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“I’m on a nutritional diet. My mom is Japanese, so I eat a lot of fish, vegetables, and rice. My one little sin? I really enjoy Ginger Ale.”
A can of ginger drink being his only sin? Ilya snorted, flipping through The Hockey News, and of course, the cover featured none other than Shane Hollander. To be clear, very sexy, very undressed, and very slicked-up-with-oil Shane Hollander.
The mission was simple.
Make Shane Hollander stay for the night.
It wasn’t, obviously, because Ilya wanted to spend more time with him. Not at all. Hollander was boring. It was purely about fucking him without the stress of having to separate right after. And with Shane’s upcoming visit to Boston, this was a golden opportunity—too perfect to waste.
Ilya already had the ideal list in his head.
First thing—fuck him properly. Hollander was still so anxious all the time, and once you fucked him really good, he might finally relax.
Second—make him a meal. Since he ate fish, what could it be? Ilya didn’t know much about nutrition and would freely admit his favorite breakfast was a triple beef burger from McDonald’s with a protein shake. Ilya wasn’t really a huge fan of fish, not at all. But once he ate a Tuna Melt sandwich at this one American restaurant. Cliff talked him into it. It was really tasty—the perfect compromise between fast food and fish-friendly. What was in it again…? He can just Google it. Cheese + fish, a bit of onion, celery, dill pickles… yeah, Ilya could definitely pull that off.
Third—put on a hockey game, because Hollander was obsessed with hockey. And he had those cute freckles… but what the hell did that have to do with anything right now? Ilya mentally scolded himself.
Fourth—casually find out whether Hollander was seeing anyone else. Purely out of curiosity, of course.
The plan was flawless. What could possibly go wrong?
***
Day 1
For the first time, Ilya felt something like nerves while texting Hollander.
Still, he didn’t have to convince him for long to come over. Ilya caught himself grinning like an idiot at his phone, and he quickly clenched his jaw shut again. He needed to play this cool.
The Ginger Ale was chilling in the fridge. All the ingredients for the tuna melt were ready to go. He’d even bought the best bread—crisp, hearty wheat-rye loaf that he planned to grill. And they’d watch the game together.
Perfect day.
Ilya sat on the couch, waiting, but pretending he wasn't waiting at all. He wanted to be casual, so he was wearing his sweatpants, and he'd done a special ab series earlier to really pump up his muscles. Hollander was a sucker for Ilya's body.
They didn't have practice in the morning. No need to rush. They had the whole night just for themselves.
Ilya was almost drunk on happiness, but when he read the message I’m here, he didn't rush. No—he walked over with slow, completely nonchalant steps. But the moment he opened the door, something inside him went soft while something down went hard.
Shane Hollander stood there in a white shirt under an awkward hoodie—because November in Boston wasn't exactly warm—jeans, his hair swept almost over his eyes, and those charming freckles scattered all over his face. Ilya especially loved that they were almost the same height, and Shane's broad shoulders, thick thighs, and glutes... which Ilya was about to grab with both hands, and then...
Hollander kicked off his sneakers, and Ilya smirked a little at how carefully he set them in the corner. Ilya turned, heading toward the bedroom. He was very aware that it would rile Hollander up.
"The fuck is this?" asked Shane Hollander, but he followed anyway. "You're not speaking to me anymore? Just expect me to follow you like a dog?"
Ilya grinned widely to himself before turning to face Hollander. He was so damn cute when he got mad.
Yet Ilya couldn't hold out a second longer. He tilted Shane's head up and kissed him, shoving his tongue into Shane's mouth. Soon, he felt Shane's hands sliding up the back of his sweatpants. In that moment, Ilya would've given anything to see his chest, to feel that smooth, soft skin and those hard muscles under his palms. He nearly tore the shirt right off Hollander.
Hollander shoved him onto the bed and yanked down Ilya's sweatpants—under which Ilya had shamelessly gone commando. Shane dropped to his knees like a man starved and started sucking Ilya's cock so intensely that Ilya felt like he could come in a minute or two.
Fuck.
"Jesus, Hollander," he didn't miss the chance to mock him, placing a surprisingly gentle hand on Shane's cheek. "Couldn't wait, could you?"
But when Shane sucked harder, Ilya was reduced to nothing but whimpers and moans. That freckled face—so beautiful, so... "Stop," he gasped. "Enough. Stop."
It would be a waste to blow his load like this. Ilya wanted more. He wanted...
"I'd like to look at you tonight. I think. You on top?" he suggested.
Hollander agreed, stripping off the rest of his clothes, but Ilya smirked when he saw how hard Shane's untouched cock already was. "Shut up," Shane muttered.
Shut up. Asshole. Fuck off. Ilya somehow loved how Shane spat all of it at him. He wasn't the best at rage-baiting, was he? Though Ilya had heard Shane was once vicious with Scott Hunter. Ilya had even jerked off once, thinking about how badly Shane had wanted to punch Scott Hunter. What could they even possibly fight about? How to make a perfect protein shake?
But right now, Ilya nearly jumped onto the bed, spread himself out, and slapped his own thigh invitingly. Hollander was here, fully naked, all for him. Ilya reached into the drawer for a condom, rolling it down the length of his cock with one hand while the other grabbed the lube.
Shane crawled onto the bed a little awkwardly, knees sinking into the mattress, cheeks already flushed. Ilya didn’t let him hesitate. He grabbed Shane’s thighs and pulled him forward until Shane was straddling his hips properly.
“Easy,” Ilya murmured. His hands stayed on Shane’s thighs for a second, his hands stroking the soft skin inside, feeling the muscle jump under his touch. Shane’s cock was still rock-hard, flushed dark and leaking against his stomach, and it was all untouched. Ilya loved that—loved how desperate Shane looked.
Ilya reached for the lube again, popping the cap with his thumb. He warmed a generous amount between his fingers, then slid one hand back to cup Shane’s ass, spreading him. Shane tensed instinctively.
“Relax,” Ilya said, softer this time. He pressed the pad of his slick middle finger against Shane’s hole. Shane exhaled shakily, hips rocking forward.
Ilya watched his face the whole time—those freckles standing out against the flush, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. When Shane’s body finally softened a little, thighs spreading wider, Ilya pushed in.
Shane was usually so tense, but when he finally opened up… Ilya had to admit he was fucking obsessed with that tight little hole of his. He didn’t even know what it was about Shane’s ass that drove him so crazy—the muscle, the insane tightness, or… whatever. Anyway, he finally pushed a finger in, making Shane gasp sharply. Shane’s hands flew to Ilya’s chest, probably just for balance, fingers digging in hard.
