Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov had always been good at lying to himself. It was a skill, really. You didn’t survive this long without learning how to compartmentalize the things that could ruin you.
This was supposed to be easy.
He sat alone with a glass of vodka sweating into the table, the apartment quiet in a way that felt aggressive. The kind of silence that demanded honesty. He hated it. He knocked the glass back, felt the burn drag its way down his throat, and waited for the familiar numbness. It didn’t come. It never fucking did anymore.
He told himself it had only ever been sex. Convenient. Low-stakes. Two schedules colliding in stolen hotel rooms and borrowed time. A body he knew well enough to move with his eyes closed. That was the agreement, unspoken but solid. No feelings. No future. No mess.
Except somewhere along the line, it had stopped being just that.
He couldn’t pinpoint when it happened. There was no dramatic shift, no moment he could circle and blame. It was gradual. Insidious. The way Shane laughed when he was exhausted. The way he got quiet after losses. The way his freckles showed up more when he’d been out in the sun too long, like his skin couldn’t keep secrets any better than Ilya could.
That was the problem. Ilya didn’t just want Shane’s body anymore. He wanted the small things. The unguarded ones. The parts that weren’t offered so freely.
He clenched his jaw and poured another drink.
This, whatever the hell this had turned into, was dangerous. It had weight. It pulled at him when he tried to step back. It made him think in ways he absolutely could not afford. He’d crossed a line without noticing, and now he was standing on the wrong side of it, staring at something that could ruin everything if he reached for it.
So he had to end it.
The thought made his chest tighten in a way that pissed him off. He swallowed hard, annoyed at himself for reacting like this. Ending it didn’t mean erasing Shane from existence. He could still see him on the ice. On screens. In interviews where he smiled like he had no idea how badly he could fuck someone up just by existing.
Ilya could live with that.
He could admire Shane from a distance. He could track his career through headlines and box scores. He could pretend that was enough. People did that shit all the time. Wanting something and surviving without it. Fine. He could manage.
He had to.
Because wanting Shane like this, wanting more than what they had, meant vulnerability. It meant risk. It meant standing too close to something sharp and trusting it not to cut him. And Ilya didn’t trust anything that much. Not people. Not love. Not himself.
He laughed under his breath, sharp and humorless, and poured another glass. Vodka sloshed against the rim. He didn’t bother wiping it up.
This was him being smart. This was him choosing control. Ending it before it got worse. Before he wanted something Shane couldn’t give him. Before he let himself believe in something that would eventually be taken away anyway.
Still, the idea of nothing, no texts, no rooms that smelled like Shane’s shampoo, no familiar weight beside him in the dark made his stomach twist.
He drank anyway.
If he stayed drunk enough, maybe the lie would hold.
He eventually decided to sleep, mostly because staying awake felt like inviting thoughts he didn’t want. He stretched out on the bed fully clothed, phone in his hand, thumb moving out of habit more than intention. He wasn’t even looking at anything specific, just scrolling, letting time pass.
Then a text came in.
Jane: Out with the guys. Dinner turned into them dragging me to a club. Pray for me.
Ilya snorted despite himself. His first instinct was something sarcastic, and something bitchy. A comment about Shane hating clubs. About him pretending he wasn’t having fun. About how he was absolutely going to have fun and would deny it later.
His thumb hovered.
Then he stopped.
This was it. Or at least the beginning of it. The slow fade. The gradual quiet. He told himself it didn’t have to be dramatic. He didn’t need to announce anything. He could just… stop responding right away. Stretch the silences. Miss a few conversations. Make himself less available.
Ghosting felt shitty, but so did everything else.
He locked the phone and set it face-down on the nightstand, like that somehow made the decision firmer. He told himself he’d text Shane when he woke up. That he just needed sleep. That things would feel more manageable in the morning.
He didn’t remember falling asleep.
When he woke, it was abrupt and violent, like he’d been shoved out of something. His heart was racing, breath shallow, the sheets tangled around his legs. For a few seconds, he didn’t know where he was. He just knew something was wrong. Not in a vague way. In a deep, instinctive way that made his chest hurt.
