He didn’t know what he was afraid of.
Maybe his own feelings.
Maybe Ilya’s.
Maybe the whole world—everyone who might have something to say about it. His family. His teammates.
Or maybe he was afraid that, the moment he put it into words, he’d be placing a weight on Ilya’s shoulders—something that would make him pull away.
Shane was afraid of all of it.
“I should’ve told you beforehand,” he said anyway.
Not because he’d forgotten. No.
Maybe a part of him had wanted to show up unannounced. Maybe he’d really wondered if Ilya would be there with someone else—if that darker, restless part of him had taken over for a moment.
The truth was, he didn’t even know what he’d been thinking.
Especially not when he’d dragged his parents into it.
Ilya’s lips curved into a playful smile. “Maybe you should have,” he teased. “You could’ve caught me in a very different state.”
Shane sliced through the tomato with a little too much force, like he was trying to turn it into paste, while Ilya—still wearing that smug grin—dropped the pasta into the boiling water.
“Like what?” Shane asked, walking straight into the trap.
Ilya loved how easy it was to get under his skin.
“I don’t know,” Ilya said with a shrug. “I could’ve been a lot more… undressed.”
Shane ignored the comment—not because he didn’t care, but because he couldn’t afford to react like he normally would with his parents just a room away. And maybe because he wasn’t entirely sure he had the right to react at all.
“I told them we’re friends,” he said instead. “But they still think it’s weird. Help me out a little.”
“What do you want me to do?” Ilya asked, one brow lifting.
“I could kiss you, if you want. Might make it more convincing—show them just how close we are.” He stepped forward as he said it.
Shane immediately took a step back, avoiding his gaze. If Ilya kept this up, Shane wasn’t sure he’d survive the night.
“Behave,” Shane said firmly.
“Nyet,” Ilya replied, his lip curling slightly. “I don’t want to.”
Shane didn’t respond. He gathered the chopped ingredients into a single bowl while, beside him, Ilya had already moved on to preparing the sauce.
They worked in silence for a while—
until Yuna stepped into the kitchen, leaning against the counter.
Shane took a tight breath.
“Do you boys need any help?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest, one brow lifting. There was something pointed in her tone, like she was quietly gathering pieces, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
Ilya felt the weight of her attention, like he’d been placed under a microscope.
“Not really,” he replied smoothly. “Shane and I got it. Would you like something to drink? Dinner should be ready in about half an hour.”
Yuna gave a calm shake of her head, a quiet no.
Ilya offered what he hoped passed for a warm, harmless smile—something disarming, something safe—before turning back to the tomato sauce. Still, he couldn’t help the occasional glance from the corner of his eye. Under her watchful gaze, he felt like any wrong move might give everything away.
Shane knew she had questions. He could feel her holding them back.
So he straightened, forcing himself to look as composed as possible. Confident. Unbothered.
He’d told a lie. Now he had to make it believable.
He just hoped he wouldn’t screw it up.
Yuna watched them for a while without speaking. Without asking anything. She didn’t need to. The way Shane moved through the kitchen said enough. He knew where everything was—what cabinet to open, where to find what he needed. There was no hesitation, no searching.
He’d been here before.
Her gaze shifted to the sauce Ilya was stirring. It looked… oddly familiar. Almost too aligned with Shane’s taste—the exact kind of texture he preferred.
Then her eyes moved back to Shane as he opened the fridge. And then—
Blocks of ginger ale, neatly stacked inside Ilya Rozanov’s fridge.
How likely was that?
Yuna couldn’t quite put a name to what was happening here, but one thing was certain, Shane had been here before.
More than once, maybe.
“We've disturbed you at this hour,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Her tone was still measured, still distant—and who could blame her? This was someone she’d spent years disliking. A rival player on the opposing team. Shane’s biggest competition.
And yet, somehow, also… his friend.
A friend she had never heard of.
It left her feeling not only blindsided, but certain there was more to this than what they were being told.
“Is really not a problem,” Ilya said simply, turning his head just enough to offer her a reassuring look.
