Chapter Text
July, 2019
The lake was always so still. Shane wasn't sure why that surprised him every time. Maybe it was the thought that during long months away with the hockey season, nature would've gotten bored and moved on without them. But no, same slightly uneven gravel driveway, same soft wood floors that he had insisted he needed, the same windows that shone moonlight through on Ilya's skin as he slept.
The gravel crunched under the tires as Shane shifted into park, the familiar sound of small stones pinging against the wheels bringing an unexpected comfort. Ilya was already unbuckling before the engine fully cut off, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied groan.
Ilya's foot hit the gravel with that particular impatient stomp Shane had learned meant he was vibrating with restrained energy. Not the kind from travel fatigue, but the coiled-up anticipation of having Shane alone for two uninterrupted weeks again. Shane watched from the driver's seat as Ilya circled the car. Their silent language had grown sharper than any playbook.
Ilya's hand wrapped around the door handle before Shane could even reach for it, not that Shane would have. They'd settled into this rhythm months ago, of Ilya doing certain things and Shane letting him. Not because Shane couldn't, but because the weight of Ilya's care settled something restless in his chest.
The keys jingled as Shane finally pulled them free. He knew Ilya was watching and could feel his dark eyes tracking the deliberate way he pocketed the keys. It was ridiculous how something as mundane as driving could still twist his stomach into knots after all this time. But that was the point, wasn’t it? That stubborn little piece of himself he couldn’t—wouldn’t—hand over, no matter how many other ways he’d learned to submit. Shane was the driver, Ilya was not.
Ilya opened the door for Shane, his fingers brushing deliberately against Shane's hip as he did. The touch lingered just long enough to make Shane's breath catch, that familiar electric current running through him even after all these months. Shane stepped out, pausing to let Ilya crowd him against the car door, their bodies slotting together effortlessly. The gravel shifted under Shane's sneakers as Ilya leaned in, his lips grazing Shane's ear.
"Two weeks," Ilya murmured against Shane's ear, his voice rough with the kind of relief that only came after months of stolen moments between flights, hotels, and games. Two weeks where they didn't have to calculate risks or watch the clock. Two weeks where Shane could let Ilya's hands guide as he pleased.
Shane tilted his head, exposing his throat instinctively, and Ilya's teeth grazed the spot just below his jaw, not hard enough to mark, just enough to make Shane shiver. "Missed this," Shane admitted softly. The admission wasn’t new, but the ease with which he said it still sent warmth curling through Ilya’s chest.
Ilya pulled back just enough to catch Shane’s gaze, his fingers tracing the curve of Shane’s cheekbone. "Missed *you*," he corrected, the words weighted with something deeper than possession, something settled, certain. It wasn’t just about having Shane beneath him anymore; it was about the way Shane leaned into his touch without hesitation now, the way his breathing steadied when Ilya’s palm pressed on the back of his neck.
Ilya didn't kiss him so much as claim him. His mouth hot and demanding against Shane's, his hands sliding up to cradle Shane's face with that perfect balance of control and tenderness that still made Shane's knees weak. The kiss tasted like eight months of learning each other's rhythms, like the quiet understanding that Shane would melt into it without hesitation now, his fingers curling instinctively into Ilya's hair.
When Ilya pulled back, he didn't go far, his thumb brushing over Shane's kiss-swollen lips. "Go make us some coffee," he murmured, the command softened by the way his eyes tracked every minute reaction across Shane's face. "I will bring the bags in."
Shane nodded, the movement small and automatic, already leaning into the familiar pull of Ilya's voice. He didn't need to ask what kind of coffee Ilya wanted—he knew. Just like he knew the exact moment Ilya would step back to let him go, the space between them charged with unspoken trust.
The cottage smelled like sunlight and happiness, the lingering warmth of summer trapped in the wooden beams. Shane kicked off his shoes by the door. The coffee grinder whirred to life under his hands when he entered the kitchen, the sound comfortably drowning out the rustle of Ilya hauling their bags up the steps. He didn’t need to turn around to know Ilya had paused in the doorway, watching him. The weight of that gaze was as familiar as the ache in his shoulders after a long game.
The coffee grinder clicked off, and Shane didn't turn to Ilya, just tilted his head slightly, the curve of his neck exposed in silent invitation. He heard the sharp intake of Ilya's breath before footsteps crossed the floor. Ilya's hands settled on Shane's hips, his mouth warm against the nape of Shane's neck. "You are showing off," Ilya murmured, the words vibrating against Shane's skin.
Shane smiled, pressing back into him as he scooped grounds into the filter. "You like it." There was no question in his voice,just quiet certainty, the kind that had taken months to settle into.
Shane could feel Ilya’s smile against his neck before the words came. "Ah, so you think you know me so well, yes?" It wasn’t a challenge so Shane continues. Just the quiet amusement of a man who’d spent years pretending indifference and now found himself utterly known.
Shane’s hands didn’t falter as Ilya’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, his touch firm and deliberate. The coffee machine hissed to life, steam curling upward as Shane adjusted the filter with practiced steady fingers. It was almost meditative, the way he could let Ilya’s hands roam while his own moved through familiar motions. Months ago, this would have short circuited his brain; now, it was just another layer of their rhythm, as natural as taping your stick before a game.
Shane reached for two coffee mugs as the machine dropped its last few splashes, his movements calm despite Ilya's fingers tracing his body. The ceramic clinked softly against the countertop. Familiar things. His things. Their things.
Ilya didn't pull away, Not when Shane stretched for the sugar tin, not when he pivoted slightly to grab the creamer. His hands stayed, possessive but not restricting, mapping Shane's ribs underneath his shirt. The dichotomy of it still made Shane's breath catch sometimes, how Ilya could be so demanding on the ice and so endlessly patient with him. Shane knew this was just Ilya wanting to touch him. Ilya was not looking for anything more. That was the thing about their dynamic now: the ease of it, the way Ilya could press close just to feel Shane’s warmth, just to remind himself Shane was real and solid beneath his hands.
The mugs were still steaming when Ilya finally let his hands slide away from Shane’s waist. Shane didn’t rush to fill the space with words; he didn’t need to. Instead, he curled his fingers around the ceramic handles, letting the heat seep around him as he turned toward the patio door. Ilya followed, close enough that Shane could feel the warmth of him without touching, their movements synchronized like a perfectly executed line change.
The patio was familiar as Ilya followed Shane outside, the morning air still crisp with lake-chilled freshness. Ilya sank onto the outdoor couch with ease, his movements careful as he took both mugs from Shane’s hands. Then came the unspoken part, the thing that still made Shane’s pulse stutter even after all these years. The sight of Ilya spreading his thighs, his arms resting along the back of the couch, his entire posture an open invitation.