He grabbed his phone.
The time glared back at him. Still dark. Hours before sunrise.
And then he saw the notifications.
Too many. Way too many.
Missed calls. Messages. Group chats blowing up his screen like a goddamn fire alarm. His teammates’ names smeared together as he unlocked the phone, irritation cutting straight through the anxiety. What the fuck was this? It was the middle of the fucking night. Why was everyone acting like the world had ended?
He opened one of the messages.
Have you seen the news?
Ilya, call me. Now.
Please tell me you already fucking know.
Jesus Christ, man.
That was it. No context. No explanation. Just panic wrapped in vague bullshit.
His jaw locked. “Are you fucking serious right now,” he muttered, thumb scrolling harder than necessary. Say it or don’t, you assholes. The half-answers made his skin crawl. It felt like they were all circling something awful, whispering around it, waiting for him to step close enough to get hit.
His chest felt tight now, pressure building, so he did the one thing that made sense. He opened social media.
Shane Hollander’s name was everywhere.
Headlines. Alerts. Half-formed speculation. Photos taken from too far away, too grainy, like distance made it more acceptable. His vision tunneled as he read, words slipping out of order before snapping back into place.
Bruising altercation outside nightclub in New York City.
Professional hockey player hospitalized after violent assault.
Condition currently unknown.
New York. A few hours’ drive from Boston. Close enough to feel real. Close enough to hurt.
In any other circumstance, seeing Shane’s name like this would’ve made him smug. Proud. Defensive. Shane being talked about meant Shane mattered. Shane was important. Shane was…
Beaten. Brutally. Left bleeding on a sidewalk.
Ilya’s hands started shaking so badly he nearly dropped the phone. He refreshed without meaning to, desperate and furious, needing more information and hating himself for it. Articles contradicted each other. No motive. No suspects. Words like severe and critical slipped in and out of the text like they didn’t carry weight.
Then he saw the video.
Someone had reposted it. Blurry. Shaky. Taken by some asshole who thought pulling out a phone was better than stepping in. Ilya clicked it before he could stop himself.
He didn’t make it far.
The moment Shane’s face filled the screen, blood streaked across skin that Ilya knew too well. Something in him broke loose. His breath hitched hard, panic slamming into him so fast it made him dizzy. He shut the video off, bile rising, pulse roaring in his ears.
“No. No, no, no,” he said out loud, voice rough, like saying it enough times might undo what he’d just seen.
But his brain had already gone somewhere else.
His mother lying still, skin wrong-colored, eyes closed in a way that meant they would never open again. Twelve years old and understanding, all at once, what it meant when something was already gone by the time you reached it.
He doubled over, elbows on his knees, phone clutched uselessly in his hand.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. Not now. He was supposed to end things cleanly. Slowly. Carefully. He was supposed to make himself okay with distance.
Instead, the world had reached out and fucking shattered Shane, and Ilya hadn’t even texted him back.
***
***
Hayden Pike hadn’t slept. Not really. He’d closed his eyes a few times in the chair shoved against the hallway wall, but every time his body started to give in, his brain yanked him back up again. Too loud. Too alert. Like something bad would happen the second he wasn’t watching.
The hospital smelled like disinfectant and burnt coffee. The lights were brutal. No windows anywhere near where he’d parked himself, just white walls and the low, constant hum of machines behind closed doors.
The doctors hadn’t said a fucking thing that mattered.
They’d talked around it. Used careful language. Stable but serious. Under observation. Waiting to see. Nothing concrete. Nothing that made the tight knot in Hayden’s chest loosen even a little. Every time footsteps came down the hallway, he looked up, half-expecting someone to finally say something useful.
No one did.
He dragged a hand down his face and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He could still see it if he let himself, the moment everything went sideways. Shane going down. Blood where there shouldn’t have been blood. The sound his own voice had made when he yelled for help, ugly and panicked and useless.
And Hayden had dragged him out.
That was the part that wouldn’t shut the fuck up.