Ilya curled, searching for that sweet spot—the one that would make Shane lose his goddamn mind.
Shane’s whole body jerked, a broken, wrecked sound ripping out of him. “Fuck—”
Ilya smirked, “Found it.”
He worked the finger in and out a few times, then added a second, scissoring carefully to stretch him open. Shane was so tight, so hot, clenching around Ilya’s fingers every time he grazed that spot. Ilya’s cock throbbed painfully under the condom, leaking steadily, but he ignored it. Only one thing mattered. Shane needed to be ready—open, slick, dripping. Needed to feel safe enough to completely let go.
After a minute or two, Shane started rocking back onto his fingers in greedy, little movements, chasing more.
“Ready?” Ilya asked, already knowing the answer.
Shane nodded, voice wrecked. “Yeah. Now.”
Ilya pulled his fingers out slowly, drawing a frustrated whine from Shane’s throat. He slicked more lube over his cock—stroking the condom once, twice, just to take the edge off—then lined himself up. One hand on Shane’s hip, the other guiding the head.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he rasped. “You set the pace.”
Shane lifted up slightly, braced both hands on Ilya’s chest, and sank down. The first inch was pure torture—tight, scorching heat swallowing just the head. Shane’s eyes fluttered shut, mouth falling open in a silent moan. Ilya gripped his hips harder, fighting every instinct to thrust up and bury himself. He let Shane control it. Let him take it slow.
Shane paused halfway, thighs trembling, breathing ragged. Ilya stroked his sides, thumbs brushing over ribs, murmuring low, filthy Russian praise he knew Shane couldn’t understand but could feel in the tone.
Then Shane sank the rest of the way in one long, steady glide.
“Fuck,” slipped out of Ilya’s mouth before he could stop it—even though he never wanted to show how fucking desperate he was for Shane. Ilya was a true dog here; he was aware. Yet, he liked pretending Shane was the one more wrecked. But right now, they both were groaning, loud and broken.
Shane stilled for a second, fully seated. Ilya couldn’t hold back anymore. In one rough movement, he flipped them—Shane on his back now, legs hooked over Ilya’s arms. Ilya grabbed Shane’s thighs, spread him wider, and thrust in hard. Shane’s moans turned high and frantic, hands scrabbling at Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya fucked him through it, hitting that spot over and over until Shane’s cock jerked untouched between them, spurting thick ropes of come straight up to his own throat and chest.
He looked so fucking beautiful like that—flushed, wrecked, freckles standing out against the red, come streaked across his skin.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Ilya babbled without thinking, hips stuttering as his own orgasm hit. His whole body seized, pulsing hard inside Shane, waves of pleasure crashing through him. Wait—what the fuck did he just say? Sweetheart? Shit. Maybe Hollander didn’t hear it. Maybe he didn’t register.
Ilya leaned down, messy and desperate, kissing Shane deep, licking the taste of come from Shane’s throat and lips, swallowing the salt and heat of it.
***
Stay tonight. Just stay tonight, please. Can you stay tonight?
It all sounded wrong in Ilya's head. Too needy, and too desperate.
Yet now he was staring at Shane, who wasn't really snoring so much as softly chirping with each breath—exhausted, thoroughly fucked, absolutely adorable. His slightly asymmetrical lips, that nose, and freckles scattered all over his cheeks. Ilya didn't want to waste a single second of this view, not when he could finally have him in his arms like this.
It was hard to tell himself it was no big deal.
Shane frowned in his sleep, then slowly opened his eyes. Ilya rubbed his own, pretending he'd just woken up too.
"Yhym," Shane mumbled sleepily.
For a moment, Ilya let himself imagine how fucking wonderful it would be to wake up next to him every single day. And how completely impossible that was.
Ilya rolled on top of him, started kissing his throat, his jawline, his cheeks—murmuring low Russian against his skin: how much he loved kissing him, how obsessed he was, how he wouldn't let him go. Shane couldn’t understand it anyway.
"Hm?" Shane asked, voice thick with sleep.
"Maybe... you can stay?"
"Stay?" Shane repeated, puzzled, blinking up at him.
"Stay here. Tonight."
Shane's eyes went wide. "You want me to stay here?"
Ilya nearly rolled his eyes. God, Shane could be so perceptive sometimes.
But maybe the question had sounded too serious. He needed to play it cool—because Ilya was a cool guy, obviously. He shrugged like it was nothing. "I'm not done with you yet."
Shane started mumbling something about Hayden—fucking Hayden—that Ilya barely listened to. "Is Hayden your mother?" he just asked flatly.
And after a moment, all Shane said was, "Okay."
That one quiet "okay" made Ilya the happiest man alive.
"Hungry?"
"For what?"
What a little pervert.
"For food."
***
Ilya, now bustling around the kitchen, felt a little flustered for the first time. He'd tried to play it cool the whole time, but he was afraid those stupid little smiles and the faint heat creeping across his face were giving him away.
Yet here he was, making a sandwich for Shane, and he wasn't even sure why. For himself, he'd very likely just order some takeout, and he sure as hell wouldn't normally go for a tuna melt. Or would he? Maybe. But he definitely wouldn't have bought that ginger ale that tasted like piss.
Shane stood leaning against the fridge, watching him, and Ilya actually caught himself liking it—the fact that he was doing something for Shane when he was not only naked earlier, but now fully clothed too. It felt... nice. Domestic. Real.
"You heading to Florida after this game?"
It was a perfectly neutral, innocent question. Of course, Ilya knew Shane's entire schedule by heart, but Shane didn't need to know that.
“Yes,” Shane replied, and gave some boring details.
"Ginger ale good? Cold enough?"
"Yeah, it's great."
Ilya felt stupidly proud of himself, even as he mentally scolded: What are you doing now, Rozanov? Playing boyfriend? You're not boyfriends. You're not even sure if Hollander’s seeing someone. And if he is… it doesn't change a damn thing anyway.
Ilya carefully slid the sandwiches into the oven, then grabbed a can of cola from the fridge. He headed to the living room, flipped on the TV to the Buffalo vs. Chicago game, and sprawled out on the couch.
Ryan Pierce. Oh, Ilya had played with him for half a season. He casually brought him up to Shane—asked if he knew him—though Ilya didn't say anything, he was certain about Ryan Pierce. He for sure wasn't straight. And it would probably be better if Hollander didn't know there was someone besides Ilya who could fuck him, but…
When the oven timer dinged, Ilya jumped up.
"No, stay," he said when he saw Shane starting to get up to follow. He bit his tongue to keep from adding that Shane seemed to want to trail him around like a dog. Better not tease too much—Shane was finally relaxed.