Shane settled between Ilya's thighs with confidence. The moment his back met Ilya's chest, Ilya's arms wrapped around him like a living seatbelt, locking him in place with an unshakable certainty. Shane exhaled, long and slow, feeling the tension bleed from his shoulders as Ilya's chin came to rest atop his head. It wasn't submission, not in the way people might assume. It was surrender, the kind that came from knowing every inch of the man behind him would hold him together before he ever had the chance to unravel.
The coffee was bitter and perfect, just the way Ilya liked it. Shane could feel the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s chest against his back, the rhythm syncopated with the distant lap of lake water against the rocks. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t need filling.
Shane traced the rim of his coffee mug with his fingertips. The question had been sitting in his mind since Ilya had signed with Ottawa a few weeks back. Ever since Boston’s press release had gone out with *'We wish Ilya Rozanov the best in his future endeavors.'* He waited until Ilya’s fingers flexed against his ribs, that silent *'what is it?'* that needed no words between them now.
"Did you..." Shane hesitated, then let his head tilt back against Ilya’s shoulder. The words felt clumsy in his mouth after months of learning how to speak without speaking. "When you signed with Ottawa. Did you ever—" He broke off, fingers curling against his own thigh.
Ilya’s breath was warm against Shane’s temple. His fingers paused their idle tracing along Shane’s ribs. "Did I what?" No irritation, just that deep patience that still surprised Shane sometimes.
"Regret it." The word dropped between them, heavier than it should’ve been. Shane exhaled sharply through his nose. "Leaving Boston. For this. For... me. I know we've talked about this but I still feel like I'm...I don't know, manipulating you, maybe."
Ilya's arms tightened around Shane, his exhale warm against Shane's temple. "Boston was just a chapter," he murmured, his Russian accent softening the edges of his words. "This—" His palm flattened over Shane's chest, right where his heartbeat thudded steadily. "*You* are the whole story."
Shane felt the weight of Ilya's words settle deep in his chest, warm like the coffee still cradled between his palms. He hadn't realized how much he'd needed to hear that until the tension he'd been carrying since the trade announcement finally unspooled. The lake stretched before them, undisturbed except for the occasional ripple from a distant fish breaking the surface.
Shane exhaled, letting his head fall back against Ilya's shoulder. "What if you wake up one day and realize you gave up too much?" The words tumbled out in a rush, "Boston was your whole career, and a great team. And Ottawa is...not great at all. And I know you say it doesn't matter, but they've been your whole life and everyone is talking about why the hell you would move to Ottawa and..." He gestured vaguely at the minimal space between them, at the way their bodies fit together like well worn gear.
Ilya's laugh rumbled against Shane's back, deep and unbothered, his fingers tracing over Shane's ribs. "You think I give a shit about what everyone is saying?" He pressed his lips in Shane's hair, his voice dropping into that rough, affectionate tone that still made Shane's stomach flip. "Boston was good to me, yes. But hockey is hockey. It is not my life." His thumb brushed over Shane's pulse point, deliberate. "You are."
Shane swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat, but Ilya wasn't done. "And Ottawa—" He huffed, shifting just enough to reach for his coffee mug with one hand, the other still anchoring Shane against him. "They signed me as captain already. You know what that means?" His fingers tightened around Shane's hip. "It means I get to build that team into something great. Not just play for it. Not just follow." His voice dropped lower, edged with that familiar determination Shane had seen on the ice a thousand times. "And I will drag that team to the cup if I have to carry every single one of them on my back."
The conviction in his voice made Shane's breath catch. Because that was the thing about Ilya. When he committed, he committed completely. No half measures, no looking back. Shane turned his head just enough to catch the set of Ilya's jaw, the way his eyes burned with quiet intensity even now, lounging on their patio with coffee cooling between them.
“So,” Shane started, fingers tracing the rim of his mug absently, “your new house—is it all ready after our vacation here?”
Ilya’s fingers paused and he thought about it. "House is ready," he said, as if he’d been waiting for the question. His voice carried that particular blend of smugness and warmth that meant he’d planned something. "Bedroom is done. Kitchen...mostly."
Shane snorted into his coffee. "Mostly?"
"I have a few boxes left." Ilya shrugged, the motion shifting Shane against his chest. "For when I go home after this."
The word *home* landed between them. Because that was the thing, Ilya had been slowly migrating his life out of Boston for months during his off days, long before the trade was publicly announced. Ilya had put his Boston home up for sale and was amazed it sold as quickly as it had. Then he began his search for homes in Ottawa. He chose somewhere out of the city and somewhere more private. He would still have neighbors and Ilya contemplated if they would like him or not.
Shane twisted slightly in Ilya's arms, just enough to catch the stubborn set of his jaw. "Boxes," he repeated, voice soft. "You've been moving in for months and you still have boxes?" The words weren't accusatory, just curious, the way Shane had learned to ask things when he needed the truth but didn't want to push.
Ilya's fingers tightened around Shane's waist, just enough to ground him, just enough to remind him he wasn't slipping away. "Да," he admitted, his voice rough with something that wasn't quite hesitation, wasn't quite fear, but something close. "Boxes." He exhaled sharply through his nose, his breath stirring Shane's hair. "You want to know why?"
Shane shifted in Ilya’s arms, turning fully now, knees pressing into the couch cushions as he faced him. The coffee mug forgotten between them, steam long since dissipated. He reached up, fingers brushing the stubborn line of Ilya’s jaw. "Yeah," he said softly. "I want to know why."
Ilya's fingers curled around Shane's wrist, holding him there against his jawline like an anchor. His dark eyes flickered with something unreadable, not quite hesitation, but the weight of words he'd been carrying. "Because I wanted you there when I unpacked them," he admitted, his voice rougher than usual. "The important ones."
Shane's fingers stilled against Ilya's jaw. The admission hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. He could feel the way Ilya's pulse jumped beneath his fingertips, the slight tightening of his grip around Shane's wrist—not restraining, just anchoring them both.
Shane knew what Ilya wasn’t saying, that the boxes weren’t just boxes. They were the last pieces of Ilya’s old life, the ones he’d left untouched because unpacking them alone felt like admitting this was permanent. Like admitting he’d chosen Ottawa for more than just Shane. Like admitting he’d chosen Shane over everything else.
Shane felt the breath leave his lungs in one slow, shuddering exhale. It wasn’t just love. This was something deeper, wider, more terrifying in its vastness. The kind of feeling that made his ribs ache with the weight of it. Ilya had willingly rebuilt his entire life around him, piece by deliberate piece, and Shane hadn’t even realized the magnitude of it until now.
Shane set his mug down with a sharp clink.. Before any could spill, he twisted fully in Ilya's arms and threw himself against him. Only not with the careful hesitation of their early days, but with the full weight of years worth of trust. His knees dug into the couch cushions as he straddled Ilya's lap, fingers fisting in Ilya's hair.