Shane never liked clubs. Everyone knew that. He went because it was a team thing, because one of the guys had something big to celebrate, because when you’re the captain you don’t get to opt out. You show up. You make appearances. You keep morale high.
And Hayden had been the one pushing it. Come on, man. Just for a bit. It’ll be fine.
Fucking liar.
He pressed his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, jaw tight. He should’ve been closer. Should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve been faster. What good was being built like a tank if he couldn’t protect the one person who actually mattered?
He checked his phone. No new updates. Shane’s parents are arriving soon. Minutes now. He typed out a message, erased it, typed it again. How the hell were you supposed to update someone when you had nothing to give them but uncertainty and dread?
He’s still unconscious. Doctors are monitoring him. I’m here.
It felt like shit, but it was honest. He hit send before he could overthink it.
Hayden swore quietly and scrubbed at his eyes, forcing himself to breathe like a normal human being instead of someone on the edge of losing it. He couldn’t spiral. Not yet. Shane needed someone functional when he woke up. When he woke up. Hayden clung to that word like it was a promise.
His phone buzzed again. This time, he didn’t hesitate.
“Hey,” he said when the call connected, voice rough.
“Hey,” Jackie answered immediately, worry bleeding through the single word. “Jesus, Hayden. You sound like hell.”
He let out a dry huff. “Yeah, well. Hospital chic isn’t doing me any favors.”
“That’s not funny,” she said gently.
“I know,” he admitted. “Sorry. Swing and a miss.”
There was a pause, not uncomfortable, just heavy. Jackie didn’t rush him. She never did.
“How’s he doing?” she asked.
Hayden stared at the floor. “Same. No big changes. Doctors are being… doctors. Careful as shit.”
“Which means bad?”
“Which means they don’t want to say the wrong thing,” he said. Then, quieter, “I fucked up, Jacks.”
She didn’t argue. She didn’t rush to fix it either. “You didn’t do this to him.”
“I dragged him there.”
“You didn’t put hands on him.”
Hayden swallowed. “I should’ve been there.”
“You were there,” she said firmly. “You got him help. You didn’t leave.”
It wasn’t comfort exactly, but it steadied him. Kept him upright.
“Are you eating?” she asked.
He scoffed. “Absolutely not.”
“Hydrated?”
“Debatable.”
“God, you’re impossible,” she said, exasperated but soft. “I wish I was there.”
“I know.” He meant it. The idea of seeing her right now almost hurt. “I’ll be okay.”
Jackie didn’t call him on the bullshit. “I love you,” she said instead.
“Love you too.”
He hung up and exhaled slowly, phone still in his hand. For the first time in hours, he felt like he could maybe stand without collapsing.
That was when he looked up and saw them—Yuna and David, walking down the hallway toward him, faces tight and pale and already knowing too much.
Yuna didn’t waste time. She hugged him, quick but firm, like she was holding herself together through muscle memory alone. David stood close, hands jammed in his pockets, eyes glassy but focused. They didn’t ask stupid questions. They didn’t demand answers Hayden didn’t have.
Yuna was the one who finally said it. “You need rest. Even a little. You’re no good to anyone like this.”
Hayden wanted to argue. Wanted to say fuck that and plant himself right there until his legs gave out. But the truth was sitting heavy in his bones. He nodded once.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “Soon.”
“Go,” Yuna replied. Not unkind. Just firm. Like she was holding the line for him.
The hotel room felt wrong. Too quiet. Hayden showered fast, water beating down on his shoulders like punishment, like maybe he could scrub the night off his skin. He didn’t linger. Didn’t sit. Didn’t even dry his hair properly. Twenty minutes later he was back in the hospital, coffee burning his tongue, heart already picking up speed as he walked the familiar hallway.
He expected more waiting. More silence. More doctors saying we’ll see.
He did not expect chaos.
The sound hit first. A crash. Then another. Voices raised but not shouting exactly. Controlled panic. Hayden broke into a jog.
The room looked like something had exploded inside it.
A tray lay overturned near the door. Plastic cups scattered and crushed. A chair tipped onto its side. A monitor beeped erratically, its rhythm off, wrong. The air felt tight, charged.