How could he possibly fish out whether Shane was seeing anyone? And whether he even liked women?
"Where do you like to play?" That was a good question. Neutral opener.
Ottawa, of course. So fucking boring.
He needed to be more direct.
"L.A. is good. Beautiful women," Ilya said, glancing sideways at him.
Shane's face didn't change much. But when he answered, his voice sounded uncertain: "Yeah, sure. Beautiful women everywhere."
Not the answer Ilya wanted.
He started blabbering about Natasha—the one he always fucked in New York. Well, maybe not always; lately not at all, and it had nothing to do with her getting married. Ilya just… found himself not wanting to fuck her anymore. Or anyone, really. He wasn't quite sure why. Yet he kept talking about her as his reliable hookup, all while trying to pry something—anything—out of Shane. But Shane was mysterious. Quiet as usual. More and more flustered with every passing second. Mr. Private.
When the oven dinged, Shane shot up like a startled rabbit, ready to bolt to the kitchen.
Ilya shook his head. "Stay," he said. "I'll bring it here."
Ilya plated the sandwiches and cut them in half. They looked nice—golden, melty, appetizing. He hoped Shane would like it.
It was time to stop playing games.
"Do you like them?" Ilya asked.
"What? The tuna melts?" Shane asked, making Ilya almost burst out laughing. He was so unintentionally funny sometimes.
"No, girls."
Shane blushed faintly. "Oh. Sure. Yeah. I like them. Of course."
He looked more like he was on an exam than having a casual conversation.
"Never heard about you with girls," Ilya said.
"Well, it's private."
Of course, it was private. Ilya smirked. That answer almost satisfied him. Because now he was pretty damn sure Shane Hollander didn't like girls all that much.
"I like girls," Ilya said, "but I also like you."
"Lucky me," Shane replied dryly.
Was that too much? Had Ilya turned mushy?
"Not as a person, of course," he added quickly, "but you have a good mouth." He slowly licked the pickle on his sandwich, smirking a little.
Fuck. Then the phone buzzed, and Ilya muttered under his breath, "Blyad."
It was his father.
"I need to answer."
Conversations with his father had been harder than usual lately.
"Hi, Ilyusha," his father said. He almost never called him that—maybe when Ilya was very little, or maybe that one time his father was actually proud of him, back when he won a game in the Russian team. Despite all the resentment Ilya carried, those words still made something inside him melt a little. "Will you pick up bread on your way?"
Ilya sighed.
"Papa,” he tried to sound patient, “I'm not in Russia.”
***
Ilya wasn’t sure if it was the gathering darkness outside the window or the sheer normalcy of it all—watching the game together, eating a meal like this—that made him want to burrow into Hollander. Innocent, clueless Hollander, who just asked him about family. What the hell could Hollander possibly know about family? Ilya had seen his parents on TV once. Yuna Hollander was Japanese, and it was more than obvious where Shane got those pretty features from. And David Hollander had definitely given him the boring part.
But they looked like nice parents. Loving parents. And Hollander deserved love.
Ilya wasn’t sure the same could be said about himself.
Yet right now he was pressing himself against Hollander, kissing him messily, sliding his hand down into Shane’s pants and pulling his cock free, stroking it slowly and firmly. It was already leaking—as usual. Shane leaked so easily, came so easily, obeyed so easily. It would be so fucking simple if it weren’t so goddamn, goddamn hard.
Shane crashed into his mouth brutally—harder than maybe ever before—like he wanted to bite him. Ilya could barely catch his breath. Barely could breathe at all when Shane grabbed both their cocks together and started stroking them in one tight fist. Barely could breathe when Shane spat into his own palm and slicked them up with his spit, working them together until finally Ilya came—shuddering, moaning, whispering brokenly, “Oh God, Shane…”
Ilya burst, moaning through the aftershocks, but then something else slipped out. What did he just say?
Sweetheart could have passed. Stupid pet name. But Ilya had never—never—called Hollander by his first name. Maybe he didn’t notice.
But one terrified look in Hollander’s wide eyes told Ilya everything.
"Ilya," the reply came first—hitched and trembling.
Ilya almost laughed with relief. He called him Ilya back. He…
Ilya crashed into Shane’s mouth like he was trying to apologize and thank him at the same time.
But Hollander's whole body went rigid. He bolted off the couch a second later told him even more.
“Hollander,” Ilya said, “it’s nothing.”
Because it was nothing, what else could it be? Just nothing. Only a name.
It meant nothing.
It meant everything.
Shane was stammering something about practice he’d forgotten. He didn’t even go back for his underwear. He stormed out like the apartment had just caught fire.
Ilya covered the devastation with a smug smile.
One small detail: he was dying inside.
***
Ilya had no idea what was playing on the TV. His vision blurred a little—because of how much vodka he'd downed. Too much and too little all at once. He smoked cigarettes one after another, inhaling furiously, punishing himself with the rhythm.
Hollander hadn't texted anything. They were playing each other tomorrow afternoon, and Ilya knew he was doing the stupidest thing possible right now. For a brief moment, he considered calling in sick, but then Hollander would know. Would know Ilya was weak.
Ilya wanted to text Hollander something—anything.
It's nothing, Hollander. Don't worry about it. It doesn't mean anything.
Please come back.
Please, Hollander, you...
An ugly sob tore out of his throat.
Ilya was sure of one thing.
He was good to fuck. Not necessarily good to love.
***
Day 2
Ilya woke up slowly, and after a moment, his mind woke up too, reminding him of the tragedy that had happened yesterday. He reluctantly picked up his phone, seeing zero new messages, but rubbed his sleepy eyes once more to look at the date. What the fuck? November fourteenth? That didn’t make any sense. Yesterday was November fourteenth, when… Well, when he and Hollander probably… what? Broke it off? Weren’t going to see each other anymore? Something wrong with his phone?
To his surprise, his head wasn’t hurting that much. After all, he’d probably downed a 0.7 liter of chilled vodka… He felt like having another one.
But okay. He opened Google and saw the news.
Buffalo vs. Chicago game.
What nonsense. That game was yesterday. What the fuck was going on?
Ilya slowly got out of bed and marched to the kitchen. Something prompted him to check the conversation with Shane.
There were no messages there that Ilya had sent yesterday. What the fuck? In a panic, he ran to the trash can and looked inside. No empty Ginger Ale can. No cola can. Zero vodka bottle. He opened the fridge. Five cans of ginger ale, none of them opened.
What the hell was happening here? Was he already going crazy, like his father? For fuck’s sake, this was impossible.
Fine. He should try.
Ilya pulled out his phone and this time didn’t bother with subtlety.
Wanna come over and fuck? he typed and hit send.