Shane's arms locked around Ilya's neck, his face buried in the familiar warmth of his shoulder. "I love you," he choked out, the words muffled against Ilya's skin. "I love you, I love you—" Each repetition came rougher than the last, his fingers twisting in the fabric of Ilya's shirt like he was afraid gravity might reverse itself.
Ilya didn't hesitate. His arms locked around Shane's waist unyielding. His fingers dug into the small of Shane's back, pulling him impossibly closer until there wasn't a sliver of space between them. The force of it knocked the breath from Shane's lungs, but Ilya didn't loosen his grip. Not when Shane's knees pressed harder into the couch cushions, not when his forehead bumped against Ilya's shoulder.
Ilya's hands slid up Shane's back, fingers pressing between his shoulder blades. "Я тебя люблю," he murmured against Shane's temple, his voice thick with something that wasn't quite laughter. His arms stayed locked around Shane's waist, his grip firm even as Shane's knees dug harder into the couch cushions. The weight of Ilya's arms around him was the only thing keeping Shane from floating away entirely. They stayed like that, tangled together on the couch, until the coffee grew cold and the sun climbed higher in the sky.
The cottage had become something sacred between them. Shane could feel it in the way the old wooden beams creaked underfoot, familiar as the sound of Ilya's laughter. Could see it in the way the afternoon light filtered through the kitchen window, painting golden stripes across Ilya's shoulders as he rummaged through the fridge. This was their sanctuary, where the outside world couldn't touch them, where the only rules were the ones they'd chosen for themselves.
Later that evening, the knife thunked against the cutting board as Shane diced tomatoes, the sound blending with the sizzle of garlic hitting hot oil from the pan Ilya’s was tending to. Shane’s fingers moved automatically, his body angled just enough so his hip brushed Ilya’s whenever the Russian stepped back to check the oven. The kitchen smelled like rosemary and the lingering scent of the lake still clinging to their skin from the afternoon.
The knife slipped from Shane’s fingers, only for a moment, when Ilya’s palm slid up the back of his thigh beneath the loose hem of his shorts, fingers tracing the sensitive skin there with deliberate familiarity. Shane caught the knife handle before it clattered to the cutting board, exhaling a shaky laugh as he shot Ilya a look over his shoulder. "You're gonna make me lose a finger like that," he muttered, but there was no bite to it, just that warm, syrupy fondness that still caught in his chest sometimes. Ilya’s fingers lingered on the back of Shane’s thigh, just resting there. Warm and possessive. Shane didn’t shift away. Instead, he leaned his hip more deliberately against Ilya’s side, letting the contact bleed through the thin fabric of their clothes.
The knife stilled in Shane’s hand as Ilya’s fingers traced higher, with that same lazy possessiveness that still made Shane’s breath hitch sometimes. Not because it was leading anywhere, but because it *wasn’t*. Because after everything, Ilya could touch him like this—just to touch him, just because he *could*—and Shane would melt into it like sunlight through lake water.
The knife moved through the tomatoes with practiced precision. *Thunk, thunk, thunk.* Each slice falling away cleanly under Shane’s steady hands. He was deep in the rhythm of it, shoulders loose, the world narrowing to the blade and the cutting board and the scent of basil clinging to his fingertips. Behind him, Ilya’s presence was a warm, solid weight against his back, close enough that Shane could feel the heat radiating from him.
Then—
"Shane." Ilya’s voice was low, and cut through the rhythm of the knife like a blade through water. No urgency. No demand. Just his name, spoken with that particular cadence that sent a familiar shiver down Shane’s spine.
Shane’s hands stilled. He didn’t turn, didn’t question it. Just waited, fingers curled loosely around the knife handle. The kitchen was quiet except for the soft hiss of a pan simmering.
"Look at me," Ilya murmured, close enough now that Shane could feel his breath against the back of his neck.
Shane turned without hesitation, dropping the knife. The fluid motion of someone who knew exactly where Ilya would be standing, how much space separated them, how his own body would pivot to meet him. Ilya’s gaze locked onto his instantly, dark and unwavering, the kind of eye contact that didn’t just *see* Shane but *claimed* him. Shane’s breath caught, but he didn’t look away. He’d learned this, too. How to hold Ilya’s stare without flinching, how to let it sear through him until his skin prickled with the heat of it.
Ilya's smile was barely there but it still made Shane's stomach flip even after all this time. It wasn't the sharp, mocking grin he used on the ice, nor the lazy smirk he'd perfected for press conferences. This was something else entirely, something private and knowing, the curve of his lips betraying the hunger bubbling beneath his calm exterior. Shane didn't look away. Couldn't.
Then Ilya's fingers were on his chin, rough enough to make Shane's breath catch but not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind him who he belonged to. The kiss wasn't gentle, it was fire and teeth and Ilya's tongue sliding against his own like he was trying to memorize the taste of him. Shane groaned into it, fingers clutching at the counter's edge to keep from sinking to his knees right there in their kitchen.
Just as suddenly as it started, Ilya pulled back, lips slick and swollen. "Finish the food," he murmured, voice low and rough, "the fish will be done soon." His thumb brushed over Shane's bottom lip once, possessive even in the softness of the gesture, before he turned back to the stove like nothing had happened.
Shane exhaled shakily, fingers flexing against the counter. His lips tingled. The knife felt heavier in his hand when he picked it back up, his grip adjusting automatically as he returned to chopping. The rhythm was slower now, as his bodybody was still thrumming with the aftershocks of Ilya's kiss.
The fish came out of the oven just as Shane was scraping the last of the chopped tomatoes into the bowl. It was perfect timing. Ilya slid the fillets onto their plates with the same practiced ease. The lemon butter sauce was glistening under the cottage’s warm light. Shane quickly grabbed two plates, loaded them both up, then headed for the couch. The weight of Ilya’s gaze following him like a physical touch against the back of his neck.
Shane settled onto the couch with his plate balanced carefully on his knees, legs stretched out in front of him. The cushions dipped as Ilya joined him, close enough that their thighs pressed together from hip to knee. Shane didn't have to look over to know Ilya's expression. That quiet, possessive satisfaction that always settled over him when they were like this, wrapped in their own private world.
Ilya's fork scraped against his plate, the sound muffled by the soft hum of the cottage around them. The lake outside was almost dark now. Shane speared a bite of fish, the fork pausing halfway to his mouth when Ilya's knee nudged against his for grounding. The last golden sliver of sun dipped below the treeline, painting the forest in deep blues and purples. Shane watched the colors shift through the window.
"It's always so beautiful here," Ilya murmured, his gaze fixed on the darkening woods. His fingers brushed Shane’s knee.
Shane swallowed his bite of fish and grinned, gesturing toward the window with his fork. "It's amazing. It's honestly more 'home' than my actual apartment." he blurted, words tumbling out faster than his thoughts could catch. "Oh, and the way the sun hits the water in the mornings. And the pine trees smell insane after rain, and—" He paused, fork hovering midair, realizing Ilya was staring at him with that *look*, the one that made Shane’s pulse stutter even now.
