Chapter Text
The house was big and beautiful in a way that felt unnecessary.
Sunlight spilled through towering windows, pooling across marble floors and designer furniture no one ever really used. Everything gleamed. Everything echoed. Shane Hollander moved through it like a ghost in silk shorts and an oversized shirt that belonged to his husband.
Another morning alone.
He poured himself a cup of black coffee, leaned against the counter, and stared out at the backyard. The pool stretched murky and uninviting beneath the heat, leaves gathered at the bottom like quiet accusations. He hadn’t put any effort into the upkeep of the pool, feeling like it was another thing in the house meant for two, taunting him.
His husband was gone. Again.
Somewhere expensive. Somewhere important. Somewhere Shane had stopped asking about.
He checked his phone—no new messages—and exhaled sharply through his nose, annoyed at himself for even looking. He hated that part most. The waiting. The way the house made it impossible to forget how alone he really was.
He scrolled instead. Online shopping. Maybe a new bag he could show off at his weekly cycling class would be nice. Group chats, maybe the girls want to go yachting. Nothing really stuck.
Finally, he got so bored that he decided to call the local pool company.
It felt absurdly domestic, this tiny act of responsibility in a life that otherwise ran on autopilot. The woman on the line was pleasant, efficient.
"Late morning," she said. "We'll send someone out."
Shane thanked her and hung up, already dialing Rose before the silence could creep back in.
Rose picked up on the second ring. "You sound bored," she said immediately, voice bright and amused.
"I am bored," Shane replied, wandering out onto the patio. The heat hit him instantly, heavy and languid. "I'm wasting away in my mansion. Someone should come save me from my tower."
"You're married to money."
"Yes, and money is never home," Shane said dryly.
He dropped into one of the lounge chairs, stretching his legs out, toes curling against the warm stone. "I called the pool company. I'm having a pool boy fantasy summer."
Rose gasped theatrically. "Oh?"
"It's not like that," Shane said, though he smiled despite himself. "I just called to have someone clean the pool."
"That's how it starts."
"Please. I'm loyal. I'm just—lonely. I guess."
There was a pause on the line, brief but knowing.
"I'll come visit," Rose said lightly. "Between shoots. We'll drink coffee and i'll try not to spill it on your twenty thousand dollar sofa."
"Ugh, I would die for you."
"I know."
Shane and Rose got lost in conversation, they always did. Suddenly an hour and a half had passed, and he had wondered his way back through the house and to the front door, almost startled when movement at the gate caught his eye.
A man stepped into the yard.
Shane straightened up without realizing he'd moved, his eyes fixated on the window. The stranger was tall—no, big—all solid lines and quiet confidence. His t-shirt clung faintly to his chest in the heat, curls already damp at his temples. He carried equipment over one shoulder like it weighed nothing at all.
"Shane?" Rose called out. "What's with the moment of silence?"
"I—" Shane blinked. "I have to go."
"What?"
"I'll call you back."
"Shane—"
He hung up.
He opened the door as the man reached the first step of the porch, setting his gear down and wiping his hands on a towel, glancing up when he noticed Shane. Their eyes met.
Something low and electric sparked in Shane's chest. Fuck, he's hot.
"Hi," the man said, accent unmistakable. Russian. Warm. "Ilya. Here for pool."
Shane just stood, smoothing his shirt unnecessarily. "Yes. Hi. I'm Shane. You can follow me."
Ilya smiled, easy and unguarded, and Shane had the distinct, alarming thought that this man had no idea what he was doing to him.
"Nice place," Ilya commented as he made his way in.
"Thank you. It was built in the late nineties," Shane started, his hands dug into his pockets as he led Ilya through the home.
"The layout's actually really efficient for the square footage. The foyer opens directly into the main corridor to avoid wasted transitional space."
"Oh." Ilya responded, not really catching what the other had said. "Okay" He added, usually he could get by with that if he didn't understand what was being said to him.
They walked through the house together, footsteps echoing lightly as Shane led him toward the back. He was acutely aware of Ilya's presence behind him, the solid sound of his steps, the way his gaze seemed to take everything in.
Shane kept talking as they walked. Not much. Just enough. He pointed out where the doors led, mentioned the pool was just past the patio, explained—without meaning to—that the glass doors were impact rated and original to the build.
"Must be nice," Ilya said casually. "Living here." Shane huffed a quiet laugh. "It's... large."