The reply came after a few minutes.
Can’t, Hayden….
What the actual fuck was going on?
***
"So," the fluffy, gray-haired man looked at Ilya from under his glasses with visible amusement, "you're telling me you've already lived through today?"
"Yes! That's exactly what I'm telling you!" Ilya said. He decided not to waste time and had booked an urgent appointment with a neurologist. Maybe he already had Alzheimer's like his father?
"Good, sometimes… We have a feeling of déjà vu. That's normal, Mr. Rozanov. It's simply a memory illusion. It can accompany epileptic seizures, but I don't think you have a history of epilepsy?"
"No. And this isn't déjà vu."
"Déjà vu is an anomaly in brain function that presents a currently seen situation as a memory," the doctor calmly explained. "Do you need a translator?"
Ilya huffed. He felt like wrapping his hands around this quack's neck.
"I understand everything. You don't understand. I already lived through today, and I have family history..."
"Alright, I'll schedule you for an MRI, okay?" the doctor said gently. "The earliest slot is…" he checked his calendar, "in five days. Is that alright?"
Ilya nodded. "Yes, I'm in Boston this week. But I really did live through today already. Today, Chicago plays Buffalo. And Chicago wins!"
"Well," the doctor said with a polite smile, "you don't need to be a clairvoyant to predict that, Mr. Rozanov."
***
Hollander had actually agreed to come over.
Ilya wandered the aisles of the grocery store, half-convinced this was still a dream. Maybe it was a warning from his mother—Irina—telling him not to get too attached. It felt too real, sure, but sometimes dreams did that. Sometimes Ilya woke up drenched in sweat at 3 a.m. from nightmares so vivid they left him shaking. And sometimes reality felt like a dream. Like the day he found his mother dead on the kitchen floor.
He tossed a tube of Pringles, a bag of Skittles, a pack of M&M’s, and a liter of Coke into the cart. No tuna melt this time. No cooking for Hollander. Fuck that.
He glanced lazily at the fish counter, where an Asian-looking woman stood behind the display. Maybe salmon instead? Maybe his breath had reeked of tuna and onions last time, and that’s why Hollander bolted… But come on—who runs from a little fish smell? Besides, Shane had eaten the same thing.
The woman’s gaze locked onto him, definitely too intense. A slow chill crawled up Ilya’s spine.
“To break free,” she said quietly, “you have to make him stay.”
“What?” Ilya asked, startled.
Her face suddenly shifted. Her lips stretched into a wide, unnatural grin.
“Can I help you with something, sir?”
“What did you just say?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
Ilya felt the chill deepen, spreading through his chest like ice water.
This was stranger than he wanted to admit.
***
"You're not speaking to me anymore? Just expect me to follow you like a dog?"
Ilya shrugged, saying nothing. Did Hollander have to be even more boring than usual? Still, he followed Ilya inside.
"I think," Ilya said, barely glancing back, "you like being treated like a dog, don't you?"
"No?" Hollander replied.
"Oh, shut up," Ilya said.
All he did was grab Hollander by the shirt and crash their mouths together. He kissed him hungrily, messily, as if he hadn't kissed him just yesterday. But some stupid joy filled Ilya anyway. If this was the reset, then nothing had really changed. They'd just keep doing casual hookups. Maybe it hurt a little, but it was better to have Hollander like this than not have him at all. He just had to stop being so fucking soft.
He gave Hollander's ass a sharp slap, making him gasp into Ilya's mouth.
"I'm taking you from behind," Ilya muttered, already undoing Hollander's jeans. "Arch your back. Legs wide."
Hollander, obedient as always, breathing hard, stripped off his jeans and shirt, then dropped to all fours and waited. What a fantastic view, even if today Ilya desperately wanted to see his face instead.
Ilya slicked his fingers with lube—one, then two, then three—working them in until Hollander was moaning, hips rocking back. Ilya spread him open with both hands, gripping the firm cheeks hard, and thrust in deep, rough, relentless.
***
The woman had said it so casually: “To break free, you have to make him stay.”
Why the hell would she say that? Was Ilya just hearing things—some auditory hallucination from the vodka fumes still clinging to his brain? Or was this whole fucked-up day actually trying to tell him something? If making Shane stay was the key… fine. He’d try. What did he have to lose?
“I have to go,” Shane said suddenly, as if reading Ilya’s thoughts out loud. He was standing up from the bed.
Ilya forced his voice to stay casual. “You can also… stay.”
Shane paused, one leg already in his jeans. “Stay?”
“You don’t have practice tomorrow.” Ilya kept his tone light, almost teasing, like it was no big deal.
Shane gave him a funny look. “Why would I stay?”
“I’m not done with you yet…” Ilya tried purring it suggestively, the way that usually worked.
Shane exhaled. “No, thank you. You took me pretty hard. I’m sore.” He straightened up, reaching for his shirt.
“Hey, wait.” Ilya scrambled for something—anything—that might buy a few more minutes. “We can… eat something.”
Shane raised an eyebrow, fingers pausing on his zipper. “Yeah? What do you have?”
“Snacks. Pringles, and…”
Shane’s expression flattened instantly. “I don’t eat things like that, Rozanov. I’m on a special diet.”
“Right, right… your fish-and-rice thing.” Ilya waved a hand like it was nothing. “We can order something. Whatever you want. Sushi? That poke bowl crap you like?”
“Rozanov,” Shane said his name slowly. “You’re acting weirder than usual.”
Ilya opened his mouth, but nothing clever came out.
Shane pulled his hoodie on. “I need to go. See you on the ice.”
He didn’t wait for a reply—just grabbed his phone from the coffee table, gave the room one last quick scan like he was checking for forgotten items, and headed for the door. He didn’t even kiss Ilya goodbye.
Ilya lay there, alone again, staring at the empty space where Shane had been.
Make him stay.
Yeah. Easier said than done.
***
Day 3
Ilya didn’t sleep at all that night, but when dawn finally broke, he already knew exactly what he’d see on his phone.
November fourteenth. Chicago vs. Buffalo game. Fuck.
This kind of thing didn’t exist. It was ridiculous. Maybe he was a little superstitious, but this? This was some fucked-up magic. Why? How? Questions churned in his head, but he didn’t have a single answer.
Did Shane really have to stay? Yesterday had made one thing painfully clear: he didn’t like being treated too roughly. So what did he like? What the hell could possibly make him stay? Ilya felt completely lost.
Still, he dragged himself out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and headed to the same grocery store as yesterday. The cold November air cut through him on the walk, rain falling steadily from the gray sky, but Ilya barely noticed. He went straight to the fish counter.
“Salmon, please,” he said.
