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The Bell Centre is loud in a way that feels structural, like the sound is built into the steel and concrete and can’t be shaken loose no matter how often Shane skates through it. Montreal crowds don’t just cheer; they bear down. They press. They remember every slight and every goal as if it happened yesterday. Shane feels it the moment his skates bite into the ice, the vibration traveling up through his legs, settling behind his ribs.
This game matters. The standings say so. The media says so. The way the coaches’ eyes track every shift says so. And the way Shane’s attention snaps, unbidden, to the other end of the ice tells him everything else.
Ilya Rozanov is already circling, loose-limbed and sharp-edged, like a blade that hasn’t decided where to cut yet.
Shane locks in. The puck drops. Everything narrows.
The first shift is brutal in the way Montreal games always are—no wasted motion, no gentle testing of the waters. Bodies collide early, sometimes more often than the sticks clash. The boards rattle hard enough that Shane feels the reverberations against his teeth. He takes a hit along the half-wall that would have folded a smaller guy and bounces it off like it never happened, shoulders burning, lungs pulling air a little too fast.
He looks for Rozanov without meaning to.
He’s there, of course. Always there. He moves through the traffic of players like he’s slipping through thoughts, not bodies, all his sharpness carving clean lines into the ice. Shane tracks him instinctively, adjusting his own angles and trying to close the space. It’s muscle memory. A habit, almost. Years of knowing exactly how dangerous Rozanov can be if given half a second too much.
They meet at center ice a minute later, shoulder to shoulder, neither yielding an inch. Shane leans in harder than necessary, feels the solid resistance of Ilya’s frame, the answering push. The contact is clean, technically. But it’s still personal. Somehow. It always is.
The puck moves away. Shane skates off, pulse spiking as he stares at the ROZANOV printed at the back of his rival’s jersey, something sharp and electric finding its home beneath his skin. Rivalry does that, he supposes. It focuses him. It’s why he’s good at all this—why he’s survived long enough in a league that eats uncertainty alive.
But even as the period grinds on, as the game opens up into fast breaks and ugly scrums in front of the net, Shane notices something off.
Rozanov’s timing is just a fraction late.
Not enough that anyone else would call it out. Not enough for any commentator to latch on to. But Shane sees it. He always does. A pass that arrives a beat slower than usual. A lane he normally takes without hesitation that he skirts instead. When he’s pressured, his response is a touch mechanical, like he’s running a drill instead of reacting. It’s a surprise, in his head, that Shane doesn’t feel bothered at all that he knows all about this—that he can categorize this in his head.
He tells himself it’s nothing. Travel, maybe. Fatigue. Montreal has a way of draining players even before the puck drops. Still, it needles at him. He doesn’t think Rozanov has opened his mouth to goad any player on Shane’s team at all.
The first goal comes hard and ugly—net-front chaos, bodies piled, the puck jammed through on second effort. Shane is on the ice for it, battling for position, sweat stinging his eyes. The roar that follows is deafening, the kind that makes the ice feel smaller, as if everyone in the arena is right there beside him. He skates to the bench, jaw clenched, chest heaving.
Across the rink, Rozanov is staring at the scoreboard like it’s said something it shouldn’t have.
The second period ramps the physicality up by another notch. Hits come later, harder, right on the edge of what’s technically acceptable. Shane dishes out a check that leaves his shoulder numb and takes one that rattles his spine. The refs let it go. The games in Montreal are officiated differently, his mom always said. Everyone knows that.
Midway through, Shane collides with Rozanov near the boards, sticks tangled, skates scraping for purchase. For a second, they’re locked together, balance teetering, breath fogging the air between them. Shane feels the familiar flare of adrenaline, the instinctive readiness for escalation.
But Rozanov doesn’t escalate.
He disengages first, pulling away and skating off without a word, leaving Shane momentarily off-balance, staring after Rozanov, feeling all too much like a rug has been pulled beneath him.
That’s wrong, he thinks, but the world around him moves way too fast to dwell fully on the thought.
The next shift, Shane shadows him more closely, testing and pushing. Rozanov still moves well, of course. That’s a given. He’s Shane’s rival for a reason—his hands are steady, his stride smooth. But there’s a distance to him, a slight vacancy behind the eyes when they cross paths. Rozanov doesn’t seek contact the way he usually does. Doesn’t bait. Doesn’t smirk. No “Are you gonna disappoint me, Hollander?”
It unsettles Shane more than a cheap shot ever could.
The tying goal comes off a rush, a perfect shot placed inside just inside the post. Shane exhales hard, the sound lost in the crowd. Momentum swings again, the game tightening into something tense and brittle. Every shift feels like it could crack open into disaster or glory.
Later in the period, Rozanov gets the puck in the neutral zone with space. This is where he’s lethal, Shane thinks as he angles towards him, ready for the cut, the sudden acceleration. That move that always gets other players going because of how fast it all happens.
Except, it doesn’t come.
Rozanov chips the puck deep instead, a safe play. The right play, really, but not the one Shane expects. Not from him.
The horn sounds shortly after, startling him and giving Rozanov an out. Shane skates to the bench, sweat-soaked, heart hammering for… reasons. He tells himself to focus. To let it go, because he has to. This is hockey. This is pressure. Not everything needs an explanation.
But the image of Rozanov choosing safety over risk sticks with him.
The third period is war. The score stays knotted, the tension coiling tighter with every minute that bleeds off the clock. Shane blocks a shot that bruises his shin through the padding and barely registers the pain. He takes a shift that stretches too long, lungs burning, legs heavy, refusing to leave the ice while the play is still alive.
Rozanov is out there just as much, his minutes stacking up, but he looks… muted. Effective, yes. Dangerous in flashes. But there’s a certain restraint to him that Shane has never associated with Ilya Rozanov. Not in games like this. Not ever, if he’s being really honest about it.
With five minutes left, another scrum breaks out in front of the Montreal net. Gloves stay on, but barely. Sticks jab. Shoves escalate. Shane is in the thick of it, forearms straining, teeth clenched. He feels Rozanov’s presence before he sees him, a familiar weight pressing in at his side, warmth seeping through layers and despite the cold.
For a heartbeat, they’re braced together, both fighting for the same inch of ice. Shane expects again—the spark, the extra push, the challenge. Still, nothing comes. Rozanov’s attention seems elsewhere. His eyes flick past Shane, unfocused, like he’s tracking something only he can see. Like it matters more than Shane does.
The whistle blows all too soon. Bodies separate. Shane skates away with a scowl he doesn’t bother hiding.
The game goes to overtime. The noise in the arena swells, anticipation cracking through the stands. Three-on-three opens the ice, exposes mistakes. Igniting live nerves. Shane thrives here. Space is opportunity. Space is danger.
He takes the opening draw, wins it clean. The puck cycles back. He jumps into the rush, legs finding another gear he didn’t know he had left. This is where heroes are made or unmade, his mom says in his head. Make it all count, Shane. Always.
Rozanov hops over the boards halfway through the shift. Shane clocks it immediately, heart rate ticking up another notch. Overtime against Rozanov is always a knife’s edge. They circle each other like vultures, closing and opening space—a familiar enough dance. Shane tracks the puck, then Rozanov, then the angle he needs to take. He forces him wide, stick extended, body low.
For a split second, Rozanov hesitates. That’s all Shane needs.
The puck moves. The chance dissolves. The play swings the other way. One of Rozanov’s teammates cuts through the slot, shot snapping off his stick before Shane can fully close the gap.
The red light goes on.
The crowd erupts.
It’s over.
Shane stands frozen for half a second, chest heaving, the loss settling into him like a weight. He skates off slowly, helmet heavy in his hands, sweat cooling too fast against his skin. The handshakes blur. The noise fades to a dull roar behind his ears.
As he heads down the tunnel, he looks back once, unable to help it.
Rozanov is still on the ice, head tilted back, staring up at the rafters like he’s trying to find something written there. Maybe the answer as to why his teammate gave them the winning shot and not him, Shane thinks, but it feels all too mean and hollow. Rozanov’s shoulders look tight, drawn inward in a way that doesn’t match his usual post-game and post-win glow.
Shane feels Hayden pat him on the back, and his gaze shifts from Rozanov and back to his teammates as they file through, disappearing into the dark. He tightens his grip on the stick and feels the loss again, more keenly this time. But it’s too late to pretend that his frustration isn’t threaded through with something else—unease, sharp and persistent. Whatever is going on with Ilya Rozanov, it didn’t start tonight, and it isn’t over with the final buzzer.