Then, almost casually, she continued, “Did you send Shane your address beforehand? I didn’t see him check navigation on the way here.”
Shane swallowed.
The question was sharp. Too sharp.
“Mom,” he said, exhaling slowly. “I told you—we’re friends. I know where he lives. And we showed up unannounced… how would he have sent me the address?”
Yuna raised a brow.
So he did know the place.
“You know where he lives?” she pressed.
Shane sprinkled salt over the salad, shooting her a brief glance. “Yeah. We’d come here sometimes… play video games or whatever.” It was the best lie he could come up with, and it didn’t even sound that implausible.
Two guys. Teammates. Hockey players. Meeting up at one of their places—what else would they be doing, really?
Right?
For now, Yuna chose not to press any further.
She lingered a moment longer, watching them as they moved around the kitchen—taking in the small details, the unspoken familiarity—before finally turning and heading back to the living room, to her husband.
She would figure out what was really going on.
One way or another.
***
At the head of the table, the first few minutes were filled with a deafening silence.
No one seemed to know what to say, what to ask—what to even think. They kept their heads down, focusing on the food in front of them as if it could fill the space.
Yuna was lost in her own thoughts. Shane was tense, focused only on getting through the night. And Ilya… Ilya was somewhere else entirely.
It had been a long time since he’d sat at a table like this.
A long, long time.
The last time had been his father’s funeral—and that had hardly been a pleasant meal.
But this… Standing in the kitchen with Shane while his parents waited in the other room. Sitting down together like this. Eating, sharing a table—
It was something Ilya hadn’t experienced in years.
“So, Ilya,” David began.
He was the most at ease in the room, and his attempt to soften the atmosphere drew everyone’s attention toward him.
“The game… was good.”
The game. The one earlier today. The one Ilya’s team had lost, 3–2.
“That is—not that you losing was good,” David corrected quickly. “It was a close match. Very enjoyable to watch. You’re a strong player.”
Shane covered part of his face with one hand, biting his lip in secondhand embarrassment. He took a bite of his salad, hoping Ilya wouldn’t take it the wrong way.
But Ilya just smiled.
Genuinely.
A strong player.
Just another compliment he’d never once heard from his own father.
“Thank you, Mr. Hollander—”
“David. Please.”
Ilya’s smile softened, widened just a little.
Yuna watched him—really watched him—and for the first time, something shifted in her expression.
For a brief moment, he didn’t look like the rival player she’d built up in her mind.
He looked like a boy.
At home, in his sweats.
Disarmingly soft.
Almost… sweet.
Just another young man. Not so different from her son.
“The season’s almost over,” David added.
Ilya nodded.
He was probably referring to the break—the time off, the quiet that followed. For most people, it meant rest. Something to look forward to.
For Ilya… not so much.
It meant going back to Russia. He didn’t want to go back to Russia.
If there were another way—any way at all—he would have taken it. But right now, it didn’t feel like he had a choice.
Ilya took a bite of his pasta.
Shane noticed.
And immediately tried to steer the conversation somewhere else.
“My mom thinks this is going to be Scott Hunter’s year,” he said.
Ilya—being Ilya—frowned instantly. “No way. He’s 100 000 years old?”
“He’s not that old, come on,” Shane shot back, half-defensive.
“Didn’t you get into a fight with him mid-season?” Ilya added, a teasing edge in his voice. “Angry kitten.”
Shane felt heat rush up his face.
Okay. He needed to calm down.
That was definitely flirting—but not in a way his parents would immediately pick up on. At least… he hoped.
“Yeah, but he’s still a good guy.”
“Oh really?” Yuna cut in, speaking for the first time since they’d sat down. “Why did you fight about, Shane? You never really told us.”
Shane froze.
For no clear reason, heat crept up his neck. He swallowed, covering his mouth with his hand, suddenly tense—like he’d been caught, even though neither Ilya nor his parents knew the real reason.
He could handle this.
He shook his head lightly, buying time. “What do you mean?”