The same woman turned to him. Her face was completely neutral as she handed over a generous piece of pink fillet. Yet as Ilya turned to leave, he could have sworn she winked at him.
***
Hollander was at his door again, but this time, Ilya opened with a quiet “Hi” and leaned in to peck his cheek.
“Hi,” Shane replied, a small smile tugging at his lips as a flush crept up his neck. He blushed so easily. “What’s that smell?” he asked, inhaling.
“I made salmon with pistachio pesto,” Ilya purred, “and basil purée… You’re gonna love it.”
“Oh—salmon? My favorite fish…” Shane stammered, eyes widening. “You cooked for me?”
Ilya kept his voice casual, like it was nothing. “Just cooking for myself. I like this pink fish too. So you can eat with me.” He hooked a finger through Shane’s belt loop and tugged him closer. “But first… we’ve got some time.”
Hollander let out a soft, surprised giggle. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Soon, Ilya had him on his stomach on the bed, jeans shoved down around his thighs. This time, he decided to focus entirely on Shane—no rushing. Without hesitation, he did something he’d never done before: spread Shane’s cheeks and dragged his tongue over his hole.
Shane moaned so loudly that if Ilya had closer neighbours, they would surely have heard everything.
Ilya kept going, licking deeper, wet and unhurried, until…
“Ow, Hollander!” Ilya yelped, jerking back as Shane’s surprisingly strong glutes slammed right into his nose. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“S-sorry,” Shane gasped, face buried in the pillow, voice wrecked. “I didn’t mean to—I almost came from that.”
Ilya rubbed his nose, shaking his head with a half-laugh. “Okay.”
He finished fucking Shane like this—on top now, lifting Shane’s legs over his shoulders so he could watch every second of it. He stared down at that freckled, flushed, impossibly cute face, drinking in the way Shane came apart: body arching, mouth open in a silent cry, come shooting hard across his own stomach, Ilya’s chest, even splattering the headboard.
Ilya was sure of one thing.
He would never get tired of this view.
***
“I liked what you did,” Shane said, devouring the salmon. His face was flushed—more than usual—as he said it.
“What exactly?” Ilya pressed, leaning forward slightly.
“When you… licked me. There,” Shane said, blushing even deeper. Yet somehow he looked more relaxed than usual, shoulders loose, eyes softer.
“You heading to Florida later?” Ilya asked casually.
“Yes,” Shane said. “How do you know?”
“Ugh, heard it from somebody.”
“Alright,” Shane replied, but he kept glancing at Ilya from time to time—quick, curious looks. Ilya had to admit the meal had turned out perfectly: the basil purée melting creamy on the tongue, the salmon crisp in its pistachio crust, and the simple salad of tomatoes and pumpkin seeds on the side. He ate greedily, and he noticed Shane had gone back for seconds without hesitation.
This time, they were sitting at the actual table. It looked suspiciously like a proper date, and Ilya felt a flicker of panic that Shane would freak out any second. But no. Shane looked calm, unusually calm. Ilya turned off his phone so nobody could disturb them.
Maybe the old talk about women had stressed him out back then?
“You know,” Ilya said, trying to sound offhand, “I’m stuffed now, but you could… We don’t have to go anywhere. You could stay.” He paused, then added, “For the night.”
Shane looked up at him, eyes going wide.
“Oh. You… you want me to stay?”
Ilya nodded. “Just… we could play a bit later.”
“But Hayden—”
“Is Hayden your mother?”
Instead of an answer, Ilya heard a loud, wet gurgle—something churning and shifting deep in Shane’s stomach. Shane’s eyes flew open even wider, his face draining of color.
“I… Did you put milk in the mashed potatoes?” Shane asked, voice tight.
“Yeah, you always put milk in mash,” Ilya replied, shrugging like it was obvious.
Shane swallowed hard. “I forgot that I… I don’t usually… eat a lot of dairy,” he said. His stomach let out another aggressive growl, louder this time. “I… I need to go.”
“Shane…” Oh fuck, he’d said it again, but Hollander didn’t even flinch at the name; he was already at the door, fumbling to pull on his shoes.
“Hollander, stop!” Ilya said, stepping forward. “You’ve got a toilet right here if you need to shit…”
“I do NOT need to shit! I don’t have diarrhea!” Shane shot back, voice cracking, eyes suspiciously shiny like he was on the verge of tears.
“Okay, okay—if your stomach’s acting up, I’ve got meds, yeah? You can stay.”
“No, I can’t, Rozanov. Thanks… Maybe next time,” Shane muttered. He grabbed the doorknob and yanked it open.
Ilya almost pissed himself laughing at the sight—Shane practically sprinting out the door, legs clamped together, dignity in tatters—even though deep down none of this was actually funny.
Ilya rubbed a hand over his face. “Blyat,” he muttered. “Again.”
***
Day 4
“Hi, Shane.”
“Uhhh… Hi…” Shane shifted on his feet, eyes darting toward the hallway like he was already calculating his escape route. “You know what, I forgot—I’ve got something I need to take care of.”
And then he disappeared.
It was a quick one, Ilya noted.
***
Day 5
Ilya didn’t text Shane.
Instead, he sat there with a bottle of vodka, staring at the absolute garbage game between Chicago and Buffalo—the kind of match you shouldn’t have to watch even once, let alone for the fifth fucking time. The phone buzzed on the table. Ilya glanced at the screen, saw it was his father, snatched it up, and barked into the receiver, “Otyebis’!” before hanging up.
Whatever. Tomorrow, his father wouldn’t remember anyway. Hell, the man probably wouldn’t remember it five minutes from now, not with the state his mind was in these days.
A new message popped up.
From Jane.
Ready for tomorrow’s game?
Ilya let out a low, bitter hum.
He never would’ve guessed it. Not in a million years. The hardest thing to “win” wouldn’t be some supermodel. Or a millionaire’s daughter. Or even a professional figure skater. No.
The hardest fucking thing in the world was Shane goddamn Hollander, and getting him to stay the night. Ilya turned it over in his mind, trying to puzzle out what the hell was actually between them. Shane had panicked the moment things turned too gentle, too tender—but why? He’d said yes at first. He’d agreed to stay the night. Was it all on Shane? Was it because Ilya had let himself slip, had betrayed how much he actually cared? Maybe he should dial it back, play it cooler, act like none of it mattered…But maybe Shane was into him, just a little. Maybe it was finally time to test that theory.
***
Day 6
That was the plan Ilya had decided on the day before. Get Hollander drunk. He himself was sipping perfectly chilled vodka, and when Hollander sent him the message “I’m here,” Ilya had to squint one eye to read it. He opened the door, grinning widely.