Coach, at least, waits until the locker room noise dies down into something brittle but a lot less resentful before he says it.
Shane doesn’t catch every word at first. He’s still halfway inside the game—adrenaline humming, the phantom echo of skates cutting through the ice, analyzing the play and how he could have and should have made better choices. Sweat cools on his skin too fast now that he’s sitting still. His jersey sticks to his back. He’s replaying overtime whether he wants to or not: the gap, the half-second that tipped the balance in favor of Boston. The way Rozanov stared at him during the scrum like he’s seeing everything and nothing at all.
He looks up. Coach stands in front of them now, arms crossed, tablet tucked under one elbow. His expression isn’t angry. It’s tired. That alone is enough to draw Shane’s attention fully back into the room.
A snowstorm, he’s saying. Historic, apparently, though Shane has had enough of Montreal being shut down like that throughout his life. The airport is, reasonably, closed, which means flights have been cancelled and grounded indefinitely. The League is already scrambling—games postponed, schedules reshuffled, ripple effects stretching forward into weeks. No one’s going anywhere tonight is the bottomline. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not even this week at all.
At least four days, Coach says, and the number lands with a dull thud in Shane’s chest.
Four days in Montreal.
The room reacts in predictable ways—groans, muttered curses, a few dark jokes about being trapped in the coldest city on earth. Someone asks about practice schedules. Someone asks about hotels. Hayden, at Shane’s side, curses and grabs his phone, no doubt texting his wife. Coach waves it all off with the promise that logistics are being handled, and that they’ll be the first to know when it’s all been ironed out.
Shane barely hears it.
Four days means space. Time. Proximity. Four days means Ilya Rozanov is stuck in the same city as him, breathing the same frozen air. The thought makes something restless unfurl under Shane’s ribs.
By the time the meeting breaks, the locker room has shifted into postgame chaos again—players showering, packing, calling partners or families and talking over each other. Shane moves through it on autopilot, stripping off gear, muscles aching now that the adrenaline has begun to seep out of his bones. He reaches his stall, sits, and finally lets himself pull his phone out of his bag.
Shane knows better than to expect anything. He checks anyway.
Nothing. No new notifications. No missed calls. No message from Lily.
The name sits there in his contact list, deceptively normal as always, innocuous enough that no one would look twice if they happened to see it over his shoulder. Well, at least now that he’s broken up with Rose and the separation seems to be more amicable than necessary—his teammates’ words, not his.
Lily. A shared joke from years ago, back when they’d both thought the secrecy felt clever and funny instead of necessary and structural. Shane stares at the screen longer than he should, then types out: “Great game today.”
There’s no reply, of course. Rozanov barely replies these days, even less so than when they first started their back and forth. Shane tells himself that there are reasons, because there always is. Rozanov’s team meeting probably ran long. Media obligations—they did win, after all. Trainers. Travel chaos. Post-game medical. He tells himself not to read too much into the silence, and not to assign meaning where there might be none.
But the image from the ice won’t let go of him. Rozanov and how he seems to not be in his body at all. Like he’s letting it drive on autopilot. Shane locks his phone and shoves it back into his bag harder than necessary.
He showers, dresses, moves through the arena with the rest of the team. Outside, the storm is already asserting itself. Snow whips sideways through the lights, thick and unrelenting, piling up on every surface like the city is being erased layer by layer.
The ride to his apartment is slow and quiet. Shane watches the streets blur past, headlights swallowed by white, traffic crawling. Montreal always feels smaller under the snow, compressed and turned inward, like the city is trying to protect itself from the cold.
By the time he unlocks his door, Shane’s restlessness has nowhere left to go.
He drops his keys in the ceramic holder. Drops his bag in his room. Stands there for a moment, staring at his walls and the art and the bed that’s too neatly made. The snow falls steadily outside. I’m supposed to wait it out, Shane thinks. This is what makes sense.
It feels wrong anyway.
He pulls his phone out again before he can stop himself. Still nothing from Rozanov. The last message in his phone is from his mom, reminding him to reply to sponsorship offers.
Shane exhales, long and slow, and opens Rozanov’s message thread and types before he can talk himself out of it: “I know you’re still at the arena. Meet me near the service corridor by Section 112, if you can.” He stares at the message for a full ten seconds, then adds, “Please.”
He hits send. The bubble disappears, delivered. Shane grabs his jacket again, shoves his hands into his pockets, and heads back out into the storm.
The arena is much quieter now, stripped down to its bones. The public areas are mostly empty, echoes lingering in wide corridors. Staff move with purpose, boots squeaking against the floor, radios crackling softly. They barely pay attention to him, which really helps his case.
He hasn’t checked if Rozanov has replied, but Shane slips into the service corridor anyway, the one tucked out of the way, half-lit, used mostly by arena employees who are clocked in but don’t necessarily want to work. He’s been here before. It’s neutral ground. Hidden enough to feel safe, but public enough not to raise questions.
Shane arrives early, because of course he does. He leans back against the wall, crosses his arms, and stares at the concrete opposite him. His heart is beating too fast for someone who isn’t skating anymore. He tells himself this is stupid. Reckless. There are a dozen reasons not to do this, not to reach out, not to collapse the careful distance they’ve been maintaining since that day in Boston. Since the club. Since Florida, when Shane held his hand out and Rozanov pretended like he didn’t see it.
And yet. Four days.
He thinks about Rozanov in a hotel room across the city, alone with his thoughts and the storm pressing in from all sides. He thinks about how closed-off he’d looked tonight, how tight his shoulders had been even after the game ended. Tension where there’s supposed to be elation, and oh how Rozanov got so happy after he wins a game.
Shane rubs a hand over his face. “This is stupid.”
No, it’s practical, the voice in his head whispers. It sounds mostly neutral. Shane has an apartment here. Close to the arena. It makes sense to offer. Hotels will be chaos—they aren’t the only ones who will be trapped in the city for days, and no doubt most of them have already been booked by other people so they can’t extend. Teams will be scrambling. Media lurking.
It’s not about wanting Rozanov close. Or, okay, maybe it’s not just about wanting Rozanov close. It’s logistics. It’s practical. He repeats the word over and over in his head until it stops making sense. Until he almost believes it.
Footsteps echo down the corridor a second later. Shane straightens automatically, heart leaping from his ribs to his throat before he can rein it in.
Rozanov comes into view a moment later, jacket zipped up to his chin, hair still damp from the shower, curls darkened and flattened. He looks… stiff. Like he’s wound himself too tight and forgotten how to loosen again. His expression is carefully blank, eyes alert in the way they always are when he’s somewhere he shouldn’t technically be. Shane, briefly, thinks of that moment outside the back entrance of his apartment—Rozanov in his suit, “You will murder me.”
For a second, they just look at each other.
The feeling hits Shane hard and fast, like muscle memory snapping into place. The way Rozanov carries himself. The way a spark ignites in his gaze sharpens when it lands on Shane, brief and settling immediately into distance, sure, but there all the same. Something in Shane wants to reach out. Wants to take a match to it and light it again.
Then, Rozanov speaks, and the moment shifts. “You hear about the storm?” he asks, dry as dust.
Shane snorts despite himself. “No. First I’m hearing of it.”
Rozanov rolls his eyes, a small, dismissive flick that feels almost like a gift. “They say city won’t move for days. My phone has not stopped buzzing.”
“Lucky you,” Shane says. “Mine’s been awfully quiet.”
Rozanov’s mouth twitches, just barely. “Maybe people assume Canadians are used to this.”
“Maybe they are,” Shane replies. “Doesn’t mean we like it.”
Silence settles between them again, a bit heavier this time. The banter doesn’t quite bridge the gap; it just outlines it. Shane shifts his weight, suddenly acutely aware of how narrow the corridor is, how close they’re standing without actually touching. He can smell Rozanov’s shampoo, clean and familiar in a way that makes something inside him ache.
“So,” Shane says, because if he doesn’t say anything now he might lose his nerve. “The Raiders… they tell you what the plan is yet?”
Rozanov exhales through his nose. “They’re trying to extend hotel reservation. Or move us to another one if the place is full. Everyone’s scrambling. Is… hectic.”
“Yeah. Same on our end.”
Another pause. Shane watches Rozanov’s eyes flick away for half a second, like he’s already bracing for something.
Or he’s preparing to leave, Shane’s mind supplies unhelpfully. So it’s now or never, Hollander.