Yuna took a sip of her water, shrugging. “You mentioned he made some kind of personal remark.”
“I don’t even remember what he said,” Shane replied quickly. “It was just… in the moment.”
He avoided looking at Ilya. Being read so easily made lying infinitely harder.
“This is really good, by the way,” David cut in, steering the conversation elsewhere. “The pasta’s great. Did you make it?”
His gaze shifted to Ilya.
Unlike Yuna, Shane’s father wasn’t nearly as guarded—and that alone eased some of the tension. Ilya felt his shoulders drop slightly, only then realizing how tightly he’d been holding himself.
“Yeah,” Ilya said with a small nod. “I tend to stick to one recipe, so it’s hard to mess up.”
David nodded, making small, approving sounds between bites. “Must be tough, living alone.” He paused, looking up. “You do live alone, right?”
“Yes,” Ilya said.
Mostly. Svetlana stopped by sometimes. And Shane. But he chose to keep both to himself.
“The ginger ale was a coincidence, then,” Yuna said. “Shane practically drinks nothing else.”
“Luck,” Ilya murmured, not entirely convincingly. He felt momentarily exposed—but didn’t show it. “I take it you like it too? Is it some kind of athlete thing?” she added lightly.
And then—
Shane slipped.
For a split second, his thoughts outran his control.
“No he doesn’t like it. He prefers cola.”
The table, which had only just begun to thaw, went instantly cold again.
Shane’s head snapped up, eyes widening slightly as he turned to Ilya, silently asking him to fix it. Yuna and David exchanged quick, subtle glances.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Ilya said smoothly. “We had a team party at my place the other day. Must’ve been left over from that.”
He threw Shane a quick, almost teasing look—nice one.
Truthfully, Ilya didn’t care all that much. He’d been lying for a long time now—hiding himself, hiding this, from everyone. And lately, with his ties to Russia growing weaker, he’d found himself gravitating closer to Shane.
He felt… better with him.
More hopeful than he had in a long time. He’d even been thinking about taking a step forward—soon.
So if his family found out? It wouldn’t have been the end of the world.
Still, he shot Shane a brief look—the kind Shane would read as annoyance—just to keep up appearances. Shane immediately looked away, flushed with embarrassment.
Ilya had the sudden, overwhelming urge to pull him close and kiss him right there.
“Oh. I see,” Yuna said, not entirely convinced. But she didn’t push further.
“By the way,” Ilya added, fidgeting slightly with his hands, “the storm doesn’t seem like it’ll calm down tonight. If is alright with you… you can stay here.”
He hesitated, then added more firmly, “Really. There’s enough space. Please, don’t feel uncomfortable.”
He tried.
Even if he wasn’t good at this kind of thing, he was trying—and Shane’s heart softened at the sight of it.
Since the moment they’d arrived, Ilya had done everything he could to be polite, welcoming, considerate. They had shown up unannounced. He hadn’t had time to prepare. Shane hadn’t even asked if he wanted to meet his parents.
Maybe Ilya would have preferred something different.
But Shane had let his jealousy—his overthinking—get the better of him. He hadn’t even given him a warning.
Guilt twisted in his chest.
For a moment, he hated himself for how easily he’d brushed past Ilya’s feelings.
“Thank you,” Yuna said, clearly accepting the offer—and for the first time since they’d arrived, she smiled. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Ilya replied quickly, waving his hands before letting them fall again, his fingers fidgeting slightly. The small smile lingered on his face.
“We just wish we’d known earlier that you and Shane were friends,” Yuna added, casting her son a pointed look.
There it was.
The real topic.
“We might’ve had the chance to meet sooner.”
“Mom,” Shane warned. “We tried to keep it out of the media,” he added quickly. “Press, interviews… it would’ve turned into a whole thing.”
“Are we the press, Shane?”
And just like that, Shane had nothing to say.
He lowered his gaze, shoulders sinking slightly. He knew his mother was still upset—less about Ilya, more about the fact that he’d kept something like this from them. And the truth was, he didn’t even have a proper explanation.