Hollander stepped over the threshold and sniffed the air.
“You’ve been drinking?” he grimaced.
“Da. A little. Want some?” Ilya hiccupped.
“There’s a game tomorrow!”
“Oh, come on, have a drink, Hollander.”
“No way! Are you trying to sabotage me?” Hollander scowled. “And why are you getting yourself drunk?!”
“Relax, Hollander,” Ilya said, placing a hand on his shoulders, which Hollander immediately shrugged off.
“Relax? I’m about to get drunk just from the fumes,” he said. “You’re unbelievable. Good luck in tomorrow’s game.”
Then, he left.
Ilya shrugged. More vodka for him.
***
Day 7
“So you like them?” Ilya asked.
“The tuna melts?”
Ilya felt like he was losing his goddamn mind. “No, girls.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I like them,” Ilya said, taking a big bite of his tuna melt, “very much. To fuck them.” He chewed slowly, watching Shane’s face. “I have a friend, Sveta. I think I will fuck her this week. Maybe even today. Do you want a threesome?”
Shane didn’t say anything. His lips just pressed into a small, unmistakable pout. “No, thank you,” Shane said quietly, “and I actually forgot, uhmm… I also have plans tonight.” Without finishing his sandwich, he stood up and walked out.
But somehow, Ilya felt—this loop wasn’t completely wasted.
Shane Hollander had clearly been jealous. How the hell had Ilya been so blind as to miss it the first time?
***
Day 8
If Shane wouldn’t stay willingly, why not try something different? Ilya bought a pair of heavy-duty handcuffs. Strong enough to hold until morning. Surely that would do it—keep him here until the clock ticked past midnight and the loop finally broke.
The only problem? Hollander would probably think Ilya was a complete psycho. …Or maybe he’d like it. Who knew?
Kissing him again—deep, hungry, devouring—Ilya thought maybe this wasn’t the worst thing. Reliving the same damn day still sucked, but licking him, stroking him, kissing Hollander… that felt incredible. Every time.
“Maybe we can try,” Ilya whispered against Hollander’s mouth, “something else?” He grinned and held up the cuffs.
“Oh…” Hollander blinked, cheeks flushing. “During sex?”
“Da,” Ilya confirmed.
Soon, Hollander was naked on the bed, wrists cuffed to the headboard, arms stretched above his head. Ilya prepped him the way he always did, fingers curling just right until Shane was gasping, hips rocking. Then Ilya pushed inside, slow at first, then deeper, staring into those beautiful dark eyes, watching that perfect mouth fall open in moans.
Normally, he didn’t get to see Hollander every single day. Now he did. Except Hollander didn’t remember yesterday. Or the day before. Or any of it.
And the fact that Hollander still didn’t want to stay—even after all this—was killing Ilya.
Why?
If Shane ever invited him to Montreal, to his real place—not some sterile apartment he bought for convenience—Ilya would probably stay. But Shane had never once invited Ilya into his actual home. Never let him see the real bedroom, the real life.
Maybe he didn’t feel anything… more.
Maybe it was only sex for him.
Maybe he would never stay, and Ilya would be trapped here, over and over, forever, reliving the same rejection until—
Hollander came again, loud and wrecked, body arching off the bed. But all Ilya felt the tears falling on his face and hitting Shane’s stomach.
He looked down. Shane was staring back, confused.
“Everything… okay, Rozanov?” Shane asked carefully.
“Sure,” Ilya lied. It was stupid to keep him here by force.
Ilya reached up and unlocked the cuffs, metal clicking open. Shane’s wrists fell free.
“Go already, Hollander.”
Shane didn’t move right away. He just lay there, breathing hard, eyes searching Ilya’s face like he was trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Then, slowly, he sat up. Pulled on his clothes without a word.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Da.”
At the door, Shane paused, hand on the knob.
“…See you tomorrow?” he asked quietly.
”Sure. I will kick your ass, Hollander,” Ilya replied indifferently.
Shane hesitated for a moment—it was perfectly obvious. But then he suddenly turned back, leaned over Ilya, and kissed him right on the mouth.
“No,” he said, smiling against Ilya's lips, “I will kick your ass, Rozanov.”
Only then did he leave.
Ilya stayed on the bed, staring at the ceiling, holding his hand on his lips, like he wanted to remember this kiss forever. He didn’t even bother getting up to drink. What was the point if tomorrow would just be November fourteenth again?
***
Day 9
“Hi, Hollander.”
Shane crossed the threshold for what felt like the first time to him—and the hundredth to Ilya—and slipped off his sneakers, placing them neatly in the exact same spot as always, not an inch out of place.
“Hi, Rozanov,” he replied, a subtle smile tugging at his lips.
He stepped closer. Ilya leaned in and kissed him—soft, careful, almost tentative this time.
“I cooked chicken sandwiches,” Ilya said. It was finally time to change things up, and he’d made damn sure there was zero dairy involved. “Want one? With avocado.”
“Sure,” Shane shrugged, looking a little puzzled. “I didn’t eat lunch. And… I also want to talk with you.”
“Great.”
Ilya pulled two cold ginger ales from the fridge, plated the sandwiches—making extra sure Shane got the one without cheese—and sat down at the opposite end of the couch. Space. Safety. No crowding.
“Do you even eat bread?” Ilya asked casually, taking a bite. “I heard you’re on some strict diet. Nutrition shit.”
Shane shrugged again. “Sometimes. I mostly just avoid dairy.”
And yet he’d still eaten that cursed tuna melt the first time. Maybe he’d had the runs then too? No—something else had spooked him that day.
“Yhym. Your mother is Japanese?”
“Yeah,” Hollander said. “It’s… usually the guys are, you know. White.”
“I hadn’t even noticed,” Ilya replied.
“What?” Shane smirked. “That I’m not white?”
“I just… I noticed you’re pretty,” Ilya said, smiling despite himself.
“Thank you,” Shane answered, zero gratitude in his tone.
“What? You don’t like being called pretty?”
“Never mind.”
“Tell me.”
“You’ll mock me!”
“No, I won’t,” Ilya said, and for once, he actually meant it.
Shane hesitated, then added, “It’s not that I hate it. It just… feels like I’m not masculine, you know? People call me pretty. Like I’m some doll or something.”
“Come on,” Ilya said, swallowing hard before the words came out. “You’re plenty masculine. Pretty doesn’t mean not a man.”
“No?”
“No.”
Suddenly, Ilya heard his phone buzzing on the table. He didn’t even need to look at it to know who it was.
“Aren’t you going to answer?” Shane asked.
“No,” Ilya said simply. Then, noticing the flicker of unease on Shane’s face, he added, “It’s my father.”
