Dr. Kline’s voice broke through the quiet hum of machines, calm and measured. “Shane, you did very well today. Over the next few days, we’ll gradually increase mobility, always within safe limits. Pain management is optimized, and your vitals are stable. Each session builds on the last. You will remain in the ICU until we are confident your cervical spine is stable and healing properly.”

He paused, letting Shane absorb the words, letting the weight of possibility settle in. “As for the ice,” Dr. Kline added carefully, eyes on Shane’s face, “full athletic activity won’t resume for months. First, you will regain basic mobility. Then strength, balance, coordination. We’ll progress cautiously—there are no shortcuts. But yes… you will skate again. You will play. The timeline is strict, but achievable.”

The room felt heavy, silent but charged, every line of wires, monitors, and human presence a reminder of fragility, trust, and care. Shane closed his eyes, letting the subtle anchor of Ilya’s presence steady him. He heard the door click shut as Dr. Kline and his team left. His chest still ached, pulse still rapid, but the coiled fire that had flared in the kiss softened into a steady warmth, threading through his body.

He could feel himself breathe again, slowly, deliberately, tasting the air, hearing the low hum of machines, and sensing Ilya’s quiet proximity. It was enough for now. Enough to remind him that he was alive, that he was safe, that even in this strange, constrained, fragile body, he was not alone.

Then the thought hit him, sharp and heavy. The season. He would miss it. All the months of training, all the games—the chance to skate, to compete, to be on the ice… gone. His throat tightened. He swallowed around the lump, eyes flicking to Ilya.

“I can’t play against you next year,” he whispered, voice trembling, small and fragile.

Ilya’s hand immediately moved to settle over Shane’s, thumb brushing circles across his wrist. “We will train together,” he said, steady, warm, a tether in the storm. “Off-season, rehab, ice when they allow it. I’ll push you. You’ll complain.”

Shane’s chest tightened further, the helpless ache coiling in his stomach.

Ilya’s lips curved slightly, almost amused. “It’ll be boring to play against anyone else. I’ll have to play against Scott Hunter at least—you won’t have to see that old man.”

Shane’s lips twitched faintly. He wanted to reply, but the words lodged somewhere in his throat. His chest ached, the coil of frustration loosening slightly just by hearing Ilya speak, grounding him, tethering him back to something familiar.

His presence hit Shane like a current. He whispered, voice raw, almost a tremor, “I… I could hear you. No matter how hard I tried… I couldn’t open my eyes. That pain… I could handle. But hearing you… hearing Mum, Dad… and not being able to answer… it tore me apart.”

Ilya’s fingers threaded through his, grounding him, steadying him. “I never left,” he said, voice low, unwavering. “I’m here.”

Shane’s omega instincts flared, raw and undeniable. Restless energy coiled through his body, insistent and urgent, crawling along his nerves like liquid fire.

Every fiber of him ached for contact, for reassurance, for the quiet anchor of someone who understood him without words. He could feel the pull—the need for closeness, for warmth, for tethering.

His chest rose and fell faster, pulse hammering, breath hitching as he leaned into Ilya, seeking the steady presence that could soothe the ache of weeks spent trapped in silence and stillness.

His hands twitched, fingers brushing against Ilya almost desperately, craving even the smallest reassurance, the smallest affirmation that he was not alone.

The world outside the room—the monitors, the machines, the restraints—faded to a dull hum as every instinct screamed toward the one person who mattered.

Ilya’s gaze flickered down to Shane’s lips. His nose flared slightly, eyes darkening, pupils widening. The heat of awareness, of want, shone through his careful restraint, and Shane felt it as sharply as his own longing.

Then Ilya kissed him.

Soft at first, testing, patient. Then deepening, urgent. Shane’s lips parted instinctively, his tongue brushing against Ilya’s in a slow, desperate rhythm. He moaned softly, low and trembling, a sound of relief and longing, a release of weeks of restraint.

Ilya responded immediately. His hands gripped Shane’s shoulders, sliding down his arms to press him closer, grounding and claiming at once. A low curse slipped from his lips in English, rough, sharp, heated. His tongue pressed against Shane’s, tasting, coaxing, teasing, and Shane’s moan grew, shivering and unrestrained.

The chapped press of Shane’s lips against Ilya’s, the wet warmth of his tongue—it was like water on a desert. Thirsty, aching, desperate. Something coiled in Shane’s stomach, tight and burning, familiar and overwhelming. He let it ripple through him, let it settle into the tether between them.

The sharp, panicked ache that had plagued him for weeks softened slightly, replaced by warmth, by presence, by the raw satisfaction of being held, being known. His fingers twitched, brushing weakly against Ilya, desperate for more, and another low, almost strangled moan escaped him.

Shane pressed closer, forehead resting against Ilya’s, voice trembling, soaked with vulnerability. “I missed… I missed seeing you. I missed your face.”

Ilya’s thumb traced gentle patterns over Shane’s wrist, grounding but not restraining. “I am here. Always,” he murmured. “I stay. Always.”

The kiss ended, but the heat lingered, a promise, a claim, a shared secret. Shane’s chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, the coiled heat inside him spreading and softening, instincts finally soothed by closeness, by warmth, by the tether he could hold onto even as the world pressed in around him.

I choose you  

 

 

Notes:

I stayed up way too late finishing this one because, honestly… I’m just as obsessed with Shane and Ilya as you are. Don’t judge me. 😅 Chapter’s done, but my sleep schedule? Not so much. I’ll be posting the next chapter tomorrow, so go ahead and get your kudos and comments ready—let’s see if you can make my tired little writer heart explode in the morning. Nighty night… or, you know, morning, depending on when you read this! 🫠💖

Also—let’s be friends on Twitter! I’m @justanotheraeri ❄️ Come fangirl/fanboy with me and talk all things Shane & Ilya 🏒

Last thing I write in sections and then try to blend everything if it doesn’t make sense, sorry in advance—I’m too tired to edit. 😅

Chapter 6: Thin Ice

Summary:

Shane navigates the challenges of recovery while Ilya remains close, protective, and unrelentingly present. The chapter explores their evolving bond, the tension between personal choice and external pressures, and the way trust, care, and quiet defiance shape their connection. Emotional stakes run high as the pair confront vulnerability, support, and the complexities of reclaiming control over one’s life.

The television had become part of the room.

Not background noise—something heavier. Something that pressed into Shane’s chest even when he wasn’t looking at it. Someone must have left it on after rounds, the volume turned down with careful hands, as if restraint made it kinder. 

It didn’t.

“…with the Cup secured last night,” the commentator said smoothly, professionally, “Scott Hunter closes out the season on a historic high.”

The footage rolled again. Confetti falling like static. The Cup lifted overhead, heavy and gleaming, hands gripping it like proof.

Shane watched without blinking.

Two days ago, he had still been drifting—time folding in on itself, sensation coming in fragments. Now everything landed whole. Too whole. Every image stuck.

“And in a moment that’s ignited league-wide discussion,” the commentator continued, “Hunter was caught on camera kissing another man during post-game celebrations.”

The clip replayed. Not hidden. Not apologetic.

Joyful. Reckless. Public.

Shane felt a sudden constriction in his chest. Heat rose sharply, a knot twisting as his stomach lurched. His pulse spiked, eyes widening, heart hammering against the restraints of his own body. Scott Hunter had kissed another man. Publicly. Like it was nothing. Like the world could see.

It shouldn’t hurt. He shouldn’t care. But it did. Something deep in him—a flash of jealousy he hadn’t expected, the sting of desire and longing he couldn’t place—coiled and throbbed like a living thing.

“Focus,” he muttered under his breath, trying to anchor himself. But the image repeated, over and over. The wet press of lips, the raw, shameless freedom of it. His chest constricted again, ache and pulse tangling with a heat that had nothing to do with injury.

Then the shift came. It always did.