Ilya's fork clinked against his plate as he set it down, his gaze never leaving Shane's face. The corner of Ilya's mouth twitched, his fingers tightening around Shane's knee. "Just you," he said, voice rough with something dangerously close to reverence, "I just love you so much."
Shane's fork clattered onto his empty plate, the sound echoing in the comfortable silence between them. "I love *you* so much," he breathed, watching the way Ilya's dark eyelashes cast shadows against his cheeks in the dimming light. "So much it feels like my heart can't hold it all in sometimes." His voice cracked on the last word, rough with the weight of it.
Ilya's hand clamped around Shane's wrist mid-gesture, tugging hard enough to send his fork skittering across the empty plate. Shane didn't resist—couldn't, really, not when Ilya pulled with that particular urgency that still short-circuited his thoughts. One moment he was sitting upright, the next he was sprawled halfway across Ilya's lap, their dinner plates shoved aside on the coffee table with careless clatter.
Ilya just held Shane for a moment. One hand cradling the back of his head, the other splayed possessively holding his waist. The weight of him was resolute, the way Shane melted into his grip even more so, but the reality of it still punched the air from Ilya’s lungs sometimes. That he could do this. That Shane let him.
Shane exhaled against Ilya’s collarbone, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders as Ilya’s fingers carded through his hair. It wasn’t submission, not exactly, more like surrender, the kind that came from knowing every touch was a promise, every grip an anchor. Ilya’s palm slid down the curve of Shane’s back. “What's going on up there,” Ilya murmured, lips brushing Shane’s forehead. Not an accusation. A reminder. And a question.
Shane's fingers stilled against Ilya's chest as his gaze flickered back toward the window. The trees stood tall against the fading light, their silhouettes swaying slightly in the evening breeze. Something restless now stirred beneath his ribs. He exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening against Ilya's shirt. "Just...thinking," he murmured, the words muffled against Ilya's collarbone. "About the woods here."
Shane hoped Ilya wouldn't ask more questions, but of course he did. Ilya's fingers stilled in Shane's hair, his thumb tracing the shell of Shane's ear in that way that always made Shane shiver. "Thinking what about woods?" Ilya pressed, voice low and roughened by the evening quiet.
Shane's fingers curled into Ilya's shirt, the fabric warm from his skin. He inhaled the scent of pine and lakewater clinging to them both, and felt the steady thud of Ilya's heartbeat beneath his palm. The words stuck in his throat, absurd and thrilling all at once.
"It's stupid," Shane muttered, forehead pressed to Ilya's shoulder.
Ilya's fingers tightened in Shane's hair. "Just tell me. Nothing is stupid."
Shane exhaled sharply. "I want you to chase me through the woods."
Ilya's fingers stilled in Shane's hair. "Like a race?" His voice was calm, but Shane could feel the way his chest tensed beneath his cheek.
Shane shook his head. "No." The word came out breathless, half swallowed against Ilya's collarbone.
The silence between them stretched, thick with understanding. Shane could feel the exact moment Ilya understood the gravity of his words, the way his breath hitched slightly against Shane's temple.
"You want to run," Ilya murmured, not a question but a confirmation, his fingers tightening ever so slightly in Shane's hair. "And you want me to chase you?"
Shane's cheeks burned hotter as he mumbled into Ilya's collarbone, "See? I told you it was stupid." His fingers twitched against Ilya's chest, but he made no move to pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, the tension in his shoulders betraying how badly he wanted this even as embarrassment curled tight in his gut.
Ilya's exhale was warm against Shane's temple, his grip shifting to cradle Shane's jaw instead. "Not stupid," he corrected, thumb brushing the side of Shane's jaw in that maddeningly gentle way that always unraveled Shane's defenses. "But I need to understand if I'm going to give you what you want." His fingers tightened just enough to tilt Shane's face upward. "Why running? Why woods?"
Shane swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He didn't pull away from Ilya's grip, but his fingers twitched against Ilya's chest. "It's not—" He broke off, licking his lips. "It's not about running away." His voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. "It's about you following." Shane exhaled shakily. "When you—" His fingers flexed against Ilya's shirt. "When you chase me, it's not just that you want me. It's that you *have* to have me." His cheeks burned hotter, but he didn't look away. "Like it's not a choice. Like you'd tear through anything to get to me."
Ilya's dark eyes searched Shane's face. "And this is what you need, yes?" His voice was rough, but not with skepticism, with something far more dangerous. Understanding.
Shane nodded, pulse fluttering where Ilya's thumb pressed against his jaw. "Yes. I think." The word came out breathless. "Because I know—" His fingers curled tighter into Ilya's shirt. "I *know* you'd never hurt me. But I need to feel—" He struggled for the right words, frustrated with himself. "Not just that you love me. That you'd...*hunt* for me." Shane's breath hitched. "That I'm worth chasing."
Ilya's fingers traced Shane's jawline, slow and deliberate, before sliding down to grip his chin. His dark eyes burned with an intensity that made Shane's breath catch. "You want me to hunt you?" His voice was low, roughened with something primal that sent heat curling down Shane's spine. "Like prey?"
Shane shuddered at the word *'prey.'* The unconscious reaction surprised even him, because no, he hadn’t thought of it like that, hadn’t let himself frame it in those terms. But now that Ilya had said it aloud, the truth of it curled hot and undeniable in his gut. "I—" Shane’s throat worked, his pulse jumping under Ilya’s fingertips where they still cradled his jaw. "I think so."
Ilya's fingers went still against Shane's jaw. The word *'prey'* echoed in his skull like a gunshot, sharp and wrong. His pulse kicked hard against his ribs, his mind instantly conjuring images. Shane tripping over roots, hitting his head on a low branch, running too fast and slipping. Ilya losing control. The fantasy curdled in his gut, twisted by the visceral need to *protect* that had been carved into his bones.
Ilya exhaled slowly through his nose, watching the way Shane's shoulders tensed beneath his hands. That eager, almost restless energy Shane got when an idea took hold of him. The same energy that made him such a formidable player on the ice. And Ilya couldn't stand the thought of dimming that light, not when Shane had trusted him enough to voice this.
Ilya’s thumb brushed the hinge of Shane’s jaw where his pulse fluttered wild and fast. The conflicted urge to protect warred with the deeper instinct to give Shane exactly what he’d asked for. What he *needed.* Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his voice steady. "Okay."
Ilya watched Shane’s face transform. The hesitation melting into something bright and eager, his eyes sharpening with focus like he did before a big game. Shane’s fingers twitched against Ilya’s chest, not pulling away but vibrating with restless energy. “Okay?” Shane echoed, breathless, like he hadn’t expected agreement so easily. His smile was sudden and brilliant
Ilya's thumb brushed the corner of Shane's mouth, watching the way his lips parted slightly at the touch. "Boundaries first," he started, voice low but steady, the same tone he used when walking Shane through a new play on the ice. "Where do you want to run? How far?"