“Oh. Is he all right?”
“Not really,” Ilya replied. “He has… Alzheimer’s,” he said.
“I’m so sorry, Ilya…”
Hollander was suddenly right there beside him, closing the small distance on the couch, his hand wrapping gently around Ilya’s. Ilya usually wasn’t talking about that—not really—and the simple touch sent a strange, sudden wave of relief through his body. He even let himself lean forward, resting his head on Shane’s shoulder, breathing in the faint, clean scent of his skin.
“Da, me too,” Ilya murmured. “But he wasn’t… nice to me.” His voice stayed quiet. “I send them money. But they always want more.”
He could say anything. Hollander wouldn’t remember tomorrow anyway. He could spill every ugly detail, and it wouldn’t matter.
“Your family?” Shane asked softly.
“My father and my brother. My mother is dead,” Ilya said.
“For how long?”
“She died when I was twelve.”
“How did she pass away?”
“She accidentally took too many pills. I found her.”
“Oh, Ilya…” Shane said it first, Ilya’s name, soft and careful, like it hurt to hear. When Ilya lifted his head just enough to meet Shane’s eyes, he saw real horror there.
“Shane,” Ilya replied, as if it were nothing. Because to him, in this endless loop, it was nothing. Just another truth he could throw into the void.
“And what did you want to tell me?” Ilya asked.
“N-nothing. Really… Nothing,” Hollander said.
They stayed like that, hands still clasped together, Ilya drifting a little, his head resting heavy on Shane’s shoulder. Neither of them moved to take it further—no kiss, no pull closer, no rush. Just the quiet weight of the moment.
“Oh,” Shane said suddenly, glancing around as his eyes drifted to the window. “I probably need to go.”
Ilya studied him for a long second. “Okay.” He didn’t want Shane to remember all of these.
Shane didn’t move right away. His fingers flexed once in Ilya’s hand, like he was testing the grip, deciding whether to let go. Finally, Shane started to pull his hand free, and Ilya let him.
Shane grabbed his hoodie from the armrest, pulled it on, then paused at the edge of the living room. He looked back—freckles stark against the flush on his cheeks.
“Thanks… for the sandwich,” he said quietly. “And for… You know. Talking. It was something… Different.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“You’re not that bad, Rozanov,” Hollander said.
Ilya managed a crooked smile.
“You too, Hollander.”
***
Day 10
The next day, Ilya rushed straight to the store.
This time, he wanted to try making sushi—even though he’d never done it before—but even more, he just needed to confront the woman.
“You!” he said sharply. “Tell me what I need to do to end this! Tell me right now!”
“A fish, dear?” she asked.
“No more fish… or maybe smoked salmon, da? But tell me how to break the loop!”
She hummed softly to herself and began preparing the salmon. Then she said:
“I already told you—he needs to stay. Remember: after the rain, the earth hardens.”
“What does that even mean?!” Ilya demanded. “And why are you Japanese?”
“Fall down seven times, stand up eight.”
She kept slicing the salmon slowly. After a moment, she added quietly:
“Or opening your heart is not weakness—it is the greatest strength.”
Ilya blinked nervously, gripping the edge of the counter.
“I opened yesterday! I really opened, and… and he still left. I told him about my family. About my mother…” Ilya struggled to catch breath, “And he still wanted to leave.”
“You wanted him to leave,” a woman pointed out.
“I didn’t…”
“I know it.”
“Okay. Maybe. Maybe I did,” Ilya admitted reluctantly, curling his lips.
The woman finally looked up. Her eyes were kind, but there was something dark in them.
“Opening once is not enough, dear,” she said softly. “You opened the door. But you did not invite him inside to stay. You showed him the broken pieces… you didn’t tell him how you feel about him.”
Ilya’s throat tightened. He thought of his mother again—Irina on the kitchen floor, pills scattered around her. The way he’d stood frozen, twelve years old, before he screamed. Before Alexei came back from school, and held him tightly in his arms.
The woman wrapped the smoked salmon neatly and tied the string. “You must let the rain fall on both of you. See his true self. And show him your true self.”
She slid the package across the counter. Ilya stared at it, then at her.
“So… I just keep trying? Until he doesn’t run?” he swallowed hard.
“Or until you stop being afraid that he will.”
Ilya took the salmon. “And you? Who are you? Why are you… Japanese?”
The woman tilted her head, as if considering whether to answer.
“Maybe because fish remembers the sea,” she said simply. “And maybe because some mothers never truly leave their sons. Even when they are gone.”
***
The sushi wasn’t perfect—some rolls were a little lopsided, the rice slightly uneven—but it looked edible. Acceptable. Ilya had even risked adding a thin smear of cream cheese to a couple of pieces. If Shane ended up sprinting for the bathroom again, well… at least it would be funny. At least there would be something to laugh about when the loop inevitably reset tomorrow.
He stood by the doors, arms crossed. The message came: I’m here. Ilya opened the door almost before Shane finished knocking.
Despite everything—the endless Novembers, the failed attempts, the way his chest still ached every time Shane left—Ilya smiled.
“Hi, Hollander.”
“Hi, Rozanov,” Shane said.
Ilya watched with tenderness as Shane slipped off his sneakers and lined them up in the corner exactly the same way he always did.
They walked through the living room together. Ilya stopped at the kitchen island, gesturing toward the wooden tray he’d arranged as best he could: sushi rolls on a plain white plate, ginger ale already open and sweating in tall glasses, a small bowl of soy sauce and wasabi on the side.
“Sushi?” Shane asked, eyebrows lifting. “You’re… having guests?”
“Yes,” Ilya said simply. “You.”
Shane blinked. “You cooked it… for me?”
“Yeah.” Ilya shrugged like it was nothing. “For you.”
“Oh.” Shane’s voice went quiet. “I love sushi.”
“I know.”
Shane hesitated, then stepped closer to the table. He picked up a pair of chopsticks, twirled one piece experimentally, and slipped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, closing his eyes for a second.
“Where’d you even learn that?” he asked after he swallowed.
“I read an interview. You said you like rice and fish.” Ilya leaned against the counter, arms still crossed. “I connected the dots.”
Shane’s gaze flicked up. “You read my interviews, Rozanov?”
“I had trouble sleeping,” Ilya said, grinning to cover the truth. Can’t be too mushy.
“Asshole.”
“You like it.”
“Maybe.”
Hollander seemed more pleased than ever. He approached Ilya with a smile and pushed him against the wall, crashing their mouths together. Ilya kissed him back fiercely, sliding his tongue into Shane’s mouth, then pulling back just enough to suck gently on Shane’s lower lip.