“Attention has also turned to Hollander,” the commentator said, voice sharpening just enough to signal importance. “The captain suffered a cervical injury at the end of March and will miss the remainder of the season.”

Hollander.

Not Shane. Never Shane when they wanted distance.

“Medical sources have allegedly confirmed that Hollander is an omega,” the voice added carefully, “which, if verified, would place his recovery under enhanced league protocols.”

Shane’s chest tightened painfully.

Omega.

Spoken like a fact, hedged like a rumour.

“They’re calling it a public claim,” Shane murmured. “Not confirmation. Just… enough.”

Enough to poison the air around his name.

Only a handful of people had ever known. His parents. His coaches. Doctors whose signatures filled forms thick enough to suffocate. That was it. Years of discipline. Of careful scheduling. Of patches that regulated more than just his body.

Control had been survival.

And Ilya.

Who had known and never treated it like something fragile. Never managed him. Never corrected him. Never once made it feel like something that needed handling.

“Under league protection statutes,” the commentator went on, “any omega player returning from traumatic injury is subject to additional medical oversight to ensure safety and fairness.”

Safety. Fairness.

Graphics bloomed across the screen. Flowcharts. Risk assessments. Projected timelines. A body reduced to data points and probability.

Shane’s fingers curled weakly into the sheets.

“They’ll watch everything,” he said quietly. “Sleep cycles. Stress responses. How long it takes me to settle.”

Ilya stood beside the bed, arms folded, jaw set hard enough Shane could feel it radiating off him. Then he reached out, brushing Shane’s hair back gently from his damp forehead, thumb lingering against the skin. Shane’s stomach twisted with the sudden warmth, the intimate, careful gesture.

“They’re wrong,” Ilya said flatly.

“They won’t care,” Shane replied. “They’ll see risk. Liability.”

The screen flicked back to Scott Hunter—Cup raised, grin wide, the kiss replayed from another angle, slowed for emphasis. Shane’s pulse raced, sharp, hot, each beat resonating through his ribs. His throat tightened, a tremor catching in his voice, even as he whispered to the empty room, “I can’t… believe he’s just… like that.”

Ilya’s hand stayed in Shane’s hair, fingers gentle but grounding. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, voice low, rough, a tether of warmth against Shane’s frayed edges. “He always did have to be dramatic.”

Shane’s lips twitched faintly, a weak smile that barely grazed his awareness. Ilya leaned down, pressing a small, careful kiss against Shane’s temple, a soft heat that grounded the fire coiling in him. Shane let his eyes close, breath hitching, instincts finally easing just slightly at the contact.

“You see that?” Ilya muttered. “He wins one Cup and suddenly the world forgets he’s unbearable.”

Shane let out a weak breath that almost passed for a laugh. “You’re jealous.”

“Absolutely not,” Ilya said. Then, after a beat, “Fine. A little.”

Shane turned his head toward him. “You’ll lift it this year.”

Ilya didn’t hesitate. “Obviously.”

Shane’s lips twitched. “You’re an asshole.”

“And yet,” Ilya said lightly, “you’re stuck watching me do it from your bed.”

“I hate you.”

“You adore me.”

Shane didn’t argue. His chest ached too much.

“They’ll keep me off the ice,” he said quietly. “Even if I’m ready.”

“They can try,” Ilya said. “You’ve never been good at doing what you’re told.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Ilya leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We’ll train. Quietly. Properly. When they let you skate, you’ll already be ahead.”

Shane swallowed. “I won’t play against you next season.”

Ilya shrugged. “Temporary tragedy.”

“You like playing against me.”

“I like beating you,” Ilya corrected. “Different thing.”

Shane closed his eyes for a moment. The room felt too small. Too full of things he couldn’t fix.

The commentator didn’t stop.

“In certain cases,” the voice said calmly, “the league permits an additional safeguard for omega athletes returning to contact sport.”

Shane’s breath hitched.

“A publicly recognised sponsor,” the commentator continued, “or a formally registered compatible alpha willing to attest to ongoing stability and consent during recovery.”

Ilya went very still.

“They mean a claim,” Shane said quietly.

The word felt old. Heavy. Like something that belonged to another century and had never quite died.

“They’ll call it voluntary,” Shane went on, voice precise, brittle. “They’ll say it shows support. That it reassures the league.”

Bullet points appeared on screen.

 

Public acknowledgment.

Behavioural accountability.

Mutual consent documentation.

 

“They’ll say it gives me permission to play,” Shane whispered. “Like I’m borrowing my own body.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened sharply.

“They can’t force that,” he said.

“They don’t have to,” Shane replied. “They’ll just make everything else impossible.”

The commentator added, almost kindly, “Historically, omega players who meet sponsorship criteria experience smoother clearance processes and reduced scrutiny.”

Smoother. Reduced.

“They want someone visible,” Shane said. “Someone the league trusts.”

“They want ownership,” Ilya said.

“They want control,” Shane corrected. “Ownership would at least be honest.”

Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.

“I don’t want that,” Shane said finally. His voice cracked despite his effort. “I don’t want someone standing beside me so they’ll let me skate.”

His breath stuttered.

“I just want to choose you,” he said softly. “Not be forced to.”

Ilya’s hand moved without hesitation, warm and grounding, fingers curling around Shane’s like a promise they weren’t allowed to make out loud. He leaned down to press a small, tentative kiss to Shane’s lips this time, soft, almost pleading, just long enough to anchor him in the moment. Shane’s stomach coiled with relief and quiet longing, omega instincts finally settling against Ilya’s tether.

“They don’t get that part,” Ilya said.

Shane shook his head slightly. “They don’t want to.”

The television moved on, satisfied it had planted the seed. Legal experts. Former players. Calm faces nodding as if this were reasonable.

Shane felt exposed in a way no camera had ever managed before. Not because the world knew—but because it felt entitled to ask for proof.

“They’ll frame it as protection,” Shane said. “But it’s a leash.”

Ilya leaned closer, voice rough now. “You don’t belong to anyone.”

Shane’s eyes burned. “They’ll say I do.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The memory of the previous kiss lingered—how Shane had melted instantly into Ilya’s presence, how urgent and grounding it had been, how the small tether of touch had calmed weeks of unrest.

“They don’t need to know everything,” Ilya said finally, softer. “Not yet.”

Shane breathed slowly, deliberately, anchoring himself to the weight of Ilya’s presence, to the familiar pull, the way his instincts eased when Ilya was close.

“They don’t get to decide who I am,” Shane said.

“No,” Ilya agreed. “They don’t.”

Even as the season slipped away.

Even as his name was spoken without his voice attached to it.

Step by step.

Breath by breath.

Shane would take himself back.

And Ilya would be there when he did.

 

Shane heard them before he saw them—David’s voice low and steady, saying something practical and grounding, Yuna’s sharper, brittle tone cutting like glass. The sound of them settled something in his chest before the door even opened.

Ilya was already there, perched half on the arm of the chair beside Shane’s bed, jacket abandoned over the back, sleeves shoved up like he’d forgotten he was supposed to leave at all. One foot hooked around the chair leg, possessive in a way he did not bother hiding.

Yuna stopped short.

Her eyes went straight to Shane—upright, brace secured, legs stretched out instead of curled defensively toward his chest. The sight of him vertical, present, awake in a way he hadn’t been before hit her harder than she expected. Whatever careful composure she’d been carrying fractured instantly.

“Oh,” she breathed.

The word came out thin, almost reverent. Then she inhaled, squared her shoulders, and forced it into something firmer. “Okay. Good. You’re vertical. I like vertical.”

David smiled beside her, restrained but unmistakably real, relief softening the edges of his face even as he kept it light. “You look like hell,” he said fondly. “Which is an improvement.”

Shane huffed, the sound small but genuine. “You should’ve seen me last week.”

“I did,” Yuna replied dryly, already moving closer, eyes cataloguing the brace, the monitors, the faint tremor in his hands. “I brought coffee and unresolved rage.”