“My apartment,” he says, keeping his tone deliberately even. Casual. “I mean… it’s close by, right? You could stay there instead of dealing with the hotel nonsense.”
The words hang in the air between them, fragile and irrevocable. Rozanov goes very still.
Shane feels a flash of panic—wonders if he’s misjudged, if he’s pushed too hard and too fast. He rushes to fill the silence, almost tripping over the words, trying to frame it the way he rehearsed in his head.
“It’s more practical, right?” He adds. “Less media. No teammates. You’d have your own space. And it’s only until flights start up again. You can leave first thing when they resume.”
Rozanov looks at him then, really looks at him, eyes sharp and searching. Shane holds his ground, even though his pulse is roaring in his ears. “My team will sort something out,” he says finally. His voice is neutral, but Shane can sense the tension coiled beneath it. “They always do.”
“Sure,” Shane replies. “Eventually. But it’s Montreal. During a storm like this, hotels are going to be a mess.”
“I can handle hotel,” Rozanov says.
“I know you can. This isn’t about that.”
Rozanov’s jaw tightens. Shane hesitates, then pushes a little further. “It’s just… you looked… off, tonight.” The admission feels dangerous the moment it leaves his mouth.
“Mind your b—” Rozanov’s gaze flickers. “So did you. You lost.”
Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”
They stand there, the unspoken stretching thin between them. Shane can practically see the calculus running behind Rozanov's eyes—risk versus reward, want versus consequence.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Rozanov says, and the words land heavy, weighted.
Shane nods. He’d expected that. It doesn’t make the blow sting less. “Maybe not.”
“Being alone with you,” Rozanov continues, voice lower now, more honest. “It’s… not simple.”
Shane swallows. “I know.”
“Has not been simple for a while.”
For a moment, Shane considers backing out. Telling Rozanov to forget he said anything. Letting the distance reassert itself, safe and familiar. Safe, most importantly. Isn’t this what you wanted, Shane?
Instead, he says, “You don’t have to decide right now.”
Rozanov’s mouth curves, humorless. “You already know I will.”
Another beat passes. Then another. Finally, Rozanov exhales, long and slow, like he’s letting go of something he’s been holding too tightly. “Give me two hours to get my things at hotel,” he says. “Then I’ll come home to you.”
Shane’s chest loosens, just a fraction. I’ll come home to you, Rozanov said. A mistranslation in his head, no doubt. He lets the words etch themselves into his ribs anyway.
He nods once, sharp and decisive, like sealing a deal on the ice. “Okay.”
Rozanov hesitates, then adds, quieter, “Just for the storm.”
“Just for the storm,” Shane agrees.
They don’t touch. They don’t linger. Rozanov turns and walks back down the corridor, shoulders still tense but steps steady. Shane watches him go, heart pounding, knowing with absolute certainty that whatever this is, it stopped being practical the moment Rozanov said yes.
Shane lets the door close behind them and feels the silence settle immediately, heavy and expectant. It’s different from hotel quiet, which always has an edge of transience to it—slamming doors, muffled voices from the hall, elevators chiming. This is domestic quiet. The kind that assumes people will fit it eventually. Or, at the very least, should fill it immediately.
He watches Rozanov shrug off his jacket, movements careful and precise. He doesn’t wander. He doesn’t drift. He stays exactly where he lands, like he’s marking a boundary on the floor without saying a word.
Shane clocks it immediately. Boston flashes unbidden in his mind.
Rozanov’s house was big, but that afternoon—in Shane’s mind, even after what happened—felt smaller and warmer, unfolding like gravity had a say in it—how they’d ended up in the same rooms, then the same seats, until they were touching skin to skin and no one could tell where Shane began and where Rozanov ended. Conversation slipping easily into shared silence. Fingers lacing together like it was inevitable instead of reckless.
They’d gravitated toward each other then. Slowly, unconsciously, like bodies finding heat.
This is the opposite.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Shane says, and the words come out sounding like something he’d learned from a script.
Rozanov nods. “Thanks.” But he doesn’t move.
Shane clears his throat. “You want… water? Coffee? I can make you chocolate, if that’s what you’d—”
“Water’s fine.”
Shane heads to the kitchen, relief and disappointment tangling together. The familiar layout steadies him—the counter he knows by heart, the faint scratch on the cabinet door he keeps meaning to fix. He grabs a glass, fills it, then pauses, realizing he hasn’t poured one for himself.
He does, belatedly.
When he turns back, Rozanov has moved—but only just. He’s standing near the window now, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, gaze fixed on the snow piling up outside. The city beyond looks softened, blurred, as if wrapped in cotton.
Shane sets the glasses down on the counter and gestures vaguely. “You can, uh. Sit. Anywhere.”
Rozanov glances over his shoulder. “I’m fine.”
Of course he is.
Shane picks up his own glass and takes a sip he doesn’t need. The quiet stretches again, thin and brittle. He tries to tell himself this is fine. That this is what caution looks like. That, after everything, maybe this is healthier. Rozanov is a friend, rivalry and everything else aside. Practical. There’s that ever-handy word.
Still, it startles him. This landmine. The way he doesn’t know when and how to make the next move when all their lives, all these years they’ve known each other, Shane has always been able to anticipate how Rozanov would be like. At the very least, when they’re both in the same room.
He moves around the room, pretending to check things that didn’t need checking. The fridge hums, the clock ticks. Every small sound feels amplified.
“So,” Shane says eventually, leaning back against the wall. “Looks like the storm’s just getting worse.”
Rozanov hums noncommittally. “Montreal likes to commit.”
Shane almost smiles. Almost. The line lands where a joke should be, but it doesn’t open anything up. It just sits there between them. No “Such a boring line opener, Hollander.” It’s distinctively painful to him that the Rozanov he’s used to, the one that lives in his head right now, is so different to the one standing beside him.
He watches him now from the corner of his eye. He looks composed, but Shane knows him well enough to see the tension that’s still sitting across his shoulders. The way his weight is distributed too evenly, like he’s ready to bolt if necessary. It reminds Shane—uncomfortably—of the very first time they ever spoke. Rozanov, sharp and distant, every word measured, every look piercing to wound. Shane had chalked it up to rivalry, to attitude, not yet knowing that much of it was defense.
Shane shifts, restless. He steps out, drifting towards the living room. It’s open plan, meant to feel airy. Right now it just feels unnecessarily exposed.
“I’ve got clean sheets,” he calls out. “My r—I mean, the guest room is down the hall.”
“I’ve been here before, Hollander.” Rozanov replies, the words stilted. “I’ll take whatever you give me.”
The phrasing lands oddly. Shane frowns before he can stop himself. “That’s not—” he cuts himself off, exhales. “I mean, make it yours. For now.”
“For now,” Rozanov echoes, though it doesn’t seem like he’s taking any of it to heart.
Shane walks towards the hallway, then stops halfway, realizing he’s blocking the entrance without meaning to. He steps aside too quickly, shoulder brushing against the wall. When Rozanov passes him, there’s space between them—deliberate, careful space. His hand twitches at the side, the impulse to reach out flaring and dying all in the same breath.
He hates it, and he’s sure enough when he thinks it. How conscious he is of his own body. Of where he stands. Of how close is too close. In Boston, they’d stopped thinking about that the moment Shane walked through Rozanov’s door.
Rozanov sets his bag down in the guest room, then returns to the living area. He perches on the edge of the couch instead of sinking into it, hands resting on his knees. It looks uncomfortable. It probably is.
Shane sits in the armchair opposite him, farther away than he wants to be, closer than he probably should be. The distance feels wrong no matter how he measures it.
They look at each other.
This is ridiculous, Shane thinks. They’ve shared beds. Shared secrets. Shared silences that meant more than words ever could. They’ve swapped spit and worse, for God’s sake, and Rozanov knows him probably better than anyone else in this world aside from his parents.
And now they’re sitting like strangers in a waiting room. Like they’ll never see each other again after this moment. The thought sits unpleasantly in Shane’s chest, heavy and unwelcomed.
“You hungry?” Shane asks, because he has to say something.
“A little,” Rozanov admits. “I didn’t eat much after the game.”
“Yeah. Same.” Shane hesitates. “I can make something.”
Rozanov’s gaze flicks up, wary. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” Shane pushes himself to his feet anyway. “I want to.”
He heads back into the kitchen, acutely aware of Rozanov’s eyes on his back for the first time since they arrived. The awareness sends a sharp thrill through him, though quickly tamped down by the tension that follows it. He opens cabinets, taking inventory. Pasta. Canned tomatoes. Garlic. Olive oil. Enough to put something together without thinking too hard.