Shane was at the center of it.
He was half-upright in the bed, hospital gown twisted around his torso, IV line pulled taut as he thrashed. His breathing was wild, short, and fast, like he couldn’t get enough air no matter how hard he tried. His eyes were wide and unfocused, darting to every movement, every sound. There was blood dried at his hairline, stark against his skin.
“Don’t…don’t fucking touch me!” Shane yelled, voice hoarse and raw. He swung his arm blindly, knocking something else to the floor. “Get away…get the fuck away!”
Yuna stood closest, hands raised, voice soft and steady. “Shane. Hey. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.”
He didn’t hear her. Or maybe he did, but it didn’t matter. His body was locked somewhere else entirely. Every muscle rigid. Every instinct screaming.
Someone stepped closer, too fast, and Shane reacted instantly, kicking out, gasping, eyes flashing with pure terror. Not anger. Fear. Deep and uncontrollable.
Hayden’s chest caved in.
“Hey,” he said, carefully, staying near the doorway. “Hey, buddy. It’s me.”
Shane’s head snapped toward him.
For half a second, Hayden thought he’d broken through.
Then Shane recoiled.
“No,” he said, voice cracking. “No—no, no—don’t—”
The look on his face almost dropped Hayden to his knees. Shane stared at him like he was a threat. Like he was a stranger. Like he was about to be hurt again.
“Fuck,” Hayden whispered.
He took one careful step back. “Okay. Okay. I’m not coming closer. I swear.”
Nurses were already moving in, practiced and calm, voices low and firm. One of them caught Hayden’s eye and shook her head just slightly. Not now.
Shane was still shaking, breaths coming in sharp bursts, fingers clawing at the sheets like he needed something solid to hold onto and couldn’t find it.
“I can’t…” Shane gasped. “I can’t—please—”
Hayden felt his throat close. He wanted to help. Wanted to do something. Anything. But all he could do was make it worse by being there.
“I’m gonna step out,” he said quietly, more to Shane than anyone else. “You’re okay. They’ve got you.”
Shane didn’t respond. He’d curled inward now, arms tight around himself, eyes squeezed shut like he could block the world out if he tried hard enough.
Hayden backed away as the nurses took over, heart pounding, vision blurring. He turned before anyone could see his face and stepped into the hallway, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.
He leaned against the wall, chest heaving, hands shaking.
Whatever had happened to Shane hadn’t stayed on the street. It was still happening. And there was nothing Hayden could do to stop it.
He pushed off the wall and started pacing, short laps up and down the hallway because standing still felt like inviting a breakdown. His head was still full of Shane’s voice, raw and terrified, and the sound of something hitting the floor. He rubbed at his face, hard, like he could reset himself if he tried hard enough.
That was when he saw the figure at the far end of the hallway.
At first, Hayden thought he was hallucinating. Exhaustion did weird shit to your brain. He stopped mid-step and stared.
The guy wasn’t moving. Just standing there like he didn’t know whether to come closer or turn around and bolt.
Hayden’s stomach dropped.
Ilya Rozanov.
Hayden actually looked away and then back again, just to be sure. Same broad shoulders. Same stupidly familiar posture. Same face but wrong somehow. Tense. Tight. Hesitant in a way Hayden had never seen on him.
“What the fuck,” Hayden muttered.
Ilya took a few careful steps forward and then stopped, like he’d hit an invisible line. The two of them stood there, a few feet apart, the air between them thick and hostile. Hayden’s body reacted on instinct with his shoulders squaring, weight shifting forward. If Ilya thought he was getting anywhere near Shane, he was dead fucking wrong.
As far as Hayden was concerned, Ilya Rozanov was an asshole. A rival. The guy who played Shane like a personal vendetta and seemed to enjoy every second of it. Whatever history they had on the ice didn’t belong in this hallway.
Hayden didn’t bother being polite.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped, voice low but sharp. “You lost, or you just here to stir shit?”
Hayden braced himself for the grin, the mouthy comeback, the usual Rozanov bullshit.