Still… a part of him felt lighter.
No matter how messy it had been, they had met Ilya. And that meant something. It meant they were one step closer to his life—his real life.
And they seemed to like him.
There was still hesitation, of course. Confusion. The sense that everything had happened too fast.
But as the conversation went on, that tension slowly began to dissolve.
Ilya and David started joking with each other. When David mentioned he’d brought vodka from Russia, Ilya immediately offered some from his own stash, and the two of them slipped into an easy conversation about it. Yuna, meanwhile, asked more questions—mostly about hockey. Some of them veered into technical, professional territory. At one point, when her questions about Boston started to get a little too pointed, Shane cut in with a sharp, “Mom.”
Ilya just laughed it off, making a light joke about not being able to reveal team secrets. And somewhere in that moment, he noticed it—how much Yuna reminded him of Shane.
Teasing her felt the same.That same flicker in his chest.
It felt… familiar. It felt like home.
By the end of the night, as they were beginning to clear the table, Shane stood up with his plate—
—and then stood still.
His father’s voice stopped him in place.
“Is your family here too,” David asked casually, “or are they still in Russia? We’d love to meet them as well.”
The smile faded from his face as his eyes slowly shifted toward Ilya.
Ilya didn’t seem as shaken by the question as Shane was.
He only shrugged, offering a faint, almost brittle smile.
“My father passed away last week. My mother died when I was very young. And I don’t really talk with my brother.” He said it simply, like it was just another fact. His fingers moved to his forehead, rubbing it absently—the same gesture he always made when he was tense.
Shane let out a shaky breath.
“Oh,” his father said, caught somewhere between surprise and sympathy, his gaze flickering between Shane, then Ilya. “I’m sorry.”
“Is okay,” Ilya replied, steady, reassuring.
It wasn’t.
But the question itself had never been the problem.
It was everything else—the quiet disappointment, the hollow space his family had left behind. A space no one had ever filled. A space no one ever would.
That was what hurt.
Not this. Never this.
Yuna looked at him, something soft and aching settling in her chest as her eyes glossed over.
She studied him—really studied him this time. The curl of his hair. The way his expression had gone subdued, almost fragile. How small he seemed inside that oversized sweatshirt.
This wasn’t the Rozanov she knew from the media. Not the one from the ice.
This was just… Ilya.
A boy who had grown up without a mother.
A boy who might still carry something unresolved toward his father.
A boy who had, in so many ways, grown up alone.
Guilt washed over her.
For every assumption. Every judgment.
“I’m sorry, Ilya,” she said softly, and reached across the table, gently taking one of his hands—the one still fidgeting with his fingers.
Ilya startled at the contact.
It was so unexpected that he almost flinched, his eyes widening slightly as he looked at her.
“But you know…” Yuna continued, her voice warm, steady, “you’ve raised yourself into someone remarkable.”
The word yourself hit Shane like a blade.
Himself.
Ilya had raised himself.
He wasn’t supposed to have to do that. He never should have had to.
And just like that, Shane felt his heart break for him all over again.
Ilya’s fingers curled around Yuna’s hand, holding it lightly.
And despite himself— a single tear slipped free.
It might have been the first time in a long while that he’d cried in front of anyone.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.
It didn’t even continue.
Just a single tear—caught halfway down his face before it could reach his chin, wiped away almost immediately with the back of his hand.
But it hurt.
That one tear hurt more than anything had in a long time.
Because what sat in front of him wasn’t just something warm, something soft, something that made him feel good.
From a distance, all Ilya could see was how lucky Shane was.
Not in a bitter way. Never that.
He was genuinely happy for him—grateful, even, that Shane hadn’t grown up the way he had.
But still.
This—this quiet, ordinary warmth—only reminded him of everything he’d never had.
Every good feeling carried a shadow.
And Ilya let himself accept this moment like a gift— even as a part of him wished, almost desperately, for it to end.
A part of Ilya even thought he didn’t deserve this.