Cooking has always grounded him. The repetition. The small, manageable decisions.
Behind him, he hears Rozanov move—but instead of joining him in the kitchen like he would have before, he stops short, lingering near the divider.
Shane glances back. “You can come closer. I’m not territorial.”
A corner of Rozanov’s mouth lifts. “Noted,” he huffs, but he doesn’t move.
Shane turns back to the counter, jaw tight. He tells himself not to push. Not to fill the space too aggressively. This isn’t like any other day. This isn’t before Boston. This isn’t even anywhere close to Boston, all those moments right before everything fell apart.
Still, his body doesn’t quite listen. As he works, he keeps drifting too close without meaning to—standing in the divider longer than necessary, angling himself toward Rozanov when he talks, brushing past the edge of the counter when he reaches for something on the table. Each time, Rozanov adjusts subtly, reestablishing distance without making a scene.
It shouldn’t hurt. It does.
“So,” Shane says eventually, slicing garlic with a little more force than required. “Your team—any word yet?”
“They’re figuring it out,” Rozanov says. “Extensions. Backup plans. A lot of emails. I think Carmichael is arguing with his wife still.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Thrilling. They’re grown. They can figure it out.”
Another almost-joke. Another miss.
Shane sighs, softer this time. “You’re quiet.”
Rozanov’s shoulders tighten further, and his face shutters. Shane thinks it should be impossible for a human to be that tense. “I’m always quiet.”
“You’re not,” Shane says without thinking. “Not like this.”
Silence snaps into place, sharp as their blades against ice. Rozanov looks at him then, eyes cool and assessing. “You invited me here,” he says carefully. “I thought you wanted… neutral.”
Shane winces. “I did. I do.”
“Then maybe let it be that.”
The words aren’t unkind. They’re measured. Controlled. They feel like a line drawn in chalk. Shane wants to reach out—erase it, at least smudge it a little, make it so that it’s easier to cross. Like he wouldn’t be violating a boundary rightfully set, no matter how much Shane feels like it’s so arbitrarily made.
He does none of that. Instead, he nods slowly. “Okay.”
Shane turns back to the stove, letting the pasta water come to a boil. His chest feels tight, like he’s bracing against something invisible.
Neutral, he tells himself. This is neutral.
He plates the food, simple and unremarkable, and carries it to the table. They sit across from each other, the small distance between them feeling larger than the room itself.
They eat in near silence at first. The sound of forks against ceramic is loud in the quiet apartment.
“How’s your leg?” Shane asks finally, just desperate for something to make the air feel less unbearable.
Rozanov blinks, clearly not expecting the question. “Fine. Bruised. How do you know?”
“You were favoring it a little.”
Rozanov shrugs. “You always notice too much.”
“Occupational hazard.”
That finally does it. Rozanov faintly hums in amusement. Shane latches into it instinctively, like a drowning man with a lifeboat.
“Seriously,” he continues, softer. “That was awful, earlier. I know my teammates can be…”
“Asshole?”
“Tough,” he rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to say ‘you’re the asshole’ like he normally would, because it doesn’t feel like they’re there yet. “And I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you really were off your game tonight.”
Rozanov chews thoughtfully, gaze dropping to his plate. For a long moment, Shane thinks he won’t answer. He’s starting to accept it as a truth when Rozanov suddenly opens his mouth, and says, “It happens. Is normal.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I have.”
Shane leans back in his chair, forcing himself not to press. “Okay.”
They finish eating. Rozanov clears his plate immediately, carrying it to the sink without being asked. He washes it, dries it, places it carefully in the rack. Every moment is deliberate and self-contained, like he’s afraid to take up too much space. Afraid that he might send Shane off again, which, there’s no point, really. This is Shane’s home—it’s not like there’d be any other place for Shane to go.
Of course, Shane hasn’t really given him much to think otherwise. The last time Rozanov took up space, Shane ran and almost ruined everything between the two of them. They might have patched things up in Florida, but the damage is done, and Shane is likely just reopening the wound.
Shane watches from the divider, arms crossed, feeling like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff. “You don’t have to be on your best behavior,” he whispers, watching Rozanov wipe the suds off from the sink. “This isn’t a test.”
Rozanov doesn’t look at him. “It feels like one.”
Shane’s breath catches. “That’s not fair.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
Rozanov finally turns, leaning back against the counter, arms folded. The distance between them feels charged now, humming with unsaid things.
“It’s Boston, isn’t it?” Shane says, the words slipping out before he can control himself. Rozanov stiffens, almost imperceptibly. “That… it’s still Boston, isn’t it? That’s what’s making this different.”
“It’s fine,” Rozanov replies, though it seems like his voice is coming from somewhere else. “Is not problem anymore.”
“It is, and you and I both know it.” Shane says, stepping closer without thinking, stopping just short of Rozanov’s space.
“So what? If it is problem? What do you want me to do?”
“So you admit?” Shane searches his face, trying to read the tension there. “That’s what this is about?”
Rozanov exhales, eyes flitting towards the window, watching the snow pressing in on them from all sides. “Being alone with you, now,” he says, every word careful. “It reminds me how easy it is to forget everything else.”
Shane swallows. “And that scares you.”
“Yes. You are not the only person allowed to be scared.”
The honesty hits him square in the chest. “I’m not trying to push you,” Shane says. “I promise, I’m not. It’s just—this feels like we’re going backwards.”
“Maybe we need to,” Rozanov says. “Just for a little while.”
Shane nods, even though every instinct in him rebels against it. “Okay.”
They stand there for a moment longer, the air between them taut but unbroken. Eventually, Rozanov straightens. “I think I’ll unpack.”
“Yeah,” Shane sighs, the fight leaving him entirely. “Take your time.”
Rozanov heads down the hall, footsteps soft against the floor. Shane stays where he is, staring after him, feeling the weight of the quiet settle back into place. How this isn’t the way he imagined this going.
Morning arrives quietly, like it’s trying not to startle them.
Shane wakes before the light fully does, the apartment still wrapped in that muted winter hush where whatever sounds remain outside are softened by snow. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He lies there staring at the ceiling, listening—to the hum of the heat, to the faint creak of the building settling, to the unfamiliar absence of certain noises.
No footsteps. No breathing nearby. No heavy arms wrapped around him like they’re trying to pin him down and never let him go.
Right. Guest room.
The realization settles without panic, without disappointment sharp enough to cut. Just a dull awareness of where they are in relation to each other—close, but not that close. Contained. For now. Forever, maybe, but he tries to ignore that.
He swings his legs out of bed and pads down the hall, careful even though there’s no real reason to be. The living room is washed in a pale winter light, the snow outside turning the windows into frosted glass. It makes the apartment feel like it exists in its own pocket of time, suspended and out of reach. Shane makes coffee, the ritual grounding. The smell fills the space slowly, familiar and comforting. He pours himself a mug and sits on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through his phone until it buzzes in his hand.
Mom.
He exhales through his nose and answers before it can go to voicemail.
“Hey.”
“Shane,” his mom says immediately, voice tight with concern. “We saw the news. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” he says automatically. “Just stuck.”
“I know,” she says. “They’re saying flights might not resume for days. We could drive down if you need us to.”
The image flashes unbidden—his parents’ familiar presence filling the apartment, the bubble punctured instantly, irrevocably. Ilya Rozanov at the kitchen counter, stiffening. Retreating. Not having an excuse for why he’s there, snowed in with Yuna and David Hollander’s son.
“No,” Shane says quickly, then softens his tone. “No, I’m good. Really. I’ve got everything I need here.”
There’s a pause on the other end. His mom knows him too well not to hear the undercurrent.
“You sure?” she asks gently. “You sounded… off after the game.”
Shane stares at the snow outside the window. “Just a loss. And travel stuff. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“If you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” he says, not unkindly. “But thank you.”
She sighs, resigned but still worried. “Alright. Call if anything changes.”
“I will.”
He ends the call and sets the phone aside, letting his head fall back against the couch.
It’s only after the screen goes dark that he realizes how true it was—how much he doesn’t want anyone else here. Not his parents. Not teammates. Not staff. Just this fragile, tentative quiet he and Rozanov are sharing.
He turns the TV on, low volume, some morning show he isn’t really watching. The voices blur into background noise. His thoughts drift anyway.
Boston creeps back in, uninvited. The memory of waking up tangled, unguarded. The way Rozanov had laughed into his shoulder, voice rough with sleep, barriers nonexistent for those few stolen hours.
