Chapter Text
Shane Hollander didn’t usually think about how many people Ilya had dated, slept with, or kissed.
That was a conscious choice.
Not for lack of curiosity - he had plenty of that - but out of sheer emotional self-preservation. Shane knew himself well enough to understand that if he started thinking about it, he wouldn’t stop where he was supposed to. The list would be long, probably impressive, and definitely humiliating to imagine.
So he didn’t ask.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t let his mind wander too far.
After all, Ilya Rozanov was absurdly attractive. Not in a subtle or easy-to-ignore way, but in a way that felt deliberate.
Rich, a professional hockey player in Ottawa.
Sure, Shane was one too, but still.
Ilya took up space effortlessly, drew attention simply by existing.
Magnetic, sexual, aware of it in a way that sometimes bordered on indecent.
That was how Shane fell in love.
That was how they spent years hiding, protecting what was theirs, choosing each other quietly until, eventually, they stopped hiding and got married.
Shane knew all of that.
What he didn’t know were the details.
So yes, he had always assumed Ilya had been with a lot of people.
But someone famous?
That felt like too much.
And maybe that was exactly why the question slipped out.
They were sprawled across the bed, the TV on some Avengers movie - war something. Shane wasn’t paying attention. They’d gotten back from a trip only a few hours earlier: an away game, a hard-fought win, Scott Hunter in a foul mood as a bonus.
Now there was only comfort.
Shane was half draped over Ilya, one leg thrown over his, his head resting on Ilya’s broad chest rising and falling steadily. His fingers traced idle patterns on warm skin, crooked circles, lines that led nowhere.
That was when the question came out.
“Ilya, have you ever hooked up with someone famous?”
Shane barely realized he’d spoken until he heard his own voice.
Ilya didn’t move, only took a slightly deeper breath.
“Yes.”
The answer came far too easily.
Shane froze, then lifted his head, eyes locked on Ilya.
“Who?”
Ilya shrugged, reaching for the remote to lower the volume.
“Henry Fox.”
For a full second, Shane didn’t understand.
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
“The Prince of England?”
When Ilya took half a second longer than he should have to respond, Shane’s stomach dropped before the confirmation even came.
His husband had slept with Prince Henry.
Henry Fox.
It didn’t even fit the original question. Henry wasn’t famous. Famous was an actor, a singer, someone who did talk shows.
Henry was royalty, a name that came with castles and protocols.
Shane felt the ground tilt.
“You slept with Henry Fox.”
“Yes.”
“From the royal family.”
“Yes.”
“With… crowns and palaces.”
“Shane.” Ilya sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Babe.”
“No.” Shane lifted a hand, already feeling the spiral start. “Don’t call me that right now. I need to understand.”
Because suddenly it wasn’t just about who.
It was about the fact that, at some point in Ilya’s life, a prince had been a real option.
“Was it before me?” Shane asked, even though he already knew.
“Of course it was.”
“Was it good?”
Ilya hesitated - barely.
But Shane felt it.
“It was… okay.”
Okay.
Shane repeated the word in his head, trying to decode it. Okay as in indifferent? Okay as in acceptable? Okay as in something that didn’t repeat?
Or okay as in something that, compared to Shane, had still been enough?
“Okay as in okay,” he asked, narrowing his eyes, “or okay as in he’s better in bed than me?”
“He wasn’t better than you,” Ilya replied too quickly. “That’s not even a competition.”
That didn’t help at all.
Shane’s gaze drifted to the phone lying on the bed.
It wasn’t a competition.
He knew that.
But he also knew competitions were rarely rational.
“It’s not a competition,” he muttered, more to himself than to Ilya, already unlocking the phone.
He typed: Henry Fox Prince of England.
The photos loaded too fast.
On a horse.
At absurdly formal events.
Smiling beside the royal family.
Another.
And another.
Until-
“Is he… lying on the floor with another guy covered in cake?” Shane frowned, offended.