Feelings like this—warm, steady, good—they didn’t belong to him. It was as if some higher force had pushed him into this shape, this life, to keep things balanced.
He couldn’t imagine himself in a happy family.
Not even when his mother had still been alive had they been whole, or close, or anything resembling it. It hadn’t been death that pulled them apart— they had simply never come together in the first place.
And because of that, Ilya had never known what it meant to belong.
Not when they were alive. Not after they were gone.
He wasn’t someone who belonged anywhere.
He wasn’t someone who could be loved like that—fully, unconditionally.
At least… that was what he had believed for a very, very long time.
What he had convinced himself was true.
“I lied,” Shane said suddenly.
His gaze was locked on Ilya, as if he could hear every thought running through his mind. His eyes were glassy, heavy with something he could no longer hold back.
“We’re not friends.”
Ilya snapped out of whatever quiet place he’d been in, his brows pulling together instantly. He understood what Shane was about to do—too quickly. His lips moved in a silent question. Are you sure?
Shane didn’t answer.
“Honey… what?” his mother asked, slowly withdrawing her hand from Ilya’s and placing it back on the table, her full attention shifting to her son. “You’re not friends?”
“Yes,” Shane said, firm.
His father leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, a frown settling in. “What does that mean, son?”
Shane didn’t even breathe.
“I’m in love with him.”
And there it was.
No buildup. No hesitation. No stutter.
No thought for the fact that he had never even said it to Ilya before—
or that he had never told his parents he was gay.
None of it mattered.
There was only this.
This one sentence— the confession that had been sitting on his lips for far too long, waiting to be set free.
Ilya was the first to react.
Shane barely registered his parents’ stunned silence—the way they sat there, mouths parted, frozen in place—because Ilya was already moving.
The chair scraped sharply against the floor as he pushed it back and crossed the distance between them in an instant. His hands came up, framing Shane’s face, pulling him in —and then his lips were on his.
Long. Deep. Certain.
Shane’s eyes fluttered shut. He didn’t even know where he was anymore, or who else was in the room.
All he could feel was Ilya.
His stomach tightened, his whole body tingling as he tried to keep up, his hands lifting weakly to Ilya’s waist, fingers clutching at the fabric of his sweatshirt.
And then—
Ilya pulled back.
His eyes were bright. Almost shining.
“I love you too.”
“Oh my God,” Shane heard his mother whisper somewhere in the distance.
But he didn’t look away.
He couldn’t.
“Th—this… how—what—” his father stammered, his voice unlike anything Shane had ever heard before—shocked, unsteady.
Ilya didn’t take his eyes off him.
“Ya tebya lyublyu.” Shane knew that one. Even though he had only just started learning Russian, he knew that phrase. He didn’t hesitate to say it back, trying slowly with his imperfect accent—
“Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Ilya laughed—really laughed, loud and unrestrained.
“Your accent is shit.” he said, and Shane laughed too. For once, he didn’t argue back. Didn’t snap, didn’t tease.
He loved him too much in that moment—so much it felt like his chest might burst.
And because of that, everything Ilya said felt warmer than ever.
They stayed like that for a while longer, wrapped around each other, until both Shane and Ilya realized—through the dampness against their fingers—that they were crying. The quiet sound of sniffles blended with soft murmurs and breathy laughter.
Shane pulled back slightly, glancing over Ilya’s shoulder toward his parents.
They were still in shock. That much was obvious.
But there was something else there too. Something softer.
Sadness?
Understanding?
Maybe even… happiness?
“Oh, Shane,” his mother said, rising from her seat as she moved toward him.
She had a thousand questions. A thousand whys and hows waiting to be asked.
But for now, she set them aside.
Because this—this moment—was real. Raw. Emotional. And she couldn’t help but be drawn into it.
When Ilya saw Yuna approaching, he instinctively wiped at his tears and started to step back, giving them space— but Yuna didn’t let him.
As she pulled Shane into her arms, she reached out with her other arm and caught Ilya too.
It wasn’t quite a group hug. Yuna was holding her son. Ilya could barely even say he was part of it.