Shane tightens his grip on the mug. This is different, he reminds himself. It has to be.
Footsteps sound softly in the hallway.
Shane looks up.
Rozanov emerges from the guest room, hair mussed, curls standing up at odd angles. He’s wearing one of Shane’s old hoodies—Shane doesn’t remember offering it, but he must have—and a pair of loose sweatpants. He looks younger like this. Softer. Still guarded, but less armored.
Half-asleep. Entirely beautiful. Something warm and aching blooms in Shane’s chest.
He forces himself to stay seated.
Rozanov pauses when he sees Shane on the couch, like he’s orienting himself to the room, to the situation, suddenly reminded of where he is and who he’s with. Then he walks over, slow and unhurried, and stops beside the couch instead of sitting.
Shane is acutely aware of the distance—or lack of it. Of how close Rozanov’s knee is to his shoulder. Of how easily he could reach out.
He doesn’t.
“Morning,” Shane says.
“Morning,” Rozanov replies, voice low, still rough with sleep. “You’ve been up long?”
“A bit.”
Rozanov hums. He stretches, arms lifting above his head, hoodie riding up just enough to expose a sliver of skin. Shane looks away before his brain can spiral. Before he does something he wants but will definitely regret.
“I’m hungry,” Rozanov says, matter-of-fact.
Shane latches onto the normalcy of it. “I can cook.”
Rozanov glances at him, eyes clearer than they were last night. Less sharp. “No. I will.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Rozanov says. “As thanks.”
“For what?”
“For making this weird,” and there’s the hint of a smile there. Small. Real. “I like weird.”
Shane exhales, something easing in his chest. “Alright.”
Rozanov heads for the kitchen, movements looser than they were yesterday. Shane watches him go, noticing the subtle differences—the way his shoulders aren’t pulled up quite so tight, the way his steps don’t sound as measured. Sleep did him good, Shane thinks, though he doesn’t say it. He turns the TV off and joins him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while Rozanov rummages through cabinets with growing familiarity.
“You sleep okay?” Shane asks instead.
“Yes,” Rozanov hums. “The bed is… comfortable. Soft. Bit dusty, the room, but I survived it.”
“I don’t use that room much.”
“Maybe you should,” Rozanov says lightly. “It’s wasted space, Mr. Real Estate.”
There it is. A joke. Small, but unmistakable.
Shane smiles before he can stop himself. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Rozanov sets a pan on the stove, cracking eggs with practiced ease. The domesticity of it hits Shane unexpectedly hard. They don’t talk much while the food cooks. The quiet is different now. Less brittle. More… settled.
They sit at the table with their plates, the snow outside casting the room in soft, diffuse light. Shane eats slowly, savoring the simple comfort of the meal. Rozanov eats with his gaze mostly on his plate, but he doesn’t feel closed off. Just quiet.
“This is good,” Shane says.
Rozanov shrugs. “It’s eggs.”
“Still.”
A corner of Rozanov’s mouth lifts. “High praise.”
They fall back into silence, forks moving in sync. Shane resists the urge to fill the space, letting it exist as it is. He watches Rozanov over the rim of his mug, the fondness settling deeper now, less biting, more steady. He thinks about the call with his mom, about how easily he declined the offer of company.
This—whatever this is—feels fragile. Tenuous. But it’s theirs.
For now.
When they finish eating, Rozanov carries his plate to the sink without comment. Shane joins him, standing just close enough to feel the warmth of his body beside him. Neither of them moves away. Not yet.
“So,” Rozanov says after a while, wiping his hands with a towel. “What is there to do in your apartment other than watch TV?”
Shane looks over at him, Rozanov leaning back against the counter, expression curious in a way that feels careful but genuine. The question itself is harmless, quite domestic, even. It still lands with a strange weight. “I have books,” Shane settles on saying. “A lot. There’s a small library in my office.”
Rozanov’s eyebrows lift. “You have office in this apartment?”
“It’s a three-bedroom,” Shane says, already turning toward the hallway. “What else was I gonna use the other room for?”
Rozanov snorts softly. “Something less boring.”
Shane rolls his eyes but reaches out anyway, catching Rozanov by the wrist before he can retreat back into distance. The contact is brief, almost instinctive, and he lets go immediately, pretending it was just to get his attention.
“Come on,” he says. “You’ll like it.”
He leads the way down the hall, hyper-aware of Rozanov following a step behind him. The office door is at the end, half-open, light spilling out from the window that overlooks a quieter street. Snowbanks pile up along the sidewalks below, pristine and untouched.
Shane pushes the door open the rest of the way. “Here.”
The room is smaller than the living area but warmer somehow. Shelves line two walls, packed tight with books—paperbacks with cracked spines, hardcovers with dust jackets long since discarded, a few stacks piled horizontally where there was no more vertical space to claim. A desk sits beneath the window, cluttered with papers, a closed laptop, a mug that hasn’t been used in weeks.
Rozanov steps in slowly, like he’s entering a place that deserves a certain amount of respect. “Oh,” he says, quietly. “You weren’t exaggerating.”
If this happened a year ago, Rozanov would have cracked a joke about bending Shane over by the desk. Or maybe something about how they’ve fucked in many areas inside Shane’s apartment but not yet this one, because he didn’t even know it existed. But that’s then and this is now, so Shane just leans against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest, and says, “Told you.”
Rozanov moves closer to the shelves, fingers hovering just shy of the spines. Shane watches him instead of the books, cataloging without meaning to. The way Rozanov tilts his head as he reads titles. The way his brows knit together in concentration, then relax. The faint crease between them that appears when he’s actually interested.
He looks good like this, Shane thinks. Relaxed. Awake. Real.
Too good.
Rozanov starts pulling books out at random, skimming back covers, flipping pages. He mutters under his breath occasionally, comments half-formed and not meant to be heard. Shane doesn’t interrupt. He realizes, almost as fast as Rozanov flips through the paper, that likes watching this version of him—curious, unguarded, engaged with something that isn’t hockey or damage control or even Shane.
“You read a lot of nonfiction,” Rozanov observes, sliding a book back into place.
“Depends on the season,” Shane says. “That one helped me sleep during a road trip.”
Rozanov huffs. “Riveting.” Another book comes down. “This one?”
“Don’t remember how it ends,” Shane admits.
“That’s tragic.”
Shane shrugs. “That’s just how it is sometimes. My brain’s full. Gotta make room for hockey.”
Rozanov glances back at him then, just a quick look. Shane looks away immediately, focusing on the spines near his shoulder like they’ve suddenly become fascinating. He feels it anyway—that electric awareness, the sense of being seen even when he refuses to meet the gaze.
Rozanov moves closer down the shelf, and the room seems to shrink around them. Shane’s heart rate ticks up, his body responding before his mind can catch up. He shifts his weight, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands.
“Do you organize these?” Rozanov asks.
“Loosely,” Shane says. “By vibe.”
Rozanov laughs, the sound soft and surprised, like it slipped out before he could stop it. “That explains a lot.”
Shane smiles despite himself.
Rozanov reaches for another book, then pauses, scanning the shelf higher up. “What’s that one?”
Shane steps closer to see what he’s pointing at, closing the distance without quite realizing it. “That? Old favorite.”
Rozanov stretches up to grab it, reaching over Shane’s shoulder without warning.
For a split second, Shane’s brain goes completely blank. Rozanov’s chest brushes his back. His arm grazes Shane’s shoulder as his fingers close around the book. The contact is light, incidental, probably meaningless to anyone else.
To Shane, it feels like a spark hitting dry tinder.
His breath hitches, sharp and undeniable.
He can feel the warmth of Rozanov pressed behind him, the solid reality of him there. He resists the urge to lean back, to close that last fraction of space. His hands curl into fists at his sides instead.
Rozanov eventually pulls the book free and steps away just as easily as he came, the contact gone so suddenly it leaves Shane dizzy.
“Found one,” he says, oblivious—or pretending to be—as he flips it open. “This looks promising.”
Shane swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs. “Yeah?”
Rozanov nods. “I’ll borrow it.”
“Sure,” Shane says, voice a little rougher than he’d like. “Take anything you want.”
Rozanov glances at him again, longer this time. There’s something unreadable in his expression—thoughtful, maybe. Curious. Then he turns away, book tucked under his arm. “I’m going to read,” he says. “You can go back to watching your boring shows.”
“Hey,” Shane protests weakly.
Rozanov’s smile is small, fleeting, but real. “I’m kidding.”
