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The cottage was quiet when they finally arrived, snow falling in thick, lazy flakes that caught in Ilya’s hair and melted against Shane’s cheeks. Shane fumbled with his keys, the mulled wine from his parents’ party making his fingers clumsy, and Ilya pressed against his back, warm and solid and smelling of cinnamon and something indefinably Ilya.
“You are very slow when you are drunk,” Ilya murmured against Shane’s ear, his breath hot enough to make Shane shiver despite the cold.
“I’m not drunk,” Shane protested, finally getting the door open. “I’m… pleasantly buzzed.”
Ilya’s laugh was low and rich as they stumbled inside, shedding coats and boots in a trail toward the living room. The cottage was already warm—Shane had left the heat on—and the Christmas tree they’d decorated two days ago glowed softly in the corner, casting shadows that danced across the walls.
“Your mother kept giving me more wine,” Ilya said, collapsing onto the couch with a satisfied groan. He sprawled there like he owned the place, one arm stretched along the back, his sweater riding up to show a strip of pale stomach. “I think she was trying to get me drunk.”
“She likes you,” Shane said, dropping down beside him. Their thighs pressed together, and Shane couldn’t help but lean into the contact. “She kept telling Svetlana about how you fixed her sink last month.”
“Was easy fix,” Ilya said, but he looked pleased. He turned his head, those sharp blue eyes softening as they traced over Shane’s face. “I like your mother too. Your whole family. Even Pike’s children, though they are very loud.”
Shane laughed, remembering Amber’s delighted shrieks when Ilya had let her “help” him build a snowman in his parents’ yard. “Arthur cried when we had to leave. I think he’s decided you’re his favorite person.”
“Smart child.” Ilya’s hand found Shane’s knee, fingers splaying possessively over the denim. “Though I think his uncle Shane is very good with children too. You let him show you his toy trucks for thirty minutes.”
“Twenty,” Shane corrected, but he was smiling. The evening had been perfect—unexpectedly, impossibly perfect. Shane had spent so many years hiding, so many Christmases carefully maintaining distance, and tonight… tonight he’d been able to sit beside Ilya on his parents’ couch. Tonight, his mother had pressed a glass of wine into Ilya’s hand and told him to make himself at home. Tonight, Hayden had rolled his eyes fondly when Ilya made a terrible pun about “hollanov” the halls, and Jackie had laughed until she nearly spilled her drink.
Svetlana had been there too, watching them with knowing eyes and a small, satisfied smile, like she’d suspected all along. She’d pulled Shane aside at one point, kissed both his cheeks, and whispered, “Take care of him. He acts tough, but he has soft heart.”
Shane had promised he would.
“What are you thinking?” Ilya asked, his thumb now drawing circles on Shane’s thigh. The touch was hypnotic, sending little sparks of heat up Shane’s spine.
“That I’m happy,” Shane said simply. It felt like a revolutionary thing to say, to admit out loud. “That this is… this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”
Something flickered across Ilya’s face—something vulnerable and raw. His hand tightened on Shane’s leg. “Me too,” he said quietly. “In Russia, Christmas was…” He trailed off, and Shane knew he was thinking of his mother, of Christmases that had stopped being joyful a long time ago. “This is better. You are better.”
Shane’s chest felt too full. He leaned in and kissed Ilya, tasting wine and sugar cookiies and home. Ilya made a soft sound against his mouth, his hand coming up to cup Shane’s jaw, thumb stroking over his cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
“Moy pomidor,” Ilya murmured when they broke apart, grinning at the flush he could undoubtedly see spreading across Shane’s face. “So red for me.”
“Shut up,” Shane said, but he was smiling, couldn’t stop smiling, and then he