Ilya's thumb lingered at the corner of Shane's mouth, pressing gently when Shane started speaking too fast. "But slowly," he murmured, watching Shane's teeth dig into his lower lip as he reined in his excitement. The way Shane immediately regulated his breathing by his shoulders dropping, fingers unclenching from Ilya, sent warmth pooling low in Ilya's gut. The way Shane still obeyed his commands with such effortless trust it stole Ilya's breath.
Ilya didn’t miss the way Shane’s fingers tapped against his own knee, or how his breath hitched when he spoke, like the idea had been coiled tight in his chest for too long. "We could start at the trailhead by the dock," Shane said, words tumbling out as he feebly tried to slow down. "There's that old path that cuts west toward the ridge." His eyes flickered with something wild and bright, the same look he got when he deked past a defenseman, all instinct and adrenaline.
Later that night, Shane fell asleep with his fingers still loosely curled around Ilya's body, his breathing deep and even against Ilya's collarbone. The moon shining across the sheets, illuminating the way Shane's eyelashes fanned against his cheeks, the slight part of his lips. Ilya didn't move, didn't dare disturb him, just ran his fingers through Shane's hair and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Ilya stayed awake long after Shane's breathing evened out, staring at the ceiling with one arm curled protectively around Shane's waist. His mind raced through the logistics, like the terrain, the distance. He mapped the woods in his head like a playbook, calculating angles and obstacles. The mental image of Shane sprinting through the trees sent heat coiling low in his gut, but the thought of Shane tripping, falling, hurting himself. And that sat like a stone in Ilya's chest. Shane stirred slightly in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible against Ilya's shoulder before settling again. Ilya exhaled slowly, tightening his grip around Shane's waist. The trust Shane had in him, the way he'd looked at him when he said those words earlier. It made Ilya's pulse stutter. He couldn't afford to fuck this up.
The morning light filtered through the kitchen windows as Shane scraped the last bite of scrambled eggs off his plate, his knee bouncing under the table. He couldn’t stop glancing toward the woods through the window, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against his coffee mug. Ilya watched him over the rim of his own cup, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You still want to do this?" Ilya asked.
Shane's head snapped up. "Yes." The word came out too fast, too eager. He exhaled, forcing his shoulders to relax. "Yeah. If—if you're still okay with it."
Ilya set his mug down with deliberate calm, his gaze steady. "I need you to tell me the boundaries again."
Shane swallowed, nodding. "Stay on the ridge trail. No going past the big tree with the fallen branch. No running near the water." His fingers flexed against the table.
The way Shane kept glancing toward the woods, his throat working as he swallowed too often. Shane had thought about this. A lot. More than Ilya had realized.
Ilya set his mug down harder than intended. Shane's knee stopped bouncing instantly, his gaze snapping to Ilya's face like he'd been called to attention. The way Shane reacted to him. Not with fear, never fear, but that immediate focus, still sent warmth curling through Ilya's chest.
The afternoon light shone through the canopy in dappled patterns as Shane stood at the trailhead, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Ilya's fingers lingered at the base of his spine, warm even through his shirt. "Two minutes," Ilya murmured, lips brushing the shell of Shane's ear. "Then I come find you." The promise sent a shiver down Shane's spine, his fingers flexing at his sides.
Shane took off with a burst of energy, laughing, fast, the soles of his sneakers kicking up pine needles as he bolted down the trail. The wind rushed past his ears, drowning out everything but the hammering of his own pulse. For a moment, Ilya just watched him go, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. His first instinct wasn't pursuit. It was an assessment of the uneven terrain, the density of the trees, the sharp drop-off near the ridge where the trail curved.
Ilya counted the seconds in his head, the rhythm steady as a metronome until the two-minute mark hit like a gunshot. His muscles coiled, then released in one fluid motion, his body surging forward with predatory grace. The forest floor blurred beneath him, leaves crunching underfoot, but he kept his stride deliberately measured, his breathing controlled. Shane’s laughter echoed somewhere ahead, bright and breathless.
Shane's pulse hammered against his ribs as he skidded around a bend in the trail, expecting the sharp crack of branches behind him, the full-force sprint of Ilya barreling after him like a storm. Instead, the forest remained eerily quiet from the distant crunch of careful footsteps. Shane slowed, chest heaving as he pressed his palm against a tree trunk to steady himself. That wasn't right. He knew Ilya's speed, knew the way he moved on the ice like a force of nature. This wasn't a pursuit. This was...patrolling. Shane's fingers dug into the rough bark of the pine tree as he paused, breath ragged. His stomach twisted. This wasn't how it was supposed to feel.
Shane's breath hitched as the realization crashed over him. Ilya wasn't chasing him. Ilya was restraining himself. The careful footsteps, the measured distance, the way the forest didn't erupt with the force of Ilya's hunting like Shane had imagined. Shane leaned heavily against the tree, the bark rough under his palms. His chest tightened with something tender and aching. Of course Ilya was holding back. Of course he was worried. The distant crunch of Ilya's footsteps had stopped entirely now. The silence between them stretched like a live wire, taut with everything unsaid. His throat tightened. This wasn't the exhilarating chase he'd imagined—this was Ilya walking on eggshells, and the realization made his stomach twist.
The pine scent filled Shane's nose, sharp and clean, but all he could focus on was the silence stretching behind him, no footsteps, no breathless pursuit, just Ilya holding back like he always did. Always for Shane. The realization twisted in his gut like a dull blade.
Shane's breathing slowed as he crouched behind a fallen log, moss soft beneath his palms. He didn't hide, not really. Just enough that Ilya would have to look, would have to *seek.* The late afternoon light peered through the trees above, painting golden stripes across his folded arms. His pulse still thrummed, but differently now, not the frantic hammering of escape, but the steady drumbeat of waiting. Of being found. The forest held its breath with him. No birdsong, no rustling leaves. Shane exhaled through his nose, letting his shoulders slump deliberately against the log. He angled himself toward the path, one knee bent, the other outstretched. A presentation. An offering.
Back along the path, Ilya's foot hovered mid-step, his sole hovering inches above the damp earth. His breathing was steady despite the sprint. He could see Shane's light shirt through the trees, the way his shoulders rose and fell with exertion against the rough bark of the pine. Twenty yards, maybe less. Close enough that Ilya could cover the distance easily if he unleashed the full force of his speed. His fingers twitched at his sides.
He didn't move.
The realization coiled tight in his gut, he wasn't chasing Shane. He was corralling him. Keeping him within sightlines, within safe parameters. The thought tasted sour. Shane hadn't asked for careful containment. He'd asked to be hunted. But Ilya didn't want to be like...him.