He leaves the room, footsteps soft as he heads back toward the living room. The sound fades, leaving the office painfully quiet. Shane stays where he is, staring at the shelf in front of him without seeing it.
He exhales slowly, then again, grounding himself. His heart is still racing, his skin buzzing where Rozanov brushed past him. The last few moments are the closest they have been to each other in months. He drags a hand over his face, letting out a silent laugh that’s half disbelief, half frustration.
Get it together, he tells himself. This is fine. This is nothing.
Except it isn’t, and he knows it.
He leans back against the desk, eyes closed for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the apartment beyond the door. Pages turning. The faint rustle of fabric as Rozanov settles in. His heart, trying desperately not to leap out of his chest and go to where it really belongs.
Late afternoon settles over the apartment without ceremony. The light outside has shifted to something softer, grayer, the sun filtered through layers of hard-falling snow. The storm hasn’t let up at all. If anything, it’s intensified—flakes streaking past the windows in thick, relentless sheets, the city reduced to vague shapes and muted color.
Shane sits on one end of the couch, one leg bent up beneath him, shoulder pressed lightly into the armrest. The TV murmurs in front of them, some game replay he’s barely watching. Rozanov is beside him, closer now than he was in the morning, close enough that their shoulders brush when he shifts.
Between them, forgotten, lies the book Rozanov picked from the office. It’s face-down on the cushion, pages splayed slightly like it was dropped mid-thought. Shane clocked the moment he stopped reading—noticed the way his attention drifted from the page to the screen, to the snow outside, to nothing in particular.
They haven’t talked much since breakfast. Not because the silence is uncomfortable. It’s… different. Quiet without edges. The kind of silence that feels earned, like both of them are aware of it and choosing not to disturb it. Shane, for his part, keeps catching himself cataloging small things: the warmth of Rozanov’s leg so close to his own. The way he reacts when something on the TV catches his attention.
Every so often, Shane feels Rozanov looking at him. He never looks back fast enough to meet it. He’s learned that lesson the hard way.
Rozanov’s phone rings, all of a sudden. The sound slices through the room, sharp and intrusive. Shane flinches before he can stop himself. Rozanov stiffens beside him, already reaching for the device on the table. The screen lights up, reflecting briefly in his eyes. Whatever he sees there makes his mouth set into a familiar, guarded line.
“Sorry,” Rozanov says, already standing. “I have to take this.”
“Yeah,” Shane says quickly. “Of course.”
Rozanov hesitates for half a second, like he’s considering saying something else. Then he turns and walks down the hallway, phone pressed to his ear.
Shane doesn’t mean to listen. He does anyway.
The apartment is too quiet for privacy. He can’t hear words—just the low cadence of Rozanov’s voice, muffled through walls and distance. It’s enough.
Something cold slides into Shane’s chest.
Boston crashes into him without warning.
The memory is vivid, cruel in its clarity. Rozanov’s apartment, sunlight slanting through the windows, the smell of sandwiches and coffee gone cold. They’d been sitting like this then too—but closer, too close, pretending not to notice how much space they were taking up in each other’s lives. Rozanov’s phone ringing. Shane pretending not to listen. The way the air had changed immediately, tension snapping into place.
Rozanov coming back quieter. Softer. Vulnerable in a way he almost never was.
Saying Shane’s name.
God. The sound of it, like a confession.
And Shane—overwhelmed, scared, convinced that if he stayed he’d break something irreparably—leaving. Hollander, said twice, both in different tones of desperation.
Walking out.
Letting months pass in silence while everything almost collapsed under the weight of what they refused to face.
Shane’s chest tightens. No, he tells himself. This is different. This isn’t that.
But the dread doesn’t listen.
The TV keeps playing, the crowd noise fake and distant. Shane doesn’t see any of it. His thoughts spiral faster, tighter, looping back on themselves.
What if this is the same call? What if this is the moment things tilt again? He replays every interaction from the last few days, scrutinizing them for cracks. Rozanov’s distance last night. The careful neutrality. The way he said being alone with Shane wasn’t simple.
What if this is where he decides it’s too much?
Shane presses his palms into his thighs, grounding himself in the physical sensation. He focuses on breathing—slow in, slow out—but it’s like trying to calm a storm with words.
The silence stretches. Too long.
He glances at the hallway, half-expecting to see Rozanov standing there already, watching him with that unreadable expression.
Nothing.
His heart starts to race. This is stupid, he tells himself. You’re projecting. You’re catastrophizing. You don’t even know who’s on the other end of that call.
But his body remembers. His body remembers how it felt to lose this once already.
The sound of Rozanov’s voice cuts off abruptly. Footsteps approach. Shane’s pulse spikes. He straightens on the couch, spine rigid, hands clenched together. His mind races ahead, constructing outcomes faster than he can dismantle them.
Rozanov appears at the end of the hallway.
He looks… wrong.
Not distant. Not closed off. Concerned.
Shane barely registers it before his thoughts spiral completely out of control.
Here it is, he thinks. This is it.
His vision narrows. The room feels too big, too empty, the air too thin. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of his own heartbeat, loud and erratic in his ears. He tries to swallow and can’t quite manage it. He doesn’t hear Rozanov cross the room. Doesn’t hear him drop the phone on the coffee table. Doesn’t hear anything at all until there are hands on his face.
Firm. Warm. Real.
“Hollander,” Rozanov says, right in front of him. “Look at me.”
Shane blinks, disoriented. The world snaps back into focus in jagged pieces—knees on the floor, cloth creasing. Rozanov’s face impossibly close, eyes wide with concern. His hands cupping Shane’s jaw, thumbs pressing lightly under his cheekbones.
“When did you—” Shane starts, then loses the thread completely.
“Breathe,” Rozanov says, steady and insistent. “Slow. With me.”
Shane tries. His lungs refuse to cooperate.
“I’m here,” Rozanov continues, voice low and grounding. “You’re okay. Nothing is happening.”
Shane’s breath stutters. He grips Rozanov's wrists instinctively, anchoring himself to the solidity of him.
“I thought—” he manages, then stops, throat tight. “I thought—”
Rozanov’s expression softens, understanding flickering there like a painful recognition. “Is not like that. Not at all.”
Shane’s eyes burn. He nods once, sharp and embarrassed and too honest all at the same time. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “I know that was stupid. I just—when you left, and the call, and—”
“Hey,” Rozanov interrupts gently. “No.”
He shifts closer, knees pressing against the couch cushion, closing the distance completely. Shane’s world shrinks down to this—hands on his face, Rozanov’s steady gaze, the sound of their breathing slowly syncing.
“The call was from my agent,” Rozanov says. “About flights. Stupid media requests. Nothing else.”
Shane lets out a shaky breath.
“I should have told you before I took it,” Rozanov continues. “I didn’t think.”
“No,” Shane says quickly. “You don’t owe me that. This is my—” He gestures vaguely to his head. “My thing. You weren’t even speaking in Russian.”
Rozanov studies him for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Maybe. But I don’t want you spiraling alone.”
The words land harder than anything else he’s said all day.
Shane swallows. “I didn’t hear you come back.”
“I noticed,” Rozanov says, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You were very far away.”
“I get like that,” Shane admits quietly.
“I know,” Rozanov says. His thumbs brush lightly along Shane’s jaw, an unconscious, soothing motion. “I have seen it.”
Shane’s breath finally evens out, the panic receding like a tide pulling back. He becomes acutely aware of how close they are—of Rozanov kneeling between his legs, of the warmth of his hands, of the way his presence fills the space completely.
Too aware.
“I’m sorry,” Shane repeats, softer this time. His cards laid down on the table, right beside his heart. I have nothing left to lose, he thinks, except maybe him, and I feel I’ve already done that. “About Boston. About leaving. About not calling.”
Rozanov’s gaze flickers, something raw passing through it before it settles again, calculated and cool. “I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” Rozanov says simply. “It does not mean it did not hurt.”
Shane winces. “I know.”
They stay like that for a moment longer, neither of them moving. The TV keeps playing in the background, forgotten.
Finally, Rozanov eases back just enough to give Shane space without fully letting go. “You don’t have to disappear,” he says quietly. “Not this time.”
Shane nods, throat tight. “I don’t want to.”
“I know,” Rozanov repeats. “Just tell me. When you’re scared. I told you, you’re not the only one.”
“I know,” Shane echoes. “Believe me, I know.”