They stepped outside, sunlight spilling over them both. The pool stretched out ahead, water dulled with neglect. Ilya set his bag down and rolled up his sleeves.
Shane sat back in one of the lounge chairs, telling himself firmly to behave, just watch. Watching never killed anyone.
The sun caught on Ilya's arms as he worked, muscles shifting beneath tan skin. There were freckles across his shoulders—faint, scattered. Water splashed lightly as he knelt, testing the pool, dampening his shirt until it clung in ways Shane absolutely did not need to be noticing.
He was married. For 4 years he's been married.
He was not the kind of person who ogled hired help.
And yet—
"So," Shane said, grasping for normalcy, his voice a touch too careful. "You've been doing this long?"
"Couple years," Ilya replied, glancing over his shoulder at him as he worked. "I like it. Being outside. Working with my hands."
Shane nodded, throat suddenly dry. Yes, I can tell, he thought, his gaze catching on the flex of Ilya's forearm as he dragged the skimmer through the water. "That makes sense."
They talked like that for a while—small things, harmless things. Where Ilya was from. How long he'd been in the city. What he'd done before pool work.
"Moscow," Ilya said when Shane asked, shrugging one shoulder as he adjusted the equipment. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his back, damp fabric clinging. "I moved here about six years ago."
"That's a big change," Shane said, eyes lingering a second too long before he forced them back to Ilya's face.
"Do you miss it?"
"Sometimes," Ilya replied easily. "Mostly the food. Not the winters."
Shane smiled, warmth blooming low and slow in his stomach. "That's fair."
He offered water a little later, mostly as an excuse to stand. To be closer. Ilya accepted with a quiet, sincere thank you, tilting the bottle back as he drank. Shane's attention drifted helplessly to his throat, the way his jaw flexed, a bead of water slipping free and trailing down his neck.
Shane's mouth watered.
He sat back down quickly, crossing his legs, pulse loud in his ears.
Every time Ilya smiled, Shane felt an almost embarrassing rush of heat that made his skin feel too tight. Every time Ilya turned back to the pool, Shane's eyes followed the deep line of his spine, the easy strength in the way he moved, grounded and sure.
He told himself that this was ridiculous.
He was just touch starved. That was all. Months without attention, without being looked at like he mattered, and suddenly his brain had latched onto the first attractive man who showed up in his yard.
It meant nothing.
Except nothing hadn't felt this alive in a very long time.
At one point, Ilya glanced over at him—really looked at him—and for half a second Shane felt uncomfortably exposed. Like maybe Ilya could see the way his thoughts were circling. Like he was reading him far too easily. Then the moment passed, easy as everything else about him, and Ilya went back to packing up his equipment.
When the job was done, the pool twinkling again, water catching the sun just right, Ilya slung his bag over his shoulder. He paused, lingering in that way that felt like he was waiting to be dismissed.
Shane stood, heart thudding. "You did a really good job," he said, then hurried on before he could overthink it. "I, uh— I like consistency. Having the same person come back."
Ilya studied him for a beat, eyes thoughtful, then smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I get that."
"So maybe," Shane continued, pulse racing now, "I could get your number? For scheduling."
"Sure."
Shane unlocked his phone and handed it over. Their fingers brushed—brief, unmistakable—and Shane felt the shock of it all the way down, sharp and electric.
Ilya typed his number in, handed the phone back, his thumb brushing Shane's palm this time, slower, it felt like a question.
"I'll see you around, Shane," Ilya said.
"Yes," Shane replied softly, unable to stop the smile that tugged at his mouth as he walked him toward the gate.
When Ilya stepped out and the gate slid shut behind him, Shane stayed there for a moment longer than necessary. "Yes you fucking will," he muttered under his breath, a breathless laugh escaping him.
The house felt different when he went back inside.
Still big. Still empty.
But humming now, like something had been switched on.
Shane leaned back against the door, heart still trying to race. He thought about his husband, somewhere far away, likely not thinking about him at all.
What did it say about him to want this? To crave attention from a pool boy when he had everything he was supposed to want?
Shane huffed and ran a hand through his hair.
His husband didn't have to know.
He wasn't here anyway.
Eventually the day passed and night had fallen.
In the quiet dark, every creak felt louder, every hum of electricity stretched itself thin through the walls. Everything felt like it pierced deeper, and Shane lay awake in his bedroom in nothing but his cashmere pajama pants, sheets tangled around his legs like they were trying to keep him anchored.