And yet— the simple weight of her hand resting against his back made something shift inside him.
For the first time— he felt, in the smallest way, like he might belong.
Like this could be the beginning of something.
Shane held onto his mother tightly, his tears soaking into the fabric of her sweater, his sobs growing louder now, harder to contain.
And then—on his other side—he felt another arm wrap around him.
Familiar. Steady.
David Hollander had stepped in too, pulling his family close.
Shane let out the deepest breath of his life.
And for the first time— with no tension, no fear lingering in his chest—
He simply let himself fall into the moment.
***
“I have so many questions.”
“I know, Mom.”
“I mean—you have no idea how angry I am with you.”
“I know, Mom.”
“How could you keep something like this from us for so long?”
This time, Shane couldn’t even answer. Because his mother was in full Yuna Hollander mode.
“I raised you better than this.”
“Mom—”
“Didn’t you trust us enough to tell us?” And then suddenly, her voice wavered again, emotion breaking through the anger. Shane shook his head quickly.
“No, Mom.”
“Then why?” Yuna asked, she stopped pacing and turned back to Shane and Ilya, who were sitting on the couch with their hands clasped tightly between their knees—like two kids being scolded, watching her closely.
David had taken a seat in the armchair, lifting his brows at Shane in a silent don’t look at me. “Your mother’s right, Shane.”
“I couldn’t tell you,” Shane said, trying to defend himself. “It wasn’t just my secret.”
But Yuna missed nothing.
“Not telling us you’re gay wasn’t just your secret either?”
Shane lowered his head.
Then, slowly, he looked back up at her, taking a deep breath.
“It’s just… it wasn’t only about being gay.”
He hesitated. “Everything started with Ilya. It was always him—just him. I couldn’t explain something connected to him… not easily.”
He swallowed.
“I didn’t even fully understand it myself until recently. It’s not like I’ve known for years.”
That wasn’t untrue.
Yes—Shane had always known, maybe from the very beginning, that he felt something for Ilya. But he had never really questioned whether he was gay. Or rather… whether he was fully gay.
“I’ve always avoided thinking about it,” he admitted. “I never even faced it myself. Because the moment I accepted it, I knew I wouldn’t be able to control my life anymore.”
He cast a brief glance at Ilya.
“And I couldn’t afford lose him.”
Ilya swallowed, pressing his lips together like he was accepting some blame. Yuna let out a sigh. “Don’t you dare fall into that kind of guilt, young man,” she said.
Her words were gentle, but there was still a scolding in her tone.
“This is not your fault. You’ve had your own struggles, just like Shane. This isn’t either of your fault.”
By the end, her voice softened, drifting into something quieter—almost like she was speaking to herself. With a tired breath, she sank into the armchair across from her husband.
“It’s my fault for not realizing sooner.”
“No one is at fault,” David cut in, raising his hands slightly as if to calm everyone down.
“This is how it was meant to happen, and it happened. Everyone needs to stop blaming themselves and focus on right now.”
As he spoke, Ilya flinched—just slightly.
He knew David meant well. He could hear it in his voice, feel the intention behind his words.
But still— there was something about that firm, paternal tone that made him shrink back without meaning to.
He sank a little deeper into himself.
David noticed immediately.
“Ilya,” he said, his voice softening.
Ilya slowly lifted his gaze, a flicker of unease still lingering in his eyes.
“This isn’t a trial. We’re not that kind of family. We would never hurt you.”
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. Yuna and Shane both caught on at the same time, their heads snapping up, concern flickering between them.
Ilya swallowed. “I know, I know. It was just… a moment. Am sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” David said calmly. “Yes, we’re surprised. Yes, we need answers. But this won’t lead to consequences—for anyone.” He explained. Ilya nodded along, a little more at ease now.
“Then let’s go back to the story,” David said, steering the conversation again. “When did this… start?” he added, gesturing between the two of them.
Shane and Ilya glanced at each other, unsure who should answer—or how.