Slowly, carefully, Rozanov moves to stand. His hands linger for a second longer on Shane’s face before dropping away. The loss of contact feels abrupt, almost devastating. Shane moves before he could think.
He grabs Ilya’s face and kisses him.
It isn’t careful. It isn’t tentative. It’s desperate—mouth pressing hard, angles all wrong, teeth knocking just slightly as he leans forward off the couch like gravity itself has decided for him. He kisses like a starved man, like someone who’s spent months telling himself he doesn’t need this and finding out, too late, that he was wrong.
For the briefest moment, Ilya freezes.
That pause slices through Shane—panic flaring, old fear roaring back to life—but then Ilya’s hands are there, solid and real, fisting in the front of Shane’s sweater and hauling him closer. The kiss changes instantly. It deepens, steadies, becomes something mutual and consuming. Ilya kisses back with intent, mouth opening, breath warm and familiar, like he’s been waiting for permission he no longer needs.
Shane makes a broken sound into the kiss and pulls away only because he can’t stay still. Because there’s too much feeling packed into his chest and it needs somewhere to go.
He breaks free just long enough to press his mouth to Ilya’s cheek, then the other, then down the line of his jaw. He kisses like he’s counting, like each press of his mouth is proof of existence. His lips trail to Ilya’s neck, warm skin and faint cologne and something that’s just Ilya, always has been.
Ilya’s grip tightens instantly, fingers threading into Shane’s hair, tugging just enough to make Shane gasp. It grounds and unravels him all at once.
“Hollander,” Ilya says, voice low and rough, breath brushing Shane’s ear.
Shane groans, the sound torn straight out of his chest. “No,” he says, half a plea, half a command, mouth still moving against Ilya’s skin. “Don’t say that. Say my name.”
Ilya’s fingers flex in his hair, anchoring him. “That is your name.”
“You know what I mean,” Shane says, breathless, kissing up to Ilya’s jaw again, lingering there like he can’t quite let go. “You know.”
There’s a pause—charged, fragile.
“You will run again,” Ilya says quietly.
The words cut clean and true. Shane stills just long enough to hear them, to let them land.
“I won’t,” he says immediately, the answer instinctive and fierce. Insistent. He presses his forehead to Ilya’s, breath mingling, hands tight at Ilya’s sides. “I promise I won’t.”
He punctuates it with another kiss, softer this time but no less intense, like he’s sealing the vow with his mouth. “I won’t,” he repeats between kisses, slower now, more deliberate, tiny promises planted against the skin of Ilya’s face every time he moves. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. Please.”
Ilya exhales, something shuddering and relieved, and pulls Shane back in like he’s afraid of losing him again. The world narrows to heat and breath and the solid certainty of each other, the storm outside forgotten entirely.
They stumble forward together, uncoordinated and urgent. Ilya sits beside him first, dropping down hard, and then his hands are on Shane again—firm, sure—guiding him forward and down until Shane is straddling his lap without either of them acknowledging the movement as a decision. It just happens, like gravity reasserting itself.
Shane’s heart is hammering. He can feel it everywhere—in his throat, in his fingertips, in the way his body seems to tilt automatically toward Ilya, desperate for more contact.
Ilya’s hands slide up his sides, then hook into the hem of Shane’s sweater. He pauses just long enough to look up at him, eyes dark and searching, like he’s asking a question without words.
Shane nods, sharp and immediate.
The sweater is gone in one smooth motion, tugged up and over his head and tossed somewhere Shane doesn’t see. Cool air hits his bare skin, but it barely registers before Ilya’s mouth is on him again, kissing him like he means to memorize the shape of him. Shane melts into it, hands braced on Ilya’s shoulders, fingers digging in like he needs the leverage just to stay upright.
They keep kissing.
There’s no rush to it and no restraint either—just mouths finding each other over and over, breaking apart only to come back together again. Ilya’s hands roam, mapping familiar territory like he’s relearning it, thumbs brushing over Shane’s ribs, palms pressing firmly at his lower back to keep him close.
Shane kisses him like he’s trying to make up for lost time. Like every second they’ve spent apart is something he can somehow undo if he’s thorough enough now. Ilya makes a quiet sound into Shane’s mouth—something caught between a sigh and a groan—and then murmurs something low and unintelligible, the words slipping out in Russian.
Shane doesn’t understand it. His body does, anyway.
The sound of it—soft, intimate, meant only for this space—sends a sharp jolt straight through him. He gasps, hips shifting forward without permission, and Ilya’s grip tightens in response, anchoring him there.
“Don’t,” Shane breathes, even as he presses closer. “If you’re trying to kill me—”
Ilya smiles against his mouth, brief and wicked, and says something else in Russian, quieter this time, like it’s just for Shane’s ears. Shane swears under his breath and fumbles for the hem of Ilya’s shirt, suddenly desperate to feel skin instead of fabric. His fingers curl there, tugging insistently.
“Off,” he says, voice rough. “Please, off.”
Ilya lifts his arms without hesitation, letting Shane pull the hoodie up and over his head. Shane tosses it aside with even less care than the sweater, then stops.
He can’t help it.
He takes a second just to look.
Ilya’s chest rises and falls quickly, skin flushed, curls mussed from Shane’s hands. He takes in the moles he’s missed. The hair leading down to his pelvis. There’s a faint line of tension still in his frame, coiled beneath the surface, but there’s something else too—openness, maybe. Want, unmistakable and unguarded. Shane’s chest aches with it.
He leans in and kisses Ilya again, slower now, letting the moment stretch. Then his mouth drifts downward—along Ilya’s jaw, over his throat, following the line of muscle there. He kisses with intention, unhurried, like he’s grounding himself through each press of his lips.
Ilya’s head tips back slightly, breath hitching, hands sliding into Shane’s hair again—not pulling this time, just holding. “Fuck, Shane.”
Shane keeps going.
Down Ilya’s collarbone. Over warm skin that tastes faintly of soap and something uniquely his. Each kiss is a promise, a reassurance, a silent I’m here pressed into flesh.
By the time Shane sinks down onto his knees between Ilya’s legs, his hands braced lightly on Ilya’s thighs, his own breathing is uneven and his thoughts have narrowed to sensation and need and the simple fact of being wanted back. Ilya looks down at him, eyes dark with intent, and Shane feels the last of his doubt dissolve under the weight of that gaze.
“What do you want?” Ilya asks, voice rough. His legs are outstretched now, bracketing Shane in between them. His perfect place. “Tell me.”
“I want you.”
“Say it again.”
“I want you,” Shane whispers. “I want you, I want you.” He whispers it over and over again, closing his eyes, his cheek pressed against the inside of Ilya’s thigh. “Please.”
Ilya says nothing for a while, content on just letting his fingers comb through Shane’s hair, slow and absentminded, like he’s grounding himself in the simple fact of this—of Shane kneeling there, warm and solid and real.
Then his hand stills.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His fingers tighten once, just slightly, a quiet, deliberate signal.
Shane looks up at him, searching his face. Ilya’s expression is open, steady, a little wary but unmistakably sure. The permission in it makes Shane’s chest feel too full.
“Okay,” Shane breathes, mostly to himself.
He rises just enough to reach for Ilya’s waistband, movements careful, almost reverent. He gives Ilya time to pull back if he wants to. He doesn’t.
The pants slide down slowly, Shane’s knuckles brushing skin as he goes. He eases them off, sets them aside without looking, his attention already drawn back to Ilya like a magnet.
He sinks back down again. Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s knee first, soft and grounding, then another along his thigh. His hands follow, warm palms settling there, thumbs brushing lightly as if to ask a final, silent question.
Ilya exhales, long and steady, fingers tightening in Shane’s hair again.
That’s all Shane needs.
He kisses his way up further, unhurried, letting each press of his mouth linger. He kisses like he’s mapping something precious, like he’s making sure Ilya feels seen, wanted, chosen. Ilya’s breath stutters above him.
“Ilya,” Shane whispers, and God, does that feel very nice to say. “Please.”
“Take what you want, Shane,” Ilya nods. “What you need. If it’s my cock you want, it’s yours.”
Really, what else is Shane supposed to do?
He pushes himself forward, desperate, holding on to the base of Ilya’s cock and guiding the head into his mouth. He presses a kiss there too; reverent, almost. Cum smears across his lips, and it makes Ilya groan. “Fuck. Fuck. Go on. Take it.”