“You really made sushi… for me?” Hollander asked again, his laugh sounding surprisingly giggly, almost boyish.
“Nothing difficult,” Ilya replied, trying to sound casual. “But first…” He tucked a strand of Shane’s hair behind his ear with surprising gentleness. “I want to have you.”
“I want that too,” Shane said, voice low and hungry, already pressing open-mouthed kisses along Ilya’s neck.
Ilya slipped out of his own sweatpants in one impatient motion, kicking them aside carelessly. Then he watched—patient, almost reverent—as Shane peeled off his jeans, folded them neatly, tugged his shirt over his head, and folded that too, stacking everything in a perfect little pile on the chair.
Ilya shook his head, half-amused, half-endearing. It was so fucking Shane. So adorable it almost hurt.
He climbed back onto the bed the same way he had that very first day—sprawling out, slapping his own thigh invitingly.
“I want you on top,” he said. Then, he clarified, “So I can look at your face.”
Hollander looked at him carefully, cheeks flushing a deeper pink. He hesitated only a second.
“All right,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
He crawled onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, straddling Ilya’s hips with that same careful precision he used for everything else. But when their eyes met—Shane’s dark and uncertain, Ilya’s steady and open—something shifted.
Hollander moved in slow, deliberate rolls—up and down, hands braced on Ilya’s thighs for balance, back arching beautifully. He looked like some young god in the bedroom light: perfect, sculpted muscle shifting under flushed skin, flexible and strong and utterly undone.
Ilya kept one hand wrapped around Shane’s cock, stroking in time with the rhythm Shane set. His other hand encircled Shane’s ankle, thumb stroking over the sharp bone.
It was built quietly this time. No frantic race. No desperate edge. Just the steady slide of bodies, the obscene, wet sound of skin meeting skin, the hitch in Shane’s breath growing louder.
When the orgasm came, it was different—gentler, deeper, like a wave that rose without crashing until it simply broke over them both.
Shane came first. A low, wrecked groan tore out of him; his whole body tensed, bowed back, hips stuttering as thick ropes of come spilled across Ilya’s stomach, streaking up to his chest, even catching the edge of his jaw. The sudden, rhythmic clench of Shane’s body around him was too much.
Ilya followed right after, hips jerking up once, hard, burying himself as deep as he could while pleasure rolled through him in slow pulses. He spilled inside the condom with a rough, shuddering moan, fingers digging into Shane’s thighs.
Although Ilya’s lips remained closed and he stayed silent, in his head, he was screaming only one thing: Shane.
***“
“I want you to stay tonight,” Ilya muttered, pressing soft kisses along Shane’s collarbone, not quite letting him drift off into the nap he clearly needed.
“Want me to stay?” Shane echoed, his voice trembling just a little.
“Da,” Ilya said without hesitation.
“I can’t…”
“You can. But do you want to?”
Hollander hesitated, eyes flicking away for a second before coming back. “And… do you want that?”
“I literally just said that, Hollander.”
“But… Why?”
“Because,” Ilya held his gaze intensely, “I want to wake up next to you.”
Shane blinked a few times, and Ilya braced himself. This was it. Now he’ll run. Now he’ll say they can’t keep doing this. Now he’ll panic and bolt for the door like every other time.
But all Shane said, as if he was surprised by his own words, was: “Okay.”
***
"It's really good," Shane said, popping another piece of sushi into his mouth.
Ilya wasn't a huge fan of it himself, but Sveta had always insisted on eating exactly this kind, so somehow he'd gotten used to the taste. And the salmon—he had to admit—paired surprisingly well with the cream cheese and cucumber. Still, he tried not to look too enthusiastic. Everything could still go to hell. One wrong word, one too-honest sentence, and Hollander would bolt like a startled mouse.
"I'm glad you like it," Ilya said around a mouthful, chewing slowly. "Listen, Hollander… Are you seeing somebody?"
Shane shrugged, casual, but his chopsticks paused mid-air. "What do you mean?"
"Do you have a girl? Or a boy?"
Shane stiffened. Here it comes, Ilya thought. Any second now, he'll make an excuse and run.
"And do you?" Shane asked instead, voice quieter than before.
"Now? Not really," Ilya said truthfully.
"They say you sleep with everyone…"
"They also say you're boring," Ilya shot back before he could stop himself.
"Who?"
"Me."
"Asshole!" Shane groaned, but a small smile tugged at his lips.
"I don't," Ilya said, softer now. "Not for a while. I haven't been sleeping with everyone."
"Why?" Shane stared down at his plate, pushing a stray piece of ginger around with his chopsticks.
"Well… because I know this one Canadian boring hockey player," Ilya said, hesitating. "And sometimes I feel… I like him more than I should."
Shane's eyes snapped up, wide and startled. "You do?" he asked.
"Of course, Hollander," Ilya said.
"I… I…" Shane's mouth opened and closed. Ilya braced himself for the inevitable I need to go.
But instead, Shane swallowed hard, set his chopsticks down, and met Ilya's gaze head-on.
"I like you too."
Could it be that easy?
***
Ilya didn’t know what it could mean, but both freshly showered, they lay in his bed under the covers. Ilya completely naked, Shane in just his underwear.
“Sorry, I don’t have polite Canadian pajamas,” Ilya said, “which you probably wear every single night.”
“I don’t wear them, asshole!” Shane snapped back, but he was already resting his head on Ilya’s chest, eyes half-closed. He clearly wasn’t going anywhere.
“Of course,” Ilya teased, but with real tenderness, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of Shane’s head.
After a quiet moment, Shane asked, “Do we… like each other?”
“Yes. I think so,” Ilya replied.
“And what are we going to do with that?” Shane murmured, now closing his eyes fully.
That was a problem for tomorrow—if tomorrow even came.
“We can be kind of…” Ilya started. “Something,” he ended.
They couldn’t. They shouldn’t. But after living the same damn day over and over and over, Ilya didn’t give a shit anymore.
“You really think it’s possible?” Shane asked.
“Maybe not right now,” Ilya whispered into the darkness, holding in his arms his whole world. “But someday it will be.”
***
Ilya slowly opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, blinding him for a moment. He grabbed his phone, and with relief, he noticed it was the fifteenth of November.
Ilya blinked a few times, adjusting, and then his gaze dropped.
Under his arm lay no one else but Shane Hollander—his eyes closed, long lashes resting against his cheeks, the freckles scattered across his nose catching the golden morning light like tiny kisses of the sun.
“Shane,” Ilya whispered.
Shane’s eyes fluttered open. He looked up, sleepy and soft, a blissful smile playing on his lips.
“Ilya.”