It didn’t help, but he scrolled anyway.
“This should be illegal,” he concluded, with offended certainty. “He’s ridiculously attractive.”
He turned the screen toward Ilya, as if sharing the absurdity might make it bearable.
“Look at his eyes. Way too blue. It’s offensive.”
“My eyes are blue too,” Ilya muttered, clearly offended.
“Yeah, but yours are… normal,” Shane said quickly, then caught himself. “I mean - no. They’re perfect, just in an honest way. His are aggressively perfect.”
It was unfair.
It was unnecessary.
It was exactly the kind of thought Shane usually refused to entertain.
Ilya snorted softly and pulled Shane closer by the waist.
“I married you because you’re aggressively perfect too,” he said, kissing Shane’s forehead.
Shane closed his eyes for a second.
That helped. A little.
“You didn’t even know he was a prince,” he shot back anyway. “Your standards were clearly still developing.”
Ilya laughed quietly and pulled him closer.
“I wouldn’t trade you for him. Not even for ten castles.”
Shane squinted, as if considering the offer.
“How many castles, exactly?”
“Zero. No castles. Just you.” Ilya kissed his cheek. “Now stop thinking about it and let’s finish the movie.”
👑
Shane did not stop thinking about it.
There was no way.
The movie kept playing, explosions and dramatic music completely irrelevant. When Shane finally looked away from the screen, his eyes landed directly on Ilya’s phone, abandoned in the sheets.
Unlocked.
It felt less like an accident and more like a deliberate provocation from the universe.
Ilya had said it had been a long time ago. Years. Another life.
Another version of them.
So logically, rationally, obviously… he wouldn’t still have Henry’s number.
Right?
“I’m not-“ Shane started, already grabbing the phone. “Okay, I am.”
“Shane,” Ilya said, watching him too closely. “What are you doing?”
“I just need to check something.”
He opened the contacts and typed without thinking.
H.
The name appeared far too quickly, as if it had been waiting.
Henry Fox 🇬🇧
The emoji was what bothered him most.
Shane froze, and tapped the contact just to make sure he wasn’t imagining it.
“You-” He lifted the phone slowly, staring at Ilya. “You still have his number.”
Ilya sat up immediately.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“There’s an emoji,” Shane pointed out.
“That still doesn’t mean anything,” Ilya insisted, already defensive. “And he’s changed his number like three times. I don’t even know if that one still works.”
Something very specific cracked inside Shane.
“You don’t know if it works,” he repeated, too slowly. “So there’s a hypothetical scenario where he texts ‘hi’ and you reply.”
“Shane.”
“No.” He cut him off, not raising his voice. “Now I need to know things.”
He scrolled.
Nothing recent.
Nothing intimate.
Nothing that justified the tightness in his chest.
Last message: happy birthday, four years ago.
Shane let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Relaxed, maybe, half a centimeter.
“Okay,” he murmured.
Ilya sighed, tired but patient.
“Done?”
Shane dropped the phone and flopped dramatically onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry, okay?” He ran a hand over his face. “But think about it. What would you do if you found out I’d slept with someone absurdly famous?”
Ilya didn’t answer with words. He simply laid on top of Shane, covering him with his body.
“You already have,” he said. “Remember Rose?”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely does.” Ilya kissed his neck, slow and deliberate. “And remember… you have my last name now.”
Shane froze, thinking about that.
A small, involuntary smile appeared as the kisses crept up to his cheek.
“…that’s better than a castle,” he admitted.
“It’s much better,” Ilya agreed, kissing the corner of his mouth.
He paused - just a little too deliberately.
“And if you’re making all this drama over him,” he added, far too casually, “just imagine when you find out about Alex.”
Shane frowned, the name settling far too slowly in his brain.
“Alex?” He definitely didn’t know any Alex. Singer? Actor? Influencer?
Ilya smiled.
“The President of the United States’ son.”