Shane slides his mouth down, taking Ilya’s cock in his mouth as far as it can go. He grabs Ilya’s other hand and guides it towards his head too. Ilya moans at that, understanding the gesture for what it means. His grip—both hands now, fuck—tightens in Shane’s hair as he lifts his hips up to snap once, twice, thrice, trying to set a rhythm until he finally finds it. The pressure of Ilya’s cock feels so heavenly in Shane’s mouth. Like he’s been waiting for this all his life, and he finally has it.
He takes Ilya deeper, almost impossibly so but he manages. The tip of his cock kisses the back of Shane’s throat, making them both moan. It’s too much. It’s everything. The pleasure overwhelms him. He wants to press further into Ilya until they’re one and the same.
Ilya groans above him, loud and echoing against the empty room. Shane looks up, eyes only slightly blurry with tears. Ilya must have seen something his face—what it is, Shane doesn’t know, but it makes him push further into Shane’s mouth, fucking his face like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing. Like this, too, is his sport. He spits something out in Russian—a curse, maybe—and then says, wild and shaking, “So good. You are so good for me. So beautiful. This is where you belong, yes?”
Shane couldn’t nod. Couldn’t say anything. But he moans and hopes that Ilya understands. Yes. This is where I belong. With you. Beside you. He wants to keep being good. To make Ilya feel like he’s the only one that matters to Shane because, really, that’s the truth. Outside of hockey, outside of the ice, no one has ever made Shane feel the way Ilya does. Like he’s weightless. Like gravity won’t work on him no matter how hard it tries. Like only Ilya can anchor him into the ground so he doesn't float to where no one can reach him.
Ilya understands. He must, because Shane feels one of his hands move lower, separating from his hair to cradle his face. He almost pulls Ilya’s cock out of his mouth to ask if he could feel it like that, right through his cheek. If he could feel the way he moves in Shane’s mouth. He doesn’t though. Instead, he just relishes in the feeling of Ilya’s thumb tracing circles against his skin, soft and hard at the same time, like if he presses in just right he’d be able to get beneath Shane and, finally, consume him entirely.
It’s not long before Ilya’s thrusts become erratic, a sign that he’s close. “Shane. Ah, fuck. Shane, I’m going to cum. I’m going to—”
“Inside me. Please,” Shane says, voice rough from the pounding his throat has taken. He jerks Ilya’s cock off as he speaks, then presses kisses along the side of the shaft, delighted in the way it makes Ilya’s breathing hitch every single time. “Do it inside me.”
Ilya groans, deep and guttural, like it’s taking everything in him not to blow his load right now on Shane’s face and, well, there’s a thought. “Oh, Shane. Fuck. Come here.”
He pulls Shane up to stand, and he rises slowly, muscles stiff and knees aching from the long stretch on the floor. His legs wobble just slightly as he straightens, the blood rushing back to his feet in a way that makes him dizzy for a heartbeat, and the apartment tilts around him in a brief, surreal moment of vertigo. He sways, just enough, and then Ilya’s hands are there—firm, grounding, sliding to his hips—steadying him. Shane leans into the touch without thinking, letting Ilya guide him, and soon he’s straddling Ilya’s lap again.
“You’re beautiful, Shane Hollander,” Ilya whispers into Shane’s mouth as he places two of his fingers inside of them. Shane’s cheeks hollow as he sucks on them, knowing exactly where this is all leading to. “Fuck. Say it. Say my name again.”
“Ilya,” he whispers against the fingers in his mouth. “Ilya, please.”
“You want this?”
“I do. I want it. Please.”
Ilya pulls his fingers out then, finds Shane’s hole. He traces the rim slowly, once, and then presses in.
Shane groans. Something inside him clicks into place. The pressure is sharp but so welcomed at the same time. He tenses just the slightest bit, and Ilya pulls his face down with his free hand to kiss him again. “Stay with me, Shane.”
He adds a second finger, eventually, stretching Shane for a long while until he feels entirely boneless like that, splayed out like an offering on top of Ilya. The uncomfortable tightness turns into mind numbing pleasure, and it’s not long until Shane is rocking his hips back and forth, fucking himself on Ilya’s fingers, begging for Ilya to do something. Anything.
“I need to cum,” he says—no, pleads. “Please, Ilya. Please. Cum with me. Cum inside me.”
“I won’t.”
“You said—”
“Inside you, yes, but I won’t hurt you,” Ilya shakes his head, though he presses his fingers in further as he says the words. Shane moans brokenly, hand slipping where he’s grasping the back of the couch. “No.”
“I can handle it.”
“I won’t,” Ilya repeats, and that’s final. He pulls his fingers out, then drags Shane in for a kiss before he can complain. “Not like this. Next time.”
And then he guides Shane back down, back to his cock. Shane opens his mouth and takes him back in again.
Ilya’s thrusts are much slower now, though no less desperate. Shane knows he’s about to cum, so he doubles his efforts. Tries to take him further than he did earlier. It’s no use, really. Ilya could probably cum from anything Shane does at this point.
It all comes to an end a few thrusts later. Ilya hissing and groaning so hard and deep it’s almost a growl. He cums in Shane’s mouth, which he swallows eagerly and dutifully, making sure nothing slips out of his mouth as he does. Ilya pulls him off his cock then, says “Good. You are so good, lyubimyy, so good for me. Fuck. Shane. Come here.”
Ilya pulls him up into his lap again, turning him so that Shane’s back presses firmly against his chest. The contact is immediate, all-encompassing. Ilya wraps his arms around him, and Shane feels the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s chest beneath his shoulder blades, the subtle strength in his grip. One of his hands moves down beneath Shane’s pants to where his own cock is hard and straining. Ilya’s grip is tight as he strokes Shane to completion, pressing wet kisses against the nape of his neck.
“Cum for me, Shane. Cum for me.”
Shane whines breathily. One, two, and then he’s done. He closes his eyes, letting his body melt against Ilya’s, weight pressing into the solid warmth of him. His breathing comes in heavy, uneven bursts, chest rising and falling as if trying to keep pace with the electricity thrumming along his nerves, where his skin brushes against Ilya’s. Every touch feels amplified, raw, like an exposed wire sparking beneath his fingertips and the curve of Ilya’s arms around him.
Ilya tilts his head back, brushing his lips over Shane’s in a slow, deliberate kiss, soft but insistent, grounding them both in the moment. Shane’s eyes stay shut, heart hammering, as Ilya murmurs more Russian words against his skin—low, intimate, unintelligible—but then one word cuts through, familiar, like it belongs to him; the one whispered just a few moments ago. Shane freezes for a heartbeat, breath hitching, mind racing, trying to attach meaning to the sound, to Ilya’s voice. He wonders what it really means, wonders if Ilya would tell him if he asks, or if he’d have to find out on his own.
Either way, it all leads to this: Shane Hollander wants to know Ilya Rozanov inside out, and then live beneath his ribs if he has to.
Shane stirs slowly, the dull ache of sleep in his limbs, and opens his eyes to the soft, diffused glow of the apartment’s warm orange light. It’s much darker than earlier, and the storm outside seems muffled beneath the cover of the night. And then he notices Ilya—sitting up slightly, eyes trained on him, a faint but guarded smile tugging at his lips.
Shane blinks, trying to clear the remnants of sleep. “What’s wrong?” he asks softly, his voice rough from rest.
Ilya shakes his head, a subtle movement, but his eyes don’t leave Shane’s face. “Nothing,” he murmurs, voice low. “I… I missed you, is all. I missed this. Us. What we have.”
Shane swallows hard, chest tightening. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “For everything. For making you wait, for… for what happened.”
Ilya reaches out, hand brushing along Shane’s arm. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says gently. “You don’t owe me that. I’m difficult. I hurt you just as much.”
Shane’s heart lurches, the weight of it pressing him closer to the edge. Ilya leans in and kisses him—just once—but deep and unhurried, the kind of kiss that holds everything they haven’t said out loud. Shane feels the warmth of it, the familiar press of Ilya’s mouth, and his body responds before his mind can catch up, shifting closer without a second thought.
“No,” Shane murmurs against Ilya’s mouth, voice urgent. “Don’t move.” He threads his fingers through Ilya’s hair, pulling him back in, holding him close. “Stay, please,” he says softly, almost pleading. “There’s no one here. It’s just you and me.”
Ilya hesitates for a heartbeat, then exhales and whispers, “Okay.”
And then they’re still, just holding each other. No words, no demands, no rush. Just the perfect certainty of being together. Outside, the snow continues to fall. Inside, nothing else exists but the two of them, tangled and safe—just Shane and just Ilya—for however long the moment will last.
The world can wait.
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