Ilya's breath caught as Shane's silhouette flickered between the trees ahead. The image Shane had planted in his mind dissolved like mist. Predator and prey. The fantasy had curled hot in his gut moments ago, but now, watching Shane slow to a jog, his head turning slightly as if listening for pursuit. I felt hollow. Wrong.
The forest floor crunched softly under Ilya’s boots as he slowed to a stop, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Ahead, Shane’s figure flickered between the trees, not fleeing, not hiding, just waiting. The late afternoon light caught the curve of his shoulder, the way his fingers flexed against the log he leaned on, deliberately open, deliberately seen.
The forest air hung thick with pine and damp earth, but all Ilya could taste was the bitter tang of his own hesitation. The realization punched through Ilya’s ribs like a dull blade: Shane had trusted him with this. Had been excited for it. And Ilya was ruining it by holding back.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. Every instinct screamed at him to lunge forward, to close the distance between them in three strides, to pin Shane against that mossy log and...and what? Prove something? Shane wasn’t some fucking puck to be chased down. Wasn’t a play to be executed. The thought of Shane’s skin scraping against bark, of his breath hitching in pain instead of pleasure, made Ilya’s stomach twist.
The moment Ilya's shoes hit the mossy clearing where Shane waited, his shoulders dropped. Relief flooded his chest like a dam breaking, hot and sudden, washing away the coiled tension of the chase. Shane sat on the fallen log, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely linked. His chest rose and fell steadily, but his eyes tracked Ilya's approach with quiet understanding.
When he reached Shane, he didn’t grab. Didn’t pin. He couldn't. He just sank to his knees in the moss beside the log, one hand lifting to hover near Shane’s cheek before settling on his shoulder instead. "Вот и всё." His voice was rougher than he intended, the Russian slipping out subconsciously.
Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening on Shane’s shoulder. "I found you," he murmured, the words rough-edged. Shane’s throat worked as he looked up at him, not triumphant, not breathless with excitement like Ilya had imagined. Just sad.
"You didn’t chase me," Shane whispered. It wasn’t a question. His fingers curled into the moss beneath them, shoulders slumping. "I—I shouldn’t have asked. I roped you into—"
Ilya’s thumb brushed Shane’s collarbone, too light, too hesitant. "Was fine," he muttered, eyes darting away to the moss beneath them. The lie tasted stale even as he said it. His fingers twitched against Shane’s shoulder like he couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or not.
The moss muffled Shane's footsteps as he pushed himself up from the log, his fingers brushing dirt from his knees with sharp, jerky movements. He didn't look at Ilya—couldn't—just turned and started walking back toward the cottage, his shoulders rigid under his damp shirt.
"Shane." Ilya's voice was rough behind him, but Shane kept walking, the pine needles crunching louder under his deliberate strides.
"You lied," Shane said, the words scraping his throat raw. The trail blurred slightly as he blinked too fast. "You said you were okay with this. You *agreed*." His fingers curled into fists at his sides. The betrayal burned worse than the failed chase.
Shane shoved the cottage door open harder than necessary. The scent of lingering coffee hit him—home, comfort, safety—and the familiarity of it made his throat tighten further. He didn't turn when Ilya's heavier footsteps creaked up the steps behind him.
Shane walked straight past the kitchen and collapsed into the far corner of the couch, knees drawn up to his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his sweat damp shirt. The cushions barely had time to settle before Ilya’s shadow fell across him, blocking the late afternoon light from the windows. Shane didn’t look up, just pressed his forehead harder against his knees, breathing through the tightness in his throat.
"You didn’t want to do it," Shane said, the words muffled against his legs. "You hated it."
Ilya’s exhale was sharp through his nose. The couch dipped as he sat beside Shane, close but not touching. "Not hated," he corrected, voice low. His fingers twitched toward Shane’s shoulder before retreating to grip his own knee instead. "Was...complicated."
Shane lifted his head sharply, his fingers tightening around his own calves. "Then uncomplicate it," he said, voice rising slightly before he forced it back down. His throat worked. "For me at least."
Shane could feel the weight of Ilya’s gaze, the careful way he was choosing his words. Always choosing, always calculating, always holding back. It made Shane’s skin itch. Worse than the dried sweat on his back.
His fingers dug deeper into his calves before he forced them to uncurl, pressing his palms flat against his thighs instead. "You know what really hurts?" Shane finally said, voice cracking on the last word. He didn't wait for Ilya's response. "It's not that you didn't want to do it. It's that you looked me in the eye and lied about being okay with it."
Ilya's fingers twitched against his own knee, his shoulders stiffening. "I didn't—"
"You did." Shane turned his head just enough to meet Ilya's gaze, his chest tightening at the flicker of guilt in those familiar eyes. "You always tell me to trust you with everything, to give you all of it. But you won't do the same for me."
Ilya's jaw worked before he exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers finally abandoning their death grip on his knee to brush against Shane's wrist. "I was afraid," he admitted, the words rough-edged with vulnerability.
Shane stilled. He'd never heard Ilya say those words so plainly. He uncurled slowly, watching the way Ilya's thumb circled absently over his wrist. An unconscious grounding gesture Shane had seen him use only in their private moments.
Shane's fingers twitched under Ilya's thumb. "Afraid?" The word came out softer than he intended. He turned his wrist, catching Ilya's hand mid-motion. "Of what?"
Ilya shifted forward abruptly, his knee pressing into Shane's thigh, fingers tightening around his wrist—not restraining, just anchoring. "Afraid to hurt you," he clarified, voice low and steady despite the tension in his shoulders. His thumb resumed its slow circles over Shane's pulse point, grounding them both. "Afraid to fail you." The admission came out rough, like dragging gravel from his throat.
Shane exhaled sharply, the fight draining from his shoulders. "You think I don't know your limits?" He turned his hand palm-up, threading their fingers together. "Ilya, I *know* you. You'd never—"
Ilya's thumb stilled against Shane's palm. "The fantasy—" His voice caught, uncharacteristically uneven. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly before forcing himself to relax. "It hit something. Something I did not expect to feel." His gaze flicked up to meet Shane's, raw and unguarded. "When you said you wanted to be hunted...I just saw my father chasing my mother through our house. Her screaming. Him laughing."
The reality crashed into Shame like a rogue wave, freezing and merciless, and his brain immediately started sprinting toward self-recrimination—until Ilya’s fingers tightened around his hand, snapping his thoughts back to the present.
Shane’s fingers spasmed around Ilya’s wrist, his breath catching at the raw confession hanging between them. His throat worked—words failing him for once—but before he could spiral into self-blame, Ilya squeezed his hand hard enough to ground him.
“I should have told you,” Ilya said, voice low but deliberate, thumb pressing into Shane’s pulse point with each syllable. “That is on me. Not on you.” His grip tightened briefly, as if physically preventing Shane from shouldering the guilt. “This was not…your fault.”