“Since our rookie season,” Shane said.
Yuna and Ilya spoke at the same time, both of them reacting instantly.
“Since your rookie season?”
“That’s not true,”
Everyone looked startled.
“It was before,” Ilya insisted, his brows drawing together as he looked at Shane.
“Before?” Yuna echoed, her confusion growing.
“The summer before.”
Yuna dragged a hand over her hair, shaking her head as if she still couldn’t quite believe any of this. Then, almost just as quickly, she tried to accept it—because no matter how surprising each new detail was, it didn’t change the fact that it was real.
“Alright,” she murmured. Behind her, David leaned back in his seat, letting out a quiet, stunned, “Wow.”
Seven years.
How had they done that? How had they managed to keep something like this hidden for so long?
“Mom… can we stop the questions for tonight?” Shane said, clearly worn out. “I’m really tired. Aren’t you?”
Yuna looked like she was about to protest. “We’re tired,” David cut in gently. “We’ll continue this later, boys.”
At that, Ilya immediately got to his feet. “I’ll show you to your room,” he said, clasping his hands together in front of him.
Yuna raised a brow, a playful, knowing look crossing her face.
“I assume Shane’s room is the same as yours,” she said, letting out a slightly hysterical laugh.
A small smile flickered across everyone’s face.
“I mean, yes,” Ilya said lightly. “Probably.”
And at that point— Yuna and David decided they didn’t need to hear any more details tonight.
***
Ilya let himself drop onto the bed beside Shane, the mattress creaking loudly under the sudden weight. Shane shot him a disapproving look.
“Ilya, slow down. They’ll hear.”
“Hear what?” Ilya shot back immediately. “Don’t talk like I’m fucking you.”
Shane’s lips parted in irritation, but Ilya didn’t give him the chance to respond.
“Besides, this is a big, well-insulated house, Mr.Realtor.”
Shane rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to his phone—but Ilya, grinning, leaned closer. He pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s cheek.
Shane instinctively leaned into him, his grip on the phone loosening as Ilya’s kisses trailed down to his neck.
“Hmm… though I would like to be fucking you,” Ilya murmured.
“Ilya! Shut up,” Shane said, pushing him away lightly—not with much force. Ilya didn’t even budge.
“I just confessed my love to you today and all you can think about is sex. You’re unbelievable,” Shane added, a teasing edge to his voice.
Ilya’s expression softened instantly. He lifted his head from Shane’s neck, eyes narrowing slightly in something gentler as he looked at him.
“Ah,” he said. “That did happen, yes? I already knew, though. Wasn’t exactly a surprise.”
Shane rolled his eyes again.
“Oh really, Mr. Know-It-All? When you ran over and practically crashed into my lips—in front of my family, by the way—you didn’t look like you had it all figured out.”
Ilya pursed his lips, then went right back to peppering Shane with kisses, murmuring between each one, “I can’t believe we didn’t get to fuck on the same day you told me you loved me.”
Shane let out a soft laugh. “Love sex?” he asked, eyes slipping closed under the trail of kisses.
“Every time I had sex with you, was love sex,” Ilya murmured.
Shane’s heart trembled.
He still couldn’t quite believe it was real. Every time he heard something like that, it hit him all over again—like Ilya was confessing his love from scratch, over and over.
“Yeah?” Shane whispered back in the same hushed tone.
As Ilya’s kisses drifted lower across his chest, Shane reached up, threading his fingers into his curls, gently tugging. He wrapped a strand around his finger, twisting it absently.
“Why did you fight with Hunter?” Ilya asked between kisses.
Shane let out a breathy laugh. “That’s what you’re curious about right now?”
“Yes,” Ilya said simply.
Shane took a shaky breath. “He—uhm—he said something about you. About us.”
Ilya’s lips closed around his nipple. “So it was about me.”
Shane nodded quietly, unable to find the words.
Ilya smiled, clearly pleased, murmuring between kisses, “Perfect Shane Hollander… fought for me.”
Shane whispered back, almost dreamlike— “For you… anything.”