It didn’t happen.
Ilya stayed where he was, jaw set hard, eyes cutting past Hayden toward the door to Shane’s room like his body wanted to move and his brain wouldn’t let it. His hands were curled tight at his sides, knuckles white, shoulders tense like he was bracing for a hit. There was something off about him, something stripped-down and wrong, and it unsettled Hayden more than any smug attitude ever had.
He didn’t look cocky.
He looked wrecked.
Like he’d run himself empty and was still forcing his feet to hold him up.
“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” Hayden said. “Why do you even care?”
He didn’t soften it. Didn’t bother. “You two hate each other. That’s what everyone knows. So what is this? Some fucked-up victory lap? You wanna see how bad he got it?”
Something flashed across Ilya’s face that looked like anger, grief, something ugly and uncontrolled. Then it vanished, buried under effort. The familiar Ilya slid back into place, but it didn’t fit right. Like armor thrown on too fast.
He scoffed, a short sound, trying for dismissive and not quite landing it. “Please. If I want to be asshole, I don’t need hospital for that.”
His accent was heavier now, words catching, consonants rougher. He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, eyes anywhere but Hayden’s.
“I don’t care about your little stories,” he said, tone flat, forced. “Just…” He stopped, jaw tightening, like the English was fighting him. “Just tell me how he is, yes?”
Hayden opened his mouth to shut him down.
Another crash cut through the hallway.
Something hit the floor inside Shane’s room hard. A sharp sound, followed by a strangled shout that punched straight into Hayden’s chest. Shane’s voice, broken and panicked, yelling words that didn’t quite land as sentences.
“Fuck,” Hayden breathed.
That was it. That was the sound of things going past manageable. He could already picture the nurses trying to talk Shane down, voices calm and firm, hands hovering because touching him made it worse. Last resort territory.
Hayden turned just in time to see Ilya’s face change.
Whatever mask he’d been holding together shattered completely. His head snapped toward the door, eyes wide, breath hitching. “That’s him,” he said, like Hayden didn’t already know.
“Rozanov—” Hayden started.
Too late.
Ilya moved.
He didn’t shove past Hayden; he just went, fast and reckless, like his body had decided before his brain caught up. Hayden lunged, fingers brushing fabric, missing him by inches.
“Fuck!” Hayden swore, chasing him down the last few steps.
Ilya shoved the door open.
The room froze.
A nurse had one foot braced against the bed, hands raised. Another stood near the IV pole, clearly ready to call for backup. Yuna was pressed back against the wall, eyes wide, David half in front of her like he could shield her from what was happening.
And Shane…
Shane was curled in on himself, spine bowed like he was trying to fold inward, breathing fast and shallow enough that his chest barely rose. His hands were knotted in the sheets, fists locked so tight his knuckles had gone pale, fabric twisted between his fingers like it was the only thing anchoring him to the bed. Sweat clung to his skin, darkening the collar of the hospital gown, hair plastered messily to his forehead. His face was flushed in a way that didn’t look like heat or exertion, just panic. His eyes were open too wide, glassy and unfocused, tracking movement that wasn’t there. There was fear in him that went past shock or confusion. The kind that lived deep, that hijacked your body and didn’t ask permission.
Everyone in the room turned toward Ilya like he didn’t belong there. Like he’d walked into the wrong reality.
Ilya didn’t look at them. Didn’t even register them.
His focus narrowed until there was only Shane.
“Shane,” Ilya said.
He tried to say it like a normal person would. Like this was just another room, another day. But the name cracked anyway, soft and frayed, his voice dropping too low, too careful. It barely carried past the bed, like he was afraid even sound might set Shane off again.
Nothing happened.
Shane’s breathing hitched, stuttering, but he didn’t move. His eyes stayed unfocused, his body still locked tight like a trapped animal waiting for the next hit.
Ilya swallowed hard. His jaw worked like he was bracing himself. He took a step closer before he realized he was moving, then stopped short, hands curling uselessly at his sides.
“Shane,” he said again.