Shane still felt horrible for not understanding. The weight of it pressed against his ribs like a puck, making each breath shallow. He stared at their intertwined fingers and swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "I should've—" His voice cracked. He tried again, quieter. "I never meant to drag you back there."
Ilya’s fingers tightened around Shane’s, their joined hands resting on Shane’s thigh. "Look at me," he murmured. A plea wrapped in gravel.
Shane’s lashes lifted slowly, revealing damp eyes. Ilya’s chest ached at the sight. Not at guilt, not pity, just raw understanding waiting to crystallize between them.
"When you ran," Ilya began, voice rougher than the pine bark outside, "all I could see was her." His jaw worked, eyes darting away to the coffee table before forcing himself back to Shane’s face. "And then I was holding back not because I didn’t want you. I was terrified of becoming like him." The confession cracked open between them, raw as a fresh wound.
Shane watched the way Ilya's throat worked, the uncharacteristic hesitation in his normally steady hands, and something tender unraveled in his chest. This wasn't rejection. This was Ilya, laid bare in a way Shane had never seen before.
Ilya’s palm settled warm against the nape of Shane’s neck, fingers pressing just enough to be felt through the damp fabric of his shirt. An anchor point. His thumb traced the edge of Shane’s jawline, back and forth like a metronome, syncing with Shane’s gradually steadying breaths.
"You didn’t break any rules," Ilya murmured again , his voice low but carrying the weight of a command. His other hand remained tangled with Shane’s, their palms pressed together. "I did. By lying. By not telling you."
Shane's fingers twitched against Ilya's wrist, the warmth suddenly too much, the contact too raw. His shoulders curled inward, making himself smaller against the couch cushions. "I didn't mean to—" His throat closed around the words.
Ilya's grip tightened before Shane could fully retreat, his palm anchoring against the back of Shane's neck. "I know." The word wasn't sharp, but it led to no argument. His thumb pressed into Shane's pulse point, grounding them both. "You do not get to disappear now." Shane swallowed hard, his eyelashes fluttering against the sudden burn behind his eyes. The instinct to fold inward with the sickening fear that he'd already broken something irreparable.
"You're shaking," Ilya murmured. His other hand slid up Shane's arm, slow and deliberate, until both palms framed Shane's face. "Look at me." The command was softer than usual, but Shane obeyed instantly, blinking up at him with damp lashes.
Shane's breath hitched when Ilya's thumbs brushed under his eyes, catching the moisture there. "I'm sorry," Shane whispered, the words cracking. He wanted to press closer, wanted to crawl into Ilya's lap and erase the distance between them, but the fear coiled tighter—what if he was already too much? What if Ilya needed space?
Shane's fingers trembled against Ilya's wrists where they still cradled his face. The silence stretched too long but enough for Shane's throat to tighten with words he couldn't say, for his pulse to stutter under Ilya's thumbs. Then, barely audible: "Do you still—" His breath hitched. "Am I still—" The sentence fractured, raw edges catching in his chest. Shane's exhale hitched, his fingers curling into the fabric of Ilya's shirt. "I need—" His throat worked, the words clotting behind his teeth. His lashes fluttered, damp and golden in the late afternoon light. "I need to know if I'm still..."
Ilya's thumbs stilled against Shane's cheeks. The silence stretched taut between them, charged with everything Shane couldn't—wouldn't—say. Then Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening just enough to tilt Shane's face upward. "Думаешь, ты мне больше не нужна?" The Russian rumbled low in his chest, rough with disbelief. "I want you so much. Always."
Shane's fingers dug into Ilya's wrists where they still cradled his face, the silence stretching like thin ice beneath them. When he spoke, the words came out cracked and small—the kind of vulnerability that would have terrified him eight months ago. "Am I still..." His throat worked. "Good for you?"
"Listen," Ilya growled, the word vibrating through Shane's bones. "You think I would waste ten years on someone who wasn't good for me?" His fingers flexed against Shane's skin, the calluses catching slightly. "Shane, you are perfect. Don't ever think you're not."
Shane blinked rapidly, his breath stuttering when Ilya's thumb brushed his lower lip with such tenderness. His fingers uncurled slowly from their death grip on Ilya's wrists. "Can I—" His throat clicked around the words. "Hold you?"
Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders dropping as if Shane had cut his strings. He didn't answer with words, just guided Shane's hands to his waist with deliberate pressure, then folded forward until his forehead rested against Shane's collarbone. Shane's breath hitched at the sudden weight, at the way Ilya's entire body seemed to slump into him, heavy with exhaustion and something too vulnerable to name.
Shane's fingers curled into the fabric of Ilya's shirt, grounding himself in the warmth and weight of him. The scent of the outdoors still clung to Ilya, mingling with the sharper tang of sweat, and Shane pressed his nose against it, breathing deep. "You scared me," he murmured, the words muffled against Ilya's shoulder.
The weight of Ilya's forehead against Shane's collarbone was grounding in a way words couldn't be. And simply the weight of Ilya was better than any weighted blanket. Shane pressed his lips to the crown of Ilya's head before murmuring against his sweat-damp hair, "Tell me what you need." His hands slid up, fingers splaying wide wide across the familiar planes of muscle beneath his shirt.
Ilya's breath warmed Shane's collarbone, uneven against his skin. "I never," he began, the words rough like gravel dragged from his throat, "wanted you to look at me the way my mother looked at my father." His fingers twitched against Shane's waistband, pressing into the dip of his hipbone. "Scared. Like I might—" The sentence fractured, his forehead pressing harder into Shane's shoulder.
Shane's hands stilled on Ilya's back, fingers spreading wider as if trying to cover more of him. "You never could," he whispered fiercely. His lips brushed the damp curls at Ilya's temple. "I know you. You'd break your own hands before you hurt me"
Ilya nodded, his grip tightening momentarily on Shane's hip. "When you asked to be hunted..." His voice roughened, fingers flexing against Shane's skin. "I saw his hands on her. The way she—" The sentence died abruptly, his forehead pressing harder against Shane's collarbone.
Shane's palm slid up to cradle the back of Ilya's neck, fingertips brushing the damp hair at his nape. "And when you hesitated today," Shane countered softly, "all I saw was you being careful with me." His thumb swept along Ilya's jawline, coaxing his face upward.
Ilya's exhale was sharp against Shane's throat. He didn't lift his head, but his fingers tightened where they gripped Shane's hips. "You deserve better than my ghosts," he muttered into Shane's collarbone. The words vibrated through Shane's skin, settling somewhere beneath his ribs.
Shane carded his fingers through Ilya's hair, scraping lightly against his scalp the way Ilya liked. "Your ghosts are part of you," he said quietly. His thumb brushed the shell of Ilya's ear. "And I want all of you or nothing at all. Even the pieces you think are broken."
Ilya finally lifted his head, his eyes dark with something Shane couldn't name. "You should not have to fix what he broke," he said roughly. His thumb traced the line of Shane's jaw, lingering on the pulse point beneath.