She passed the cup to Ilya without asking, a quiet acknowledgment of his place there, of the fact that he hadn’t moved. Ilya took it automatically, fingers closing around the warmth, muttering, “Bless you,” under his breath like it was a prayer and a joke all at once.

For a moment, the room felt almost normal.

They didn’t talk about the news at first.

They talked about rehab schedules instead—about how Shane hated the new physio because she counted out loud, each number landing like a challenge he didn’t have the energy to meet. About how the food was still awful, somehow worse now that he could taste properly again. About the indignity of being congratulated for standing still.

David mentioned, almost casually, that a Montreal training facility had quietly adjusted projected timelines. Not cancelled. Adjusted. The word sat between them like a fragile promise.

Yuna filled in gaps with clipped precision—appointments confirmed, calls returned, names written down and crossed out. She spoke like someone building scaffolding around a structure that wasn’t finished yet.

For a while, it worked. The room stayed light. Contained.

Then Farah’s voice cut in through the speakerphone, smooth and professional, when the conversation had settled into something almost safe.

“They’re floating trial balloons,” she said calmly. “Nothing official yet. But they’re using language that implies inevitability.”

Yuna’s mouth tightened. She pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes closing briefly. “Of course they are.”

“They’ve leaked just enough to test public reaction,” Farah continued. “Omega protocols. Safety narratives. Framed as concern, not restriction. It’s deliberate.”

Ilya went very still. Shoulders locking, grip tightening around the paper cup, but Shane felt it immediately, like pressure dropping in the room.

“What exactly are they implying?” Shane asked, voice steady despite the tension crawling under his skin.

There was a pause on the line. Just a fraction too long.

“That your return would be… smoother,” Farah said carefully, choosing every word, “with visible reassurance.”

Shane closed his eyes, breath leaving him slowly.

“A sponsor,” David said quietly, not looking at anyone.

“A leash,” Yuna snapped, the word sharp enough to cut.

Ilya’s jaw tightened, anger flashing hot and immediate. “They can fuck off.”

“That’s not legally actionable,” Farah replied mildly. “But it is emotionally valid.”

No one laughed. The call ended not long after, the line going dead with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.

 

A few days later, Hayden stormed in, carrying chaos the way some people carried oxygen—loud, unavoidable, necessary. Eyes sharp, energy barely contained, he scanned the room like a man sizing up a battlefield.

He froze at the sight of Shane, brace in place, legs stretched instead of curled. Every careful movement radiated deliberate fragility.

“Fuck,” he muttered, louder this time, almost as if volume could punch through the walls. “They let you walk yet?”

“Define walk,” Shane said quietly, measured.

Hayden dropped into the chair beside him, the scrape of wood on tile like a gunshot. “Fuck this place,” he growled, glaring at the walls as if they personally had betrayed him.

“You hate all places,” Ilya said from the arm of Shane’s chair, voice flat, sharp. “Some of them deserve hate more than you. Honestly, Pike… you are still terrible at hockey. I do not know why Jacky puts up with you. She must like chaos, or she is as masochistic as you are.”

Hayden’s eyes flicked toward him, assessing. “Rosanov.”

“I said your name,” Ilya shot back smoothly. “Do not like it? Tough. You should consider being grateful I do not call you ‘Jacky’s amateur hour.’”

Shane leaned back, hiding a small smile, letting the tension bounce between them. They tolerated each other. Barely. Carefully. For his sake.

Hayden exhaled sharply, leaning back in the chair. “They are idiots,” he said bluntly. “All of them. You know that, right?”

Shane nodded.

“They will try to dress it up as protection,” Hayden continued, voice low, serious. “But they are scared. Omegas do not break the way they want them to.”

Ilya let out a sharp, frustrated laugh. “They do not get to decide that. You, Pike… you are still talking too much for someone who cannot even skate properly. And Jacky wonders why she bothers with you.”

Hayden smirked, leaning back. “And you are a genius, I suppose?”

“I watch Hollander,” Ilya said, tone flat, sharp. “You would not survive one practice. Truly, do you even understand hockey, or are you just here to provide comic relief?”

Shane chuckled quietly, shaking his head slightly. The air between them was electric—a mixture of snide banter, underlying respect, and careful tethering.

 

The following days and weeks merged into a rhythm of rehab, punctuated by exhaustion, staggered visits, and bursts of chaos.

Rehab in the mornings. Visitors in the afternoons. Ilya was there more often than not, muttering curses under his breath—sometimes sharp, sometimes low and affectionate—when Shane’s leg trembled or balance faltered.

“Fuck—slow down,” Ilya muttered one afternoon, hand hovering uselessly as the physio adjusted the harness. “Christ, Hollander, you trying to give me heart attack?”

Shane smiled faintly. “You are dramatic.”

“You were dead quiet for two months,” Ilya shot back, lips pressing into a thin line. “I get to be dramatic now. You are not me.”

Hayden snorted from the side, shaking his head. “You two are insane.”

“Better than you,” Ilya said immediately, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are still terrible at hockey. I do not know why Jacky keeps you on ice. Maybe she likes the slapstick.”

“Watch it,” Hayden muttered, but Shane noticed a twitch at the corner of his mouth—the faint lift of amusement despite the edge in his voice.

Yuna and David kept pace with the outside world so Shane did not have to—news, league updates, subtle whispers from Farah, and official communications. Hayden filtered the locker-room chaos. Ilya stayed close enough that Shane’s instincts—his omega instincts—finally eased when he slept, finally settled enough to rest in bursts between sessions.

Nothing was solved.

Nothing had changed the stakes.

But something was held.

The tether between them—Shane, fragile but alive; Ilya, protective, possessive, cocky, snide, and unrelenting—was enough.

For now, it was enough.

Notes:

Hey everyone! This chapter really focuses on Shane and Ilya—how they lean on each other, push each other, and navigate all the chaos around them. There’s a lot of snark, a lot of tension, but also some quiet, tender moments that I hope hit you right in the feels.

What part of their dynamic did you enjoy the most—are you here for the banter, the quiet moments, or the sheer stubbornness of these two?

Chapter 7: Breaking Ice, Breaking Free

Summary:

Shane returns to the ice for the first time since his accident, confronting fear and reclaiming control. With Ilya as his steady anchor, they navigate trust, tethering, and the quiet triumph of being alive and together.

— One Year Since the Accident —

Shane stepped onto the ice, tentative at first, every muscle alert, every nerve firing with the strange mix of fear and anticipation. The blades cut into the frozen surface with a soft hiss, and the arena smelled sharp, clean, a scent that carried memories and longing.

It had been months since he had awake but the two months of silence still haunted him. The feeling of being trapped in a body that had refused to obey him remained. The memory of that moment—the collision, the pain, the helplessness—surfaced unbidden. He had felt himself lifted, hurled across the ice, the impact shattering the rhythm of his life. And then the dark, suffocating coma, the days he had lain awake and unable to move, unable to answer, unable to reach out.

Now, every movement was a negotiation. Every step was measured. Every glide was a small victory. His chest rose and fell with effort, but he breathed, really breathed, for the first time in weeks, tasting the sharp, clean air of the arena.

He still remembers the aftermath of the first time he skated again. The locker room was quieter than Shane had expected or remembered. It had always been rowdy and loud in his memories.  

It wasn’t empty — just subdued. The hum of the lights overhead, the distant echo of skates somewhere down the hall, the soft thud of a locker door closing. It smelled faintly of ice and disinfectant and something familiar enough to make his chest ache.

Shane sat on the bench, unlacing his skates slowly, deliberately. His hands still trembled a little — not from pain, not even fear anymore, but from the aftermath of it. From having been back on the ice. From having survived it.

Ilya stood a few feet away, tugging his shoes on, movements easy, unhurried. He kept glancing over, not hovering, not crowding — just present. Steady.