This time, the control was gone. The name came out rougher, heavier, the accent thickening around it, emotion bleeding through no matter how hard he tried to contain it. There was a break in his voice he didn’t bother hiding, a shake he didn’t have the energy to fight.
That did it.
Shane stilled. His shoulders were tense, breath coming too fast, but something shifted. His head turned slowly, like it took effort, like moving hurt. His eyes dragged across the room and then locked onto Ilya.
And they stayed there.
Recognition flickered. The wild edge dulled just enough, the panic no longer scattering in every direction. Shane’s gaze fixed on Ilya’s face like it was something solid in a room that wouldn’t stop spinning, like a thread he could grab onto before everything else slipped away.
“Ilya,” Shane said. The name came out broken, almost a question.
Hayden stopped just inside the doorway.
Ilya took one slow step forward. Then another. He kept his hands visible, palms open, shoulders rounded inward like he was trying to make himself smaller.
“It’s okay,” Ilya said quietly, the words rough, accented, barely holding together. “I’m here. You’re okay.”
Shane’s hands loosened in the sheets, fingers trembling. He didn’t reach out, not yet, but his body leaned, just a fraction, toward Ilya.
Ilya froze.
For a second, it looked like he might bolt. Like the wrong move would shatter everything. His chest rose and fell hard, eyes glossy, terrified of doing this wrong.
“Can I?” he asked, voice barely there.
Shane nodded. Small. Jerky.
That was all it took.
Ilya moved closer, slow as hell, stopping short of the bed. He didn’t touch Shane at first. Just stood there, close enough for Shane to see him clearly, to hear him breathe.
“I got you,” Ilya said. “I swear. I won’t— I won’t hurt you.”
Shane’s hand lifted on its own, shaking violently, reaching without looking. Ilya swallowed and met it halfway, fingers closing gently, like Shane might break if he squeezed too hard.
The room exhaled.
Shane’s breathing started to slow, uneven but easing, his forehead tipping forward until it rested against Ilya’s arm. His grip tightened, desperate, like letting go wasn’t an option.
Hayden felt something in his chest crack.
He looked over at Yuna. She had one hand clamped over her mouth, the other gripping David’s arm so hard her knuckles were white. David just stared, stunned, like the rules of the world had quietly rewritten themselves.
The asshole rival. The villain in every story.
And somehow, the only one Shane could see right now.
Hayden stayed by the door, silent, watching Ilya hover like a man terrified of waking a bomb, scared shitless, shaking, but still there. Still choosing to stay.
***
***
Ilya had driven to New York like he was being chased.
What should have taken a few hours took nearly twice that. He kept pulling over. Once because his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Once because his vision went blurry and he scared himself enough to slow down. Once because he started crying so hard he had to put his forehead against the steering wheel and wait it out, breath stuttering like something inside him had come loose and didn’t know how to lock back in.
He told himself to get it together. Over and over. You are not helping like this. You need to drive. You need to get there.
By the time he reached the hospital parking lot, he just sat in the car.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he ignored it. The building loomed in front of him, too big, too bright. Going inside meant confirming it was real. Meant walking toward something that might break him clean in half.
When he finally forced himself out of the car, his legs felt wrong, like they didn’t fully belong to him. Inside, the words stopped working. He stood at the desk, mouth opening and closing like an idiot while the nurse waited.
“Name,” she prompted.
“Sh—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Hollander. Shane Hollander.” The English felt thick and clumsy on his tongue. “Please.”
She gave him directions, spoke kindly, and he nodded like he understood all of it. He didn’t. He followed signs and people and the sound of his own pulse until he saw Hayden.
Then he heard Shane.
The sound cut straight through him. Panic. It wasn’t just fear, it was terror without edges, and the feeling that hijacked your body and didn’t let go.
Something inside Ilya shattered.
He didn’t remember deciding to move. One second he was standing there, the next he was walking fast, heart slamming, lungs burning. His body took over like it knew something his brain hadn’t caught up to yet.
The door opened and—
Fuck.
That wasn’t Shane. Not the Shane Ilya knew.