Ilya let out a low growl, latching onto his nipple more firmly this time, and Shane had to bite down on his lip to keep himself from making a sound.
“Don’t hold it in, lyubimyy,” Ilya murmured. “They won’t hear you.”
“We are not having sex while my family is here, Ilya,” Shane said, shifting slightly, trying to keep control.
“Mmm… I can still take care of you.”
Ilya’s kisses quickened—down his chest, his stomach, lower—each one wetter, more deliberate. Shane arched slightly, pressing his head into the pillow as his eyes squeezed shut, small sounds slipping past his lips despite himself.
“Fuck—Ilya.”
Ilya tugged at the drawstrings of the sweatpants he’d given Shane to sleep in, loosening them slowly, a grin tugging at his lips as he looked up at him.
And as he watched Shane like this—completely undone beneath him—he felt that same rush all over again.
God. He was so, so fucking in love with him.
Ilya steadied the boy beneath his hands, gripping his hips to hold him in place. His gaze dropped, taking in his half-hard cock, and Shane let out a soft, needy sound when Ilya’s tongue brushed over the tip.
When he took him into his mouth, there was nothing slow about it. His skilled mouth moved quickly, drawing him in with practiced ease. But just as Shane’s movements grew more urgent—right as Ilya could tell he was getting close—he pulled away, letting his kisses wander back down his body instead.
“You’re always so sensitive for me,” he murmured, his hand still lazily stroking him.
Then his fingers drifted lower.
He teased lightly at his entrance, just barely pressing before pulling back again. Instead, he lifted his hand and brought his fingers to Shane’s lips.
Shane understood immediately.
His lips parted without question, and Ilya’s fingers slipped into his mouth. Shane moaned softly around them, sucking, tongue moving over them as he relaxed into the sensation.
Once they were wet enough, Ilya pulled them free.
Shane let out a small, dissatisfied sound.
“I’ll put them somewhere more useful, solnyshko… don’t worry.”
Shane wasn’t in any state to respond. The moment he felt those damp fingers press back against his hole, he lifted an arm over his face.
“Mmm—ahh…”
Ilya didn’t hesitate this time, sliding a finger inside. “Fuck… you’re so tight,” he hissed under his breath.
His lip caught between his teeth as he watched the way Shane’s body reacted, the way he clenched around him.
He could feel himself getting hard too.
As he worked him open with one finger, then added a second—scissoring slowly—Shane’s moans grew louder. “Ilya—fuck—I—”
Ilya didn’t need more than that.
He shifted over him, rising slightly, his fingers still moving inside him—faster now, deeper, rougher—and leaned down to press his lips to Shane’s parted mouth.
The kiss was wet, breathless.
Each time they broke apart just enough to breathe, Ilya murmured against his lips— 'Good boy,' 'That’s it,' 'Come for me.'
And Shane—
Shane forgot how to breathe.
With nothing but those fingers inside him, with barely any direct touch his dick, he came untouched—his body trembling as it hit him all at once.
Ilya didn’t stop right away. He worked him through it, his fingers still moving as the aftershocks ran through Shane’s body, making him tense, then soften.
Eventually, Shane’s legs loosened, his body melting into the mattress.
Ilya pressed his fingers in one last time before pulling them out, his hand drifting over Shane’s chest, his arms—feeling the way he shivered under even the lightest touch.
“I love the way you come without me even touching you,” he murmured.
He leaned down, pressing another soft kiss to his lips.
“Like you were made for me.”
Another kiss.
“Ya tebya lyublyu.”
This time, Shane couldn’t answer.
His eyes slowly opened, hazy, unfocused, as he felt Ilya’s arms around him—lifting him slightly, pulling him close. He wrapped his arms weakly around Ilya’s shoulders, resting his head against his chest.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Ilya whispered against his ear.
Then, little quieter, more teasing—
“Your family’s just as boring as you, by the way.”
With the last bit of strength he had left, Shane smiled.
And for the rest of the night, he let himself be completely, helplessly in love.