“You did good,” Ilya said finally, voice low. Not loud enough to carry. Not meant for anyone else.

Shane huffed softly. “I didn’t fall.”

“That is not the same thing,” Ilya replied, faint amusement threading through it. “You skated. You trusted your body again.”

Shane’s fingers paused on the laces. He stared down at his hands, at the faint scars along his knuckles, at the way his legs still felt unreal beneath him.

“I thought,” he said quietly, “that the first time back would feel… worse.”

Ilya leaned back against the locker, arms folding loosely. “And?”

“It hurt,” Shane admitted. “But not the way I expected.”

Ilya nodded once. Like he understood exactly what that meant.

Shane slid his foot out of the skate and into his shoe. Normal. Solid. Grounded. The simple act made something loosen in his chest.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Shane did something small and reckless and very like himself.

He leaned closer, just enough that only Ilya could hear him, and whispered, almost smiling—

“1410.”

Ilya froze.

Not dramatically. Just… still.

The number hung between them, quiet and loaded and impossibly specific.

Shane swallowed. “You remember.”

Ilya exhaled slowly through his nose. “Of course I remember.”

The hotel room.

The wrong city.

The too-soft sheets.

Shane standing by the window like he might bolt.

Ilya pretending not to notice how scared he was.

“You were shaking,” Ilya said, voice rougher now. “You tried to play it off.”

Shane smiled faintly. “I was terrified.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t push.”

“I wanted to,” Ilya said honestly. Then softer, “But I didn’t.”

Shane’s throat tightened. He tied his shoe and sat back, shoulders brushing Ilya’s knee. The contact was accidental. Neither of them moved away.

“That was the first time,” Shane said, barely above a breath, “that I thought… maybe I didn’t have to be alone in this.”

Ilya’s hand rested on the bench beside him. Not touching. Waiting.

“You were brave,” Ilya said.

Shane shook his head. “No. I was scared.”

Ilya finally looked down at him. “Those are not opposites.”

Silence settled again — heavier, warmer this time.

Shane stood, testing his weight once more. Solid. Real. Here.

“I’m glad,” he said, voice steadier now, “that it was you.”

Ilya’s mouth curved — not cocky, not teasing. Just sure.

“So am I.”

They left the locker room together, shoulders nearly touching, the echo of skates fading behind them.

And the number stayed where it belonged — not in the past, not as something broken or fragile.

Just a quiet proof that some things didn’t shatter at all.

Now, Ilya stood just off the boards, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on him. Shane felt the pull, the tether that had been present even in the ICU, even in the long nights of pain and rehabilitation. He felt Ilya’s presence like gravity, grounding him, steadying him, reminding him that he was not alone.

Shane attempted a turn, wobbling slightly, muscles trembling. His mind flashed to the hit again—the pain, the helplessness, the fear—and he flinched. But Ilya’s voice cut through the echo of memory, low, teasing, and steady.

“You’re shaking,” Ilya said softly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t let it scare you. You’ve got this.”

Shane swallowed around the lump in his throat, his pulse racing. He wanted to say something, to respond, but the words lodged somewhere between fear and gratitude. Instead, he leaned slightly into the tether, letting the quiet presence of Ilya steady him.

He pushed forward again, skating slowly, deliberately, each movement a reminder that he could reclaim his body, reclaim his life, reclaim the rhythm that had been taken from him. And with every glide, every careful turn, the tension coiled inside him loosened, replaced by warmth, by hope, by the memory of what it meant to be on the ice. 

Shane came to a stop near the boards, chest heaving, legs trembling from exertion and the lingering adrenaline. The ice beneath his skates was cold, biting through his socks, but his skin felt hot, electric with awareness. He could feel Ilya close, every glance, every movement setting his pulse racing.

Ilya stepped closer, the distance shrinking until Shane could feel the warmth radiating from him even through layers of gear. His hands hovered, just out of reach at first, before sliding to Shane’s waist, firm and grounding.

“You did it,” Ilya breathed, voice low, rough, teasing but impossible to ignore. He stepped closer, letting the heat of his body press into Shane’s without words. Shane could feel it in his chest, a coil of heat and instinct that had been dormant for months, waiting to be released.

Shane’s hands twitched, almost unconsciously, reaching for Ilya, needing the anchor that had kept him steady through weeks of frustration and fear. Ilya noticed immediately. His hands moved, one settling firmly on Shane’s waist, pressing him flush, the other brushing lightly along his side, grounding him, tethering him to something solid, undeniable.

“Careful,” Ilya murmured, low and teasing, “we have to wait until you’re cleared for strenuous activities.”

Shane’s stomach coiled at the words, heat flaring, chest rising faster, pulse hammering. His omega instincts, long restrained under fear and injury, surged forward with a hunger that bypassed thought entirely. His body wanted, needed, demanded Ilya’s closeness, warmth, claim.

Then, deliberately, Ilya kissed him.

Soft at first, testing, coaxing, letting Shane respond. Shane’s lips parted instinctively, a low, ragged moan slipping from him as weeks of restraint, frustration, and pain poured out. His hands threaded into Ilya’s hair, tugging him closer, seeking contact, needing claim.

Ilya’s hands roamed with a possessive ease. One slid along Shane’s spine, pressing him flush against his chest, the other tracing along his ribs, brushing over tense muscles alive with emotion and memory. The kiss deepened, urgent, tongues brushing in a slow, teasing rhythm that left both of them shivering. Shane gasped, letting the fire coil inside him, raw and overwhelming, moaning again as the tether solidified, an anchor of flesh, heat, and trust.

A shiver ran through Shane, chest tightening, pulse hammering, his omega instincts finally settling, soothed by Ilya’s possessive hands and the soft brush of lips and teeth along his jaw.

“Shh…” Ilya whispered against his ear, teeth grazing his earlobe, voice low, teasing, and fierce. “I’ve got you. Only you.”

Shane’s hands roamed freely, along Ilya’s shoulders, tracing down his arms, gripping, holding, searching. Every inch of contact, every brush, every sigh was a tether, a promise. The fire of longing softened into warmth, a thread of trust, but the coiled ache lingered, mingled with heat and desire.

The kiss lingered long, deep, consuming, until both of them trembled slightly, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, hearts racing in tandem. Shane’s pulse settled, the fire within him melting into a steady warmth, soothed by presence, possession, and the tether that defined them.

Ilya’s thumb brushed over Shane’s wrist lightly, possessive yet gentle. “Mine,” he murmured, low and fierce. “Always.”

Shane let himself relax, letting the tether anchor him, letting go of the fear, of the helplessness that had gnawed at him for weeks. For the first time since the accident, he felt safe, claimed, and alive.

He pressed his forehead to Ilya’s, voice soft and trembling, “I missed… I missed this.”

Ilya’s hands tightened slightly around his waist, thumbs brushing over his ribs, grounding, possessive, and tender all at once. “And now you have it.”

Shane’s mind flashed to the accident—the hit, the pain, the long weeks of being trapped, unable to move, unable to answer, unable to reach out. The memory brought a sharp pang to his chest, but the tether, the warmth of Ilya, the steady presence beside him, softened it.

The ice beneath them was silent save for the scrape of skates and the soft hum of the arena. The world narrowed to just the heat, the claim, the tether, and the soft, steadying pulse of being exactly where he belonged.

Shane could feel every inch of Ilya’s body, every brush of fingers and hand along his waist, and he trembled in response, omega instincts alive and soothed at the same time. The ache of helplessness coiled into heat, settling like water in a desert, quenched only by the careful possession, the quiet laughter, the whispered teasing, and the undeniable claim.

They lingered together on the ice, foreheads pressed, breath mingling, heat flowing, tether unbroken, hearts echoing in sync. The world outside—the accident, the doctors, the months of rehabilitation, the press—faded to nothing.

Finally, Ilya whispered again, teasing, possessive, a low growl underlined with laughter, “Next time, you try a lap without me holding you. We’ll see who crashes first.”

Shane let out a shaky laugh, the first real sound he had made in months on the ice, and tightened his hands in Ilya’s hair and along his shoulders. For the first time since the accident, since the hit that had almost taken everything, he felt like himself—claimed, tethered, alive, and unafraid.

 

The conference room hummed with anticipation, the air heavy with flashbulbs and murmurs. Rows of reporters jostled for position, pens ready, recorders blinking, waiting for Rozanov to appear. Ilya stepped in first, his Boston jersey pressed under the sharp cut of a blazer, eyes scanning the room with that trademark mix of cool amusement and latent intensity. He’d evaded questions about Hollander all season, and today the room crackled with the collective curiosity of every journalist who had been chasing whispers, leaks, and rumors.

Farah stood nearby, calm and precise, the invisible hand ensuring every camera angle and microphone placement was perfect. Her presence was understated but absolute—every gesture, every glance, conveyed that nothing would go off script.

League representatives were seated to the side, their posture rigid, expressions neutral, but their presence reminded everyone in the room that this was not just about gossip or personal curiosity. Legalities, ABO regulations, and precedent loomed over every question, every potential misstep.

Ilya took his seat with a quiet authority, shoulders squared, back straight, and the faintest curve of amusement at the corners of his mouth. The room seemed to pause around him, the hum of murmured speculation falling into a hush as he surveyed the reporters.

His second language sometimes lent his words an unusual cadence, a rhythm that could twist humor into something sharper, more cutting. Yet even in English, every syllable carried control, precision, and an undercurrent of wit that made the room lean in involuntarily.

He let the pause stretch, letting the tension coil, tight and deliberate. Every eye in the room shifted toward him, pens hovering, cameras whirring. He let the faintest smirk tug at his lips, eyes sweeping slowly across the front row, just long enough to make a few journalists flinch under his cool, measured scrutiny.

“Let’s start with the obvious,” a reporter said, voice clipped, attempting authority. “Rozanov, there have been persistent rumors about your relationship with Hollander. Can you confirm anything?”

Ilya’s lips curved into a slow, teasing smile, the kind that hinted at both amusement and challenge. He leaned back slightly, letting the chair cradle him, fingers laced loosely in front.

“I hear things,” he said lightly, voice steady but carrying a trace of dry humor that sharpened the edges of his words. His gaze flicked across the front row, brief and piercing, as though testing their resolve. “But I am a professional. I play hockey for Boston. That is my priority. Everything else… is speculation.”

The words hung in the air, deliberate, measured. He let them settle, the pause stretching just long enough to make the reporters squirm under the weight of unspoken confidence.

There was a subtle defiance in the ease of his posture, the calm inflection in his voice, and the faint flicker of amusement in his eyes. He had set the stage, claimed the narrative, and yet had revealed nothing. The room was taut with curiosity, every journalist straining to find the crack in his composure, but there was none to be found.

The room buzzed, a low hum of frustration from reporters who wanted more. Cameras shifted, pens scribbled furiously, and the tension built like a tightly coiled spring, ready to snap.

A second journalist leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, eyes sharp. “Some say the rivalry between Boston and Montreal has been… staged. Did you ever influence outcomes, intentionally or not?”

Ilya’s jaw tightened fractionally, the only crack in his otherwise controlled exterior. For a heartbeat, the air seemed to still around him. Then a rare flash of honesty pierced the calm—a faint edge of something real.

“Hah,” he said, voice low, humor threading through but laced with steel. “Rivalry is real. Every match counts. Every point. Hollander’s team is strong, smart, and relentless. I do not play to lose. Period.”

The journalist pressed further, leaning closer, tone sharp. “Rozanov, your comments suggest deep respect, but what about Hollander himself? He’s now public as an omega. Do you think omegas should be playing in such a physical, brutal game?”

Ilya’s gaze flicked to the ceiling for a fraction of a second, then back, pupils narrowing ever so slightly. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. “Hollander is Hollander,” he said slowly, each word deliberate. “Strong. Fast. Smart. Dangerous. Being an omega… does not make him weak. It does not make him less capable. I’ve played against him for years. I’ve seen the fire, the control, the precision. He is an athlete, a captain, a force.”

A ripple of murmurs ran through the reporters. Some scribbled furiously; others exchanged glances, sensing the subtle but undeniable edge in his words.

Another journalist pressed, “And personally… what do you think of him? On and off the ice?”

Ilya’s lips curved, a sly, almost imperceptible smirk. “On the ice? He’s the enemy. You play to win. Off the ice… he’s… complicated. Charming, infuriating, brilliant. Dangerous in ways most people can’t see.”

The tension in the room thickened. Some reporters leaned in further, eager for confirmation, a confession, a crack in the carefully maintained secrecy.

“And the league rules,” another voice cut in, sharper this time. “There are restrictions, protections, legal concerns about omegas in high-contact sports. Do you think he should have been allowed to return this season?”

Ilya’s eyes darkened, pupils widening slightly, a flicker of possessiveness surfacing in the way he glared toward the empty space where Shane would later appear. His voice was calm, measured, yet threaded with subtle heat. “Rules exist to protect. But some people… they defy expectation. Hollander is one of those people. He trained, he healed, he fought. And when he is on that ice… he commands it. Don’t mistake the rules for weakness. Don’t mistake his nature for inability.”

He leaned back slightly, the smirk softening into a proud tilt of his mouth. Even in the sterile, scrutinizing room, the possessiveness and fondness he felt for Shane radiated in his posture, the tilt of his head, the controlled intensity in his gaze.

The room stirred, pens pausing mid-scratch, whispers threading through rows of reporters. Cameras captured every subtle expression, every carefully measured flicker of light and shadow across his face.

The room murmured, pens frozen mid-air, cameras pivoting in near-unison. A low, electric hum ran through the journalists, a collective anticipation coiling tight, ready to snap. Every eye was on Ilya, expecting him to deflect, to smile, to dodge with wit. Yet even as he held the room, there was an unspoken question: what comes next?

Then Farah’s voice cut through like steel, precise, commanding, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Rozanov, if you’re done, we have a surprise.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked to the side, quick, alert. A slow, knowing curve of his lips betrayed nothing—and yet everything. The journalists leaned forward instinctively, sensing the weight behind the words.

Gasps erupted like a wave. Whispers became a ripple, a low hiss of tension, and then came the movement at the back of the room. Through the polished glass doors, Shane Hollander appeared.

Every step measured, each one deliberate, a testament to weeks of recovery and control. Yet there was power in the way he carried himself—the quiet authority of a captain, the tension of an athlete restrained by circumstance but unbowed. Cameras swiveled, flashes erupted, pens hovered over pages, but the journalists, for a fleeting moment, forgot their questions.

Shane’s eyes scanned the room, absorbing the scrutiny, the lenses, the questions yet unasked, before locking onto Ilya. The electric tension between them was palpable, almost suffocating, radiating outward, impossible to ignore.

The murmuring journalists, the hum of the machines in the back, the distant scrape of chair legs—it all became background noise. The room had transformed. It was no longer a press conference. It was a stage for something far more intimate, fragile, and explosive.

Ilya’s pupils dilated slightly, his gaze flickering from Shane’s eyes to his lips, a subtle flare of desire restrained by professionalism, by the eyes of the league, the press, the world. Shane’s presence, tall and poised, carried the raw pull of everything unspoken, and it crashed into Ilya’s careful façade.

Farah, almost imperceptibly, shifted, satisfied. The subtle cue, the choreography of timing, of reveal, had worked. League representatives stiffened, alert not just to protocol, but to the emotional charge now threading through every movement.

Shane’s gaze never left Ilya’s. Every breath, every shift of weight, every restrained tremor carried months of absence, weeks of fear, and days of longing. The room’s tension was now a living thing—aware, expectant, ready to erupt with the next word, the next motion.

And in that charged silence, the first undeniable truth spread outward: Shane Hollander had arrived. Not just as a player, not just as a recovered athlete, but as someone claimed, tethered, and fiercely connected to Ilya Rozanov.

The press could feel it. The league could sense it. And Ilya, teasing, restrained, and possessive, held it all in a single, perfect gaze.

Ilya’s lips curved, slow and deliberate, into a private, almost predatory smile. It was the kind of smile that carried ownership without a word, confidence threaded with heat, a subtle warning to anyone who might challenge it. His gaze flicked to Shane briefly, a flicker of intimacy only they could share, before sweeping back to the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice calm but sharp, cutting through the low hum of anticipation, “I would like to introduce my omega.”

A stunned hush fell over the room. Pens froze mid-scribble, cameras lingered in mid-tilt, microphones angled as though trying to capture more than just sound. The words seemed to hang in the air, weighty, almost tangible.

Shock rippled through the press corps. The whispers began, quiet at first, then growing louder, a wave breaking against the walls of protocol and decorum. Shane—Hollander—Montreal’s captain, the figure whose omega status had been hidden, protected, fiercely private—was standing there. Standing beside Ilya. Alive, poised, and unapologetically present.

The room’s temperature seemed to drop, a collective intake of breath rising as every reporter registered the magnitude of the revelation. Eyes darted between the two men, searching for cues, for confirmation, for cracks, but found none. Shane’s stance was steady, controlled, but even through the measured composure, a subtle tension hummed, the residue of months spent recovering, waiting, longing.

Ilya’s gaze never left him, dark pupils flaring, a tethering magnet that radiated through the air between them. There was no need for words; the claim was clear, unassailable, proud. The possession was as much a shield as it was a declaration—this was his omega, not hidden, not secret, and fiercely his.

Whispers surged through the room like an electric current. Phones clicked, cameras whirred, and a few of the more seasoned reporters leaned forward, knowing they were witnessing something unprecedented, both professionally and personally. Every line of Shane’s form, every subtle tightening of his jaw, every blink measured yet hesitant, carried months of unseen struggle, of survival, of trust.

And there they were, together, on display, yet untouched by the chaos around them, a single, undeniable truth threading through the room: Shane Hollander belonged to Ilya Rozanov.

The press had been expecting a statement, a team update, maybe a tease about the season—but this—this was something far more potent. It was history, scandal, intimacy, and dominance all rolled into one heartbeat, and the room shivered with the weight of it.

Shane’s pulse raced, an erratic drum in his chest, his omega instincts coiling with awareness of Ilya so close. The tethering warmth threaded through him, grounding him, even as the cameras clicked and flashed, capturing every subtle glance, every measured motion. He could feel the quiet power of Ilya’s presence, possessive and steady, settling the restless coil of longing and fear that had lurked in his body for months.

“Rozanov, Hollander,” a reporter began, voice clipped and pointed, leaning in for any slip, any confirmation, “how long have you been—”

Ilya’s interruption cut through the room like a blade wrapped in velvet. His tone was equal parts teasing and commanding, impossible to ignore. “Long enough,” he said smoothly, eyes flicking briefly to Shane, lips curving with that subtle, predatory amusement. “Public record or not, Hollander is mine. He’s my omega. Everyone else can write what they want.”

A ripple of murmurs cascaded through the room, reporters exchanging incredulous looks, some scribbling furiously, others adjusting lenses. Shane felt the weight of every gaze, every flashing light, every inch of scrutiny, but he stayed rooted beside Ilya, letting the anchor of that presence steady him.

“You’re an asshole,” Shane whispered quietly, low, almost to himself. The words were warm on his tongue, intimate, more private than public, carrying the heat of familiarity and trust.

Ilya leaned slightly closer, fingertips brushing through Shane’s hair, grounding him with a quiet, possessive claim. “I know,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But you like it.”

The room’s tension thickened, and the reporters pressed forward, relentless.

“Rozanov, Hollander—how does this affect Hollander’s ability to play? There are ABO regulations and laws requiring compatible sponsorship. Who authorized his return?”

“Rozanov, you’ve been evading questions about your personal life all season. Why reveal this now?”

“Does Hollander’s omega status give him a competitive disadvantage? Or is it even allowed in a league as physical and brutal as this?”

“Rozanov, there are whispers that Hollander’s recovery was rushed. How can the league verify he’s truly ready for high-level competition?”

“To both of you: given the secret nature of your relationship until now, are there any legal or ethical implications for other teams?”

“Rozanov, Hollander—how do you respond to critics who say this could set a precedent for other omegas in professional sports?”

Shane’s stomach tightened. Each question felt like a weight pressing down on him, the public scrutiny biting sharper than any blade. But Ilya’s hand remained near, brushing a subtle warmth across his shoulder, anchoring him in the storm. Shane could feel the coil of his instincts easing slightly in Ilya’s presence, yet the questions of legality, personal safety, and public perception hovered like smoke around them.

Ilya’s gaze flicked to Shane, eyes dark and sharp, a silent promise threading through the storm of questions. “Authorized?” he echoed lightly, smirk still in place. “I did what was needed. Hollander is fit, cleared, and ready. We don’t wait for permission from anyone who doesn’t matter.”

The room shifted in reaction—some stunned, some scribbling furiously—but Shane felt it: the tether, the certainty, the undeniable claim threading through him. He let his fingers brush Ilya’s subtly, grounding and claimed, yet still part of the world outside, every flash and murmur a reminder of the storm they were weathering together.

The hum of cameras and scribbling pens faded into an almost tangible tension as a reporter leaned forward. “Rozanov, Hollander—your presence here raises questions. Given your citizenship, your ties to Russia, how can you legally continue in this league? Aren’t there serious consequences if you return?”

Ilya’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something darker crossing his face. He inhaled slowly, measured, the weight of months of careful evasion pressing down. “I cannot go back,” he said, each word deliberate, sharp. “Not now. Not while my omega is here. Returning… it would risk everything we’ve built. His safety, his career, everything that matters.”

A murmur ran through the room. Reporters sensed the gravity behind his calm exterior, the unspoken threat lingering in the air. Ilya’s gaze flicked to Shane, protective, fierce. “I will not leave him. He is mine. My priority is his life, his well-being, his future. The rest… bends around that.”

Shane’s chest tightened. Fear coiled low in his stomach, a bitter, familiar twist. He had been fragile once, tethered to a body that had betrayed him, dependent on care, on presence. Now, seeing Ilya stand like a shield, owning the risk and the choice for them both, he felt the tether pull him taut—possessive, grounding, absolute.

Another reporter pressed, voice clipped, sharp. “Rozanov, given the risks you face abroad, how can you justify continuing to play? Aren’t the laws—strict? Unforgiving?”

Ilya’s humor briefly flickered, then disappeared beneath the weight of certainty. “I do not justify it,” he said, voice low, precise. “I act. I protect what is mine. We navigate carefully. Hollander is safe. That is what matters. Nothing else.”

Cameras clicked, flashbulbs popped, pens scribbled. But in the space between, Shane felt the tether tighten, possessive and steady, wrapping around his unease and fear.

A follow-up cut through, sharper, almost cruel. “Rozanov, are you saying your loyalty to Hollander supersedes your obligations—your home, your life in Russia?”

Ilya’s lips curved into a tight, almost predatory smile. “Yes. My loyalty is absolute. My omega comes first. Everything else adjusts to that truth.”

Shane’s pulse raced, every nerve alive, stomach coiled. He could feel his instincts—the raw, protective, tethered energy—firing beneath the surface. Even under the flashing lights and prying questions, he felt anchored entirely, wholly, to the one person who had never let him fall.

Yuna, David, and Hayden sat to the side, eyes fixed on the unfolding revelation. Yuna’s fingers twisted the edge of her jacket, her expression a careful balance of pride and concern. “I can’t believe he actually did it,” she murmured, voice low, just for David and Hayden. “After everything… he claimed him.”

David’s jaw tightened slightly, a mix of relief and astonishment crossing his features. “About time,” he muttered under his breath. “All the secrecy, all the whispers… I was starting to think we’d never see this day.”

Hayden leaned closer to David, lowering his voice. “Do you think this will… change anything with the league? With the rules?” His eyes flicked toward the stage, scanning the reporters and cameras. “I mean, the omega status being public… people are going to have opinions.”

Yuna shook her head gently, a small, rueful smile on her lips. “Opinions don’t matter right now. Look at them—Shane isn’t hiding anymore. He’s calm, grounded… tethered. That’s what matters. That claim… it’s real, and he’s finally safe in it.”

David let out a breath, shoulders relaxing fractionally. “I just hope everyone else sees it the way we do. The claim, the bond… it’s not just for show.”

Hayden’s eyes softened as he watched Shane lean slightly into Ilya, the private kiss on his temple sending a visible shiver through him. “God… they’re actually happy. Really happy,” he said quietly. “After all the chaos this year, seeing them like that… it’s something else.”

Yuna nodded, eyes still locked on Shane and Ilya. “It’s more than public perception. It’s real. The tether is real. And no matter what the press or the league throws at them, they have each other.”

David exhaled again, a small, approving smile tugging at his lips. “Good. They deserve that. After everything Shane’s been through… seeing him like this—claimed, safe, alive—it’s worth it.”

The three of them fell into a quiet, tense reverie, exchanging glances that carried understanding, approval, and the unspoken acknowledgment that the world around them could remain chaotic, but here, at this moment, Shane and Ilya were untouchable.

The last camera clicked, the pens stopped scratching, and murmurs of the press dwindled to a low hum. Shane and Ilya remained center stage, tethered, unshakable. Shane felt it fully for the first time in months: claimed, protected, alive.

Ilya stepped closer, hand sliding along Shane’s waist with that familiar, grounding possessiveness. “Well,” he said, voice low, teasing, and sharp, “look at you. Survived the world’s questions without melting. Not bad for an omega.”

Shane let out a shaky laugh, leaning slightly into the warmth. “Not bad at all,” he murmured.

Ilya smirked, cocky, playful. “Not bad? That is the best you can do? I expect more fire from my omega. But… I suppose I can forgive you this once.” He brushed a strand of hair from Shane’s forehead, thumb lingering over his freckled skin—the patch Ilya was utterly addicted to, the light dusting that always made him tense in the best way.

Shane’s pulse jumped, and almost unconsciously, his thumb grazed over the same freckles, small, tentative circles, grounding himself and teasing Ilya in return. Ilya’s sharp inhale betrayed him instantly, smirk widening.

“You handled it all—every question, every camera, every blinking idiot trying to be clever. And you didn’t break. I like that,” Ilya said, voice low, teasing, and impossibly possessive.

Shane swallowed, chest tight with adrenaline. “So… it’s really going to be okay?”

Ilya leaned down, smirk softening into a rare, warm curve. “Okay? My omega survives a press conference, and you ask if it’s okay? Do you doubt me? Because I do not doubt us. Not for a second. They can write, snap, or whisper all they want. We have this. Always.”

Shane’s lips twitched into a small, relieved smile. “Always,” he repeated softly, thumb still stroking the freckles Ilya loved, tracing the familiar spots, feeling the small shiver of reaction beneath his fingers.

Ilya’s hand tightened slightly on Shane’s waist, grounding him, possessive, teasing, yet utterly certain. “Exactly. So quit worrying, focus on me, and maybe—just maybe—you will stop looking like you’re about to collapse every five seconds.” He tilted his head, smirk flicking up, small but sharp. “Though… that is kind of adorable too. And your check-up is tomorrow… Hollander, I fully intend to make up for lost time.”

Shane’s stomach coiled at the words, pulse spiking. To anyone else, they were just standing close. To him, every inch of contact was deliberate, private, fire and control wrapped in one.

He let his thumb graze over Ilya’s hands on his waist, small, teasing circles that made Ilya shift slightly, a sharp, quiet inhale pressing into Shane’s chest. Ilya’s smirk didn’t falter; it only tightened, a subtle lift that promised trouble, heat, and possession.

“You feel that?” Ilya murmured, voice low, precise, confident, teasing like he had all the time in the world. “That pull? That heat? That’s all for me. Only me.”

Shane pressed a little closer, shoulder brushing against Ilya’s chest, letting the warmth, presence, and tether settle him. Shane’s arms wrapped around Ilya’s neck hiss fingers grazing the sensitive skin skin, delicate but insistent, and Ilya’s hand tightened around his waist, possessive but calm, sure.

Ilya leaned closer, subtle shift, the press of chest to shoulder enough to make Shane’s breath hitch. “Mine,” he murmured, voice low, small, sure, teasing. “Always mine, Hollander. And I plan to remind you… privately. Soon.”

Shane’s pulse raced, heat coiling low and sweet, mingling with the thrill of being claimed in the smallest, quietest ways. Every brush of skin, every whispered tease was hidden from the world—but electric and absolute to them.

He let out a small, shaky laugh, chest loosening, pulse settling just enough to enjoy the tension. Leaning into Ilya, feeling the steady grip, the possessive warmth, the small smirk that made his heart race, Shane knew—here, tethered, safe, alive, utterly claimed—it would work out. It already was.

Ilya’s thumb brushed again over the freckles, slow, deliberate, teasing. “Tomorrow… Hollander,” he murmured, low, confident, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “you will see exactly what you’ve missed. I plan to make it worth every second.”

Shane let out a soft, satisfied breath, chest warm, pulse finally slowing, letting the tension of the past year settle into something quiet and absolute. He pressed closer, the heat of Ilya’s body grounding him, tethering him in a way that words could never fully capture.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The world outside—the press, the expectations, the accidents, the whispers—faded completely. All that mattered was the steady press of Ilya’s hand, the teasing graze of his thumb, the tether between them that had never wavered.

Shane smiled faintly, finally at ease. “Always,” he whispered, the word carrying the weight of everything they had survived and everything still to come.

Ilya’s smirk softened, just enough, as he pulled Shane a little closer. “Always,” he echoed, voice low and certain. “And no matter what comes next… we handle it together.”

The ice of the past, the fractures of fear and silence, had melted. What remained was warmth, claim, and the quiet certainty that some things—like them—could never be broken.

Some things shine fiercely.

Some burn steadily.

And some are never questioned at all.

And tonight, in the safety of each other’s arms, Shane and Ilya —Hollander and Rozanov —simply were.

 

Notes:

Hey Hollanov fandom! I’ve written a chapter following this one that contains spice and smut. I’m still contemplating whether to post it—advice and thoughts from you all are very welcome!

Either way, Shane and Ilya’s story as it stands can rest here, safe and claimed. For all those that have read and commented thank you so much. I will continue to explore these characters in other plots and storylines. So keep an eye out.

Chapter 8: Under the Ice, Under You

Summary:

For the shameless (me included): Shane’s cleared for sex— Ilya is happy.

Or sexy time

The car purred through the fog, rain-slick streets, engine low and steady, like it knew what was waiting.

Shane’s body was already there—heat gathering low and insistent. He could feel himself starting to get slick, anticipation tightening through him as his fingers tapped against his thigh—not nerves, never that—just the sharp, restless edge of wanting.

Ilya noticed everything.

“You are shaking,” Ilya said quietly, eyes forward, voice rough with promise.

His hand slid over, deliberate, thumb pressing into the inside of Shane’s thigh. Not touching what Shane needed—just close enough to make his hips jerk, breath hitch, stomach coil.

Shane swallowed. Didn’t look at him. Let the movement happen. Let Ilya feel it.

“Am not,” Shane said lightly, but his body betrayed him, rocking subtly into the touch, slick warmth pooling, desperate and aching.

Ilya huffed a low laugh. His thumb began slow circles, possessive, testing. Claiming.

“You are soaked already.” A statement. “I bet you are dripping all over the seat.”

Shane’s pulse jumped. He shifted again, sharper this time, grinding just enough to make it impossible to ignore.

“Drive faster,” he murmured around a soft gasp. It had been so long. He wanted to feel Ilya inside him. He wanted to be held down and filled. Shane’s eyes rolled into his head as he imagined his big strong alpha using him—taking what he needed.

Ilya’s grip on the wheel tightened. His smile turned dark. Dangerous.

“You want me that bad, Hollander?”

The thumb pressed harder, dragged deliberately, and Shane gasped—sharp, uncontrolled—hips bucking before he could stop himself.

“Fuck,” Shane breathed.

“Yeah,” Ilya said softly. “I know.”

The air between them thickened. Every sound—the engine, the tires, Shane’s breathing—felt obscene. Shane let himself move now, subtle at first, then bolder. Each shift was a provocation. Each soft sound a challenge.

“Mmm,” Ilya murmured. “Such a needy omega.”

Shane leaned closer, heat radiated off him, his voice low and smooth.

“Not needy,” he said. “Just impatient.”

Ilya glanced over, eyes black with hunger.
“I will make you beg for it, Hollander.”

The driveway came too soon. The engine cut, ticking as it cooled, and for a beat they stayed frozen—breathing, burning, vibrating with it.

Then Shane grabbed him.

Hands in Ilya’s jacket, mouth crashing into his, all teeth and heat and urgency. The kiss was filthy—wet, demanding, no pretense. Ilya growled into it, hands tangling in Shane’s hair, pulling him close, closer—

Shane fumbled with the keys, hands shaking.

Ilya laughed against his mouth.
“You are a slut for it.”

“Shut up,” Shane panted.

Ilya didn’t. He lifted him instead—effortless, decisive. Shane yelped, then laughed, legs locking around Ilya’s waist automatically, slick heat pressed right where it ached most.

Inside, the door barely closed before Ilya had him pinned—mouth on his neck, teeth grazing, tongue slow and punishing. Hands everywhere. Under clothes. Over skin. Mapping him like something owned. Ilyas fingers brushed over Shane’s sensitive nipples, gripping and pulling slightly.

“God,” Shane moaned, arching into it. “Ilya—”

“Tonight,” Ilya said against his throat, voice dark and certain, “You don’t think. You don’t hold back. You take.”

Shane shuddered. Every word sank deep, settled heavy and right.

They made it to the bed in pieces—clothes stripped, mouths everywhere, hands never still. Ilya pushed him down slowly, deliberately, letting Shane feel every second of being placed where he belonged.

“Look at you,” Ilya murmured, dragging his gaze over Shane’s naked body. “You look like a bitch in heat. What would everyone say seeing you like this?Open. Wanting.”

Shane was shaking now, hips rocking, slick and obvious.
“I’m a mess,” he whispered. “For you.”

“I know.” Ilya kissed his stomach, slow, reverent, then lower. Ilya kissed the tip of Shane’s cock. “That’s mine.”

The first touch made Shane cry out—back arching, fingers clawing at the sheets. His mind went blank. Ilya took his time. Too much time. Licking and kissing the length like it was the last meal and he wanted to cherish it.

Shanes hands gripped Ilyas golden locks as Ilya finally took him into his mouth. His tongue slow, cruel, precise, drawing every sound out of him until Shane was sobbing tears dripped down his cheeks, breathless, begging. His hole fluttered clenching around nothing looking for something to fill it.

“Please—please—don’t stop—”

“Such a good little slut—begging,” Ilya said, voice thick. “Say it again.”

“I need you,” Shane gasped. “Need you—need it—fill me, please —”

Ilya finally turned him over in a single move hitched his legs up and pushed his head into the pillows and bent down fully, body over his, heat to heat. He lined up his cock with Shane’s fluttering hole and pushed. The stretch burned sweet and perfect, knocking the air from Shane’s lungs.

“Yes,” Shane sobbed. “Yes—fuck—”

Ilya held him there, unmoving, letting him feel it. Letting the burn ripples up his spine. Letting him melt.
“You are made for me,” Ilya said quietly. “Every part.”

Then he moved. Shane shattered.

Slow at first. Deep. Possessive. Each thrust deliberate, grounding, stealing Shane’s thoughts until there was nothing but sensation and Ilya’s voice. Ilya’s hips tilted and stars exploded behind Shane’s eyes as his hole quelched, trying to grip the intrusion as it hit all the nerves inside him.

“There it is. That’s it. Take it. Just like that.”

Shane moved under him—moaning, shaking, begging without shame. His body answered every command, every touch, every whispered claim.

“Don’t stop,” Shane cried. “Please—don’t stop…Alpha–”

The release hit hard and blinding, ripping through him, leaving him shaking and wrecked, clinging to the bed like it was the only solid thing left.

Shane gasped, voice high and pleading and needy. Ilya turned him onto his back, opened his legs and pushed back into the tight heat groaning.

I… I can’t… please… I’m yours… I need it… I need your knot…”

Ilya’s lips brushed over his temple, jaw, neck, slow and possessive, thumb tracing the freckles he adored, anchoring Shane as heat spiraled higher. Ilyas hands wrapped around his neck tightening slightly as he held him down with his entire body. Shane squirmed his body sensitive his instincts on fire. Every movement tethered them, a rhythm of control and surrender, alpha and omega, slick and responsive.

”you take it so well, my omega, so tight—so wet— so soft around me—so perfect,” Ilya growled his pupils blown wide. Sweat rolled down his face as his nostrils flare. He was close.

Shane cried out, full release hitting him, trembling, moaning, body convulsing under the warmth and tether of Ilya’s touch.

“I… I… I’m yours… I’m yours… I’m yours…”

Ilya held him close, chest to chest, steadying him as his own release followed, his knot pushing against Shane’s hole, warmth pooled into Shane’s belly, tethering, claiming, marking.

“Oh God, Shane,” Ilya murmured at the height of it, low and possessive, voice rough, his hips grinding into Shane who pushed down on the knot trying to suck him in deeper.

Shane shivered into him, his slick dripping against his thighs, his legs trembling, mind melting from pleasure, completely lost, completely tethered, completely claimed.

The world fell away. There was no press, no stress, no months of fear. Only heat, tether, possessive intimacy, slick pleasure, and the undeniable claim threading through them.

Shane collapsed into Ilya’s chest, trembling, gasping, eyes half-lidded, heartbeat settling only with the steady press of Ilya’s chest beneath him.

Ilya brushed his fingers through Shane’s hair, gentle now, soft, possessive.

“We have this,” he murmured, low and certain. “Whatever comes… we will handle it. Together.”

Shane pressed closer, muffled against him, lips grazing warmth, eyes closing.

“Together,” he whispered, letting the word tether him as fully as any kiss or touch.

Some things hold forever.

Some build slowly.

And some are shouted loud enough for everyone to hear.

Here, now, in the quiet after the storm, everything that mattered had been claimed, tethered, and made unbreakable.

Even if the world tried, they would face it all, together.

Notes:

This is where their story ends.

Not because everything is resolved neatly, or because the world suddenly becomes kind, but because they arrive at the truth they’ve been circling since the beginning. What started as heat and avoidance becomes something grounded, claimed, and real.

Shane’s journey has always been about control—of his body, his future, his silence. Letting himself need, letting himself be seen, is the bravest thing he does. Ilya, for all his confidence and sharp edges, has always known exactly what he wants. Loving Shane isn’t loud for him. It’s steady. It’s staying.

This final chapter is about permission—to want, to take, to belong without apology. No more running. No more pretending. They choose each other in the only way that’s ever mattered to them: fully, honestly, and without compromise.

Thank you for staying with them until the end.