The man in the bed looked smaller somehow. Folded in on himself. Eyes too wide. Hands clenched like he was bracing for impact that never stopped coming. Ilya felt ice crawl up his spine. He almost stopped. Almost turned around because he didn’t trust himself not to make it worse.
But Shane said his name.
And Ilya was done thinking.
Now he was here, standing too close and not close enough at the same time, Shane’s hand in his. The contact was light, careful, like one wrong move would send everything spiraling again. Ilya was painfully aware of every second, every breath.
Or fuck…maybe he wasn’t breathing at all.
He realized it only when his chest started to ache. He forced air in, slow and quiet, terrified Shane would feel the change and panic. Shane’s grip tightened just a fraction, then loosened again, like his body was arguing with itself about whether this was safe.
Shane stared at their hands.
Not at Ilya’s face. Just their hands. Like he was trying to figure out if this was real, if it would disappear the second he trusted it.
Ilya could feel the fight in him. The tension. The urge to pull away and lash out and run. Trauma vibrating under Shane’s skin.
“You’re safe,” Ilya said softly. His voice barely worked. “Okay? You’re safe.”
Shane’s breathing hitched.
“Your parents are here,” Ilya added, words slow, deliberate. “They came fast. Hayden’s here too.” He glanced over his shoulder briefly. “Unfortunately.”
It was stupid. Small. Barely even a joke.
But Shane’s mouth twitched. Just barely. Like his body remembered something human.
Ilya swallowed hard.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said automatically and then bit down on his lip, hard.
Because just yesterday, he’d been planning how to leave. How to end it cleanly. How to survive without this.
And now…now that he’d almost lost Shane, now that he’d seen him like this, broken open and terrified, Ilya knew with brutal clarity that there was no version of his life where walking away didn’t destroy him.
He tightened his grip just enough for Shane to feel it. Not trapping. Not forcing. Just there.
“I got you,” Ilya said again, quieter this time. “I swear. I’m here.”
Shane finally looked up at him.
His eyes were wet, red-rimmed, like he’d been crying without realizing it. His mouth opened, closed, like he was trying to figure out how to ask something that mattered too much.
“You’re… you’re really here?” Shane asked. His voice shook, thin and uncertain.
Ilya nodded immediately. “Yes. I’m here.”
Shane swallowed hard, fingers tightening around Ilya’s again. “You’re not—” He stopped, breath hitching. “You’re not gonna leave me?”
The question landed like a punch to the chest.
“No,” Ilya said. He didn’t hesitate. “I won’t.”
Shane’s face crumpled just a little at that. “I’m scared,” he said, like it was a confession he’d been holding in too long.
“I know,” Ilya said softly. “I know.”
They stayed like that. No rush. No one pushing. Shane’s breathing slowly evened out, still shaky but no longer spiraling. Ilya stood there, anchored in place, counting breaths with him without meaning to.
After a while, Ilya leaned in just enough for Shane to hear him. “You should rest,” he said. “I’ll stay. Right here. I won’t go anywhere.” His throat tightened. “I’ll protect you. I promise. Whatever it takes.”
Shane nodded, slow and tired. “Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than to Ilya. The word sounded small. Young. Like he was trying to convince his body it was allowed to let go.
It didn’t take long after that. Shane’s grip loosened as sleep pulled him under, lashes fluttering before settling. His breathing evened out fully, deep and steady.
Ilya didn’t move.
He stayed standing there, afraid that if he shifted even an inch, Shane would wake up and panic all over again. His fingers had gone numb by the time a nurse quietly approached and slid a chair next to the bed.
“You can sit,” she whispered.
Ilya nodded. “Thank you,” he said, the words clumsy and thick.
Only then did he realize the weight of the room.
Three pairs of eyes on him.
He didn’t look up. Couldn’t. His brain felt fried, English slipping through his fingers like water. He sat down carefully, slow as hell, making sure Shane didn’t stir. Once he was settled, he let his gaze lock onto Shane’s face.
Bruised. Cut. Peaceful in sleep in a way that felt unfair.