He stared at the ceiling, and the ceiling stared back, smooth and white and utterly unhelpful.
He exhaled slowly, one arm thrown above his head, the other resting uselessly at his side. His chest rose and fell, skin still warm from the day, from the memory of sun and water and—
Ilya.
The thought slid in so easily it startled him.
Shane squeezed his eyes shut, tried to focus on the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner, but it only made it worse.
He could see him again so clearly, the way the sunlight had caught on his shoulders, the faint scatter of freckles across his back. They had looked almost accidental, like God had lost focus for a second and dotted him without thinking.
And his hands.
God, his hands.
Shane flexed his fingers absently, remembering the brief, electric moment when they'd touched while exchanging phones. It had been nothing. Barely there. And yet Shane had felt it all the way down his spine, like a wire pulled too tight.
He shifted in the bed, silk sheets whispering against his skin.
Ilya had been so big. Not just tall but solid. Thick through the chest, the arms, the thighs. The kind of man who took up space without apology. Standing in front of Shane, damp and sun kissed, he'd felt impossibly real. Untouchably close.
And Shane had wanted to reach out. Just once. To put his hand on that warm skin and see if it felt as strong as it looked. To slide his fingers into those curls and pull, just enough to—
He groaned softly, cutting the thought off, jaw tightening.
It had been months since he'd touched his husband.
Months since anyone had touched him.
Shane swallowed, throat tight, chest aching with something dangerously close to grief. He closed his eyes and rolled onto his side. then back again, restless, every nerve awake now. His skin felt too sensitive, like the air itself was aware of him.
He imagined leaning in, close enough to smell Ilya properly this time. The heat of his body after working all afternoon, radiating and burning into Shane. The slow rise and fall of Ilya's breath there, the pulse just beneath the skin. The way Shane's mouth might hover for just a second and press in, a soft kiss, barely there. Then his tongue, slow and deliberate, dragging up Ilya's neck. The sharp bite of chlorine clinging to his skin, mellowed by sweat and warmth, salt blooming against Shane's tongue in a way that made his stomach tighten.
His breath hitched.
He imagined doing it again, slower this time. Letting the taste linger. Letting his mouth learn the skin. He wanted to feel Ilya tense under it. Wanted to know how he'd respond. Wanted desperately to be close enough to find out.
Without really deciding, his hand moved.
It traced slowly down his chest, over the familiar planes of his body, following a path worn thin by habit and loneliness. His fingers slid over his abdomen, lingering, before slipping beneath the waistband of his pants.
Shane sucked in a sharp breath, head tipping back against the pillow.
He let his eyes close again, let the image bloom fully now as he rubbed his hard cock slow and gentle. Ilya above him. Ilya close. Strong hands clamped at Shane's hips. Warmth. Weight. The confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
Shane's legs spread further involuntarily, his hips rocking up against his hand, wishing for it to be Ilya.
His breathing grew uneven, shallow, the room shrinking around him until there was nothing but sensation and want and the steady pulse of need curling low in his body.
He finally removed his pants fully, gripping tight around himself and pumping once, twice. He moved slowly, deliberately, chasing the edge of the fantasy without crossing it. Letting the tension build, coil, stretch until it bordered on unbearable.
"F-Fuck.." Shane whimpered out quietly into the air, his breath stuttering.
He panted, bringing his hand up to his mouth and spitting into it, embarrassed by how badly he needed it. He brought his hand back and dragged it down, the contact and the sound made him groan, frustration and relief crashing into one.
It wasn't just arousal, it was a hunger. For touch. For attention. For being seen.
Shane pressed his lips together, stifling the sound that wanted to escape him, his body arching subtly into the bed as he picked up speed and the pleasure built.
The only sounds that filled the room were his breathless moans, and the thick wetness of him jerking off.
He writhed as eventually the pleasure became too much, his hips bucking aggressively as his stomach tightened and his thighs shook.
"Ilya!" he choked out, his body spasming involuntarily as he spilled over onto his hand and stomach, leaving him breathless, spent, and staring into the dark once more.
Once he had calmed down, the silence rushed back in.
He lay there, heart racing, hand lying limply on his stomach, shame and satisfaction tangled too tightly to separate.
The ceiling stared back at him again, unchanged.
Shane laughed softly under his breath—once, humorless. "This is stupid," he murmured to no one. But even as he said it, he knew. Tomorrow, when the sun came up, he'd be thinking about Ilya again.