Shane caught Ilya's wrist, turning his hand to press a kiss to his palm. "I'm not fixing anything," he murmured against the calluses. "I'm just loving you." He guided Ilya's hand to his own chest, pressing it flat over his heartbeat. "And you're loving me back. That's all this is."
"I ruined this for you," Ilya said finally, the admission rough as splintered wood. "Your fantasy. I should have..." his jaw worked. Shane could feel the pulse beneath his fingertips, rapid but steady, like Ilya's breathing had slowed but his heart hadn't gotten the memo yet.
Shane’s fingers traced the line of Ilya’s collarbone through his shirt, grounding them both in the contact. The weight of Ilya’s confession pressed between them like a third presence—unseen but undeniable.
"There are moments," Ilya began, voice low and fractured, "when you give me everything. When I have you right where I want you, and I think..." His thumb brushed Shane's collarbone in slow circles, grounding himself in the contact. "For one second, I understand how he could have enjoyed it."
Shane pulled Ilya in closer to his chest. "Keep going," he whispered, because Ilya needed this out more than Shane needed comfort right now. "I'm right here and I'm going anywhere."
Ilya's exhale shuddered through Shane's shirt where his face was still pressed against Shane's collarbone. "He always said he loved her," Ilya murmured, the words muffled against Shane's skin. "My father. Said it like it excused everything." His thumb traced idle circles against Shane's waistband, the calluses catching slightly on the fabric. "He never once thought he was the bad guy."
Shane waited, letting the silence stretch between them, letting Ilya find the words at his own pace.
Shane’s fingers stilled against Ilya’s back.The weight of Ilya’s confession settled between them. He pressed his lips to Ilya's forehead, breathing in the scent of him. "You’re not him," Shane murmured, the words warm against Ilya’s scalp. "You never could be."
Ilya’s grip on Shane’s waist tightened, his knuckles pressing hard against Shane’s hipbones through the fabric of his shorts. "I know," he growled, but it lacked conviction. "In my head, I know." His thumb traced the waistband again, restless. "But when you ran...from me..." The sentence fractured. His breath warmed Shane’s collarbone, uneven.
Ilya's shoulders hitched once—twice—against Shane's chest, his breath warming the fabric of Shane's shirt in uneven bursts. Shane felt the tremors before he registered them, the way Ilya's entire body seemed to vibrate apart at the seams, fingers digging into Shane's arms like he was clinging to a cliff edge.
"Hey—" Shane's hands slid up and down Ilya's back. "I've got you." His fingers spread wide, covering as much of Ilya as he could reach. "Breathe with me."Ilya shook his head violently, pressing his forehead harder against Shane's sternum.
Shane's fingers curled around the back of Ilya's neck, pressing their foreheads together until their breathing synced. "You know what your father never did?" Shane whispered. "He never worried about becoming a monster." The truth of it settled between them like fresh snowfall, quiet and undeniable. "And you do."
Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening momentarily on Shane's hips. "You don't know—"
"I know *you,* Ilya." Shane's thumb brushed the damp skin beneath Ilya's eye. "Every rule we have, every boundary—we built them to protect each other. Not to control each other." His voice dropped lower, firmer. "That is the difference."
Ilya's fingers flexed against Shane's shoulder, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally. "When you ran," he murmured, "all I could think was what if I crossed a line? What if I hurt you and didn't stop?"
Shane shifted just enough to press his forehead against Ilya’s, their noses brushing. “You think I’m powerless in this,” he said softly, not as an accusation but as an observation. His fingers tightened around Ilya’s wrists where they still gripped his waistband. “But I’m not. I *choose* this. Every damn day, I wake up and choose you—choose *us*.” He exhaled, warm against Ilya’s lips. “And if I ever didn’t want it? If you ever crossed a line?” A hint of that stubborn defiance flickered in his voice. “I’m fast and strong too, Rozanov. You really think I couldn’t get away if I really needed to?”
Ilya’s grip loosened slightly, his thumbs brushing the dips of Shane’s hips. “You shouldn’t have to,” he muttered, but the protest lacked its usual edge.
Shane snorted, nudging Ilya’s knee with his own. “Yeah, well, life’s full of ‘shouldn’ts.’ Doesn’t mean we don’t plan for them.” He dragged his fingertips down Ilya’s forearms, tracing the familiar ridges of muscle and scar tissue. “That’s why we have safewords. That’s why we check in. That’s why you *always* ask, even when you know the answer.” His voice dropped lower, threading through the space between them like an unshakable truth. “You’ve never once made me feel like I couldn’t stop this. Not ever.”
The tension between them eased like thawing ice in small, perceptible cracks. Shane felt the shift in Ilya’s shoulders beneath his hands, the way his grip softened from desperation to something more familiar.
Shane exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting his grip on Ilya's wrists.. "You think I asked for that chase because I wanted danger?" His voice roughened unexpectedly, catching on the word like a skate blade biting ice. "I just wanted *you*. All of you. Not the careful version who triple checks every touch." Shane leaned forward, his lips brushing the shell of Ilya's ear, not quite a kiss, just the ghost of contact. "I wanted the man who almost broke their own teammate's nose for knocking me out on the ice." He felt Ilya's sharp inhale against his neck. "I *know* you'd never hurt me. That's the whole fucking point."
Ilya’s breath hitched against Shane’s collarbone, his fingers tightening momentarily before relaxing into a slow, deliberate stroke along Shane’s ribs. Just when he didn’t think he could love this man more, when he was certain his heart had reached its capacity, Shane went and said something like that. The raw, stubborn faith in his voice, the way he wielded his trust like a weapon against Ilya’s darkest fears.
Ilya rose up abruptly, his grip on Shane's wrists tightening momentarily before releasing. Shane blinked—and there they were, the wet sheen across Ilya's dark lashes, the raw vulnerability in his expression that he so rarely allowed anyone to see. It punched the breath from Shane's lungs. Before he could speak, Ilya surged forward, capturing Shane's lips with bruising intensity, pouring years of unspoken fears and devotion into the kiss. His fingers tangled in Shane's hair, angling his head back as if he couldn't get close enough, as if he needed to brand this moment into Shane's skin.
Shane melted into it instantly, his hands finding Ilya's hair to anchor himself. The taste of salt between their lips only made the kiss more desperate, more real. When Ilya finally pulled back, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed against Shane's, their noses brushing. "You," Ilya growled, the word rough with emotion, "are the only thing I have ever been sure of." His thumb brushed Shane's cheekbone, wiping away moisture Shane hadn't realized was there.
Ilya loved this man so much it terrified him sometimes. The way Shane could unravel him with just a look, the way his touch could steady Ilya’s pulse when nothing else could. Right now, with Shane’s fingers carding through his hair, their foreheads pressed together, and Shane's arms holding him...Ilya felt more regulated than he had in years.