The door opened. Closed. Footsteps moved softly. Ilya registered it all distantly. He knew he wasn’t alone. He knew Shane’s mom was probably still there, sitting on the couch against the wall, watching her son breathe.
Ilya couldn’t look.
If he did, he was afraid something in him would split wide open and never come back together. He kept his eyes fixed on the rise and fall of Shane’s chest, counting it like a lifeline, like proof. Every breath felt fragile, temporary, like it might stop if Ilya trusted it too much.
He wanted to touch Shane’s face so badly it fucking hurt. The need was physical, sharp. He wanted to trace the bruises with his thumb, gentle and careful, to feel warm skin under his fingers and convince himself this wasn’t a mistake, that Shane was real and not something his brain had made up to punish him. He wanted to check every cut, every scrape, catalog the damage like he could undo it by knowing it.
The urge crawled up his spine and settled heavy in his chest, squeezing, suffocating. His hands twitched uselessly in his lap. He felt exposed, raw, like everyone in the room could see exactly how much he was unraveling.
Then it hit him.
His vision blurred, edges smearing, the room tilting just enough to make him dizzy. Tears spilled over before he could stop them, hot and humiliating, sliding down his face without permission. He bowed his head, shoulders drawing in tight, breath stuttering in short, ugly pulls. He tried to keep it quiet. He failed.
This wasn’t how he did things. Ilya Rozanov didn’t fucking fall apart in front of people. He didn’t let himself be seen like this. Not scared. Not desperate. Not wrecked.
But he was all of it.
A hand landed gently on his shoulder.
He flinched hard before he could stop himself, every muscle locking up. His heart jumped, panic flashing hot and fast. Then another hand appeared in his field of vision, holding out a tissue.
Ilya froze.
Slowly, he looked up, eyes burning, chest tight, feeling stripped bare and caught in something he hadn’t agreed to.
It was Shane’s mom.
He wasn’t sure how it happened after that. His body moved before he fully decided to let it. Carefully but regretfully, he eased his fingers out of Shane’s hand, doing it slow enough that Shane didn’t stir. The second the contact broke, panic flared hot in his chest, like he’d made a mistake he couldn’t take back.
He stood up, took the tissue with a muttered “thanks,” and wiped at his face, rough and ineffective. His hands shook. He hated that. Hated being seen like this. Fucking hated it.
“I’m…Ilya,” he said suddenly, because silence felt worse. Like it would swallow him whole. “I’m… Ilya Rozanov.”
The words sounded stupid the second they left his mouth. As if his name meant anything in this room.
Shane’s mom smiled at him, soft and tired. “Yuna,” she said. Simple.
Ilya hesitated, unsure if he should offer his hand. The moment stretched awkwardly then Yuna stepped forward and hugged him.
He stiffened, caught completely off guard. His arms hovered uselessly at his sides for a second before he awkwardly returned it, careful and unsure, like he might break something. Or be told to stop.
When she pulled back, Ilya’s first instinct was to apologize. The word came out fast, tangled. “I’m sorry. I… I don’t—”
Yuna’s smile didn’t fade, but her eyes were observant. Full of questions she wasn’t asking yet. “I know,” she said quietly.
She glanced toward the door. “Would you like to take a short walk with me?”
“No,” Ilya said immediately. Too fast. Too harsh.
He winced. “Sorry. I didn’t… I just can’t. I promised him I wouldn’t leave.” The words came out rough, defensive, like he was bracing for someone to challenge that promise.
Yuna studied him for a long second. Then she nodded.
“That’s okay,” she said. “Please take care of our son.”
The weight of that sentence hit him square in the chest.
“I will,” Ilya said, nodding hard.
Yuna turned back to Shane, her face tightening as she looked at him, really looked. She lingered for a moment, memorizing him, then walked quietly toward the door.
When it closed behind her, the room fell still again.
Ilya sat back down immediately, reclaiming his place at Shane’s side like he was afraid the bed might disappear if he didn’t. He took Shane’s hand again, gentle and sure this time, and stayed there, eyes locked on his face, breathing only when Shane did.
Alone now. And terrified of every second that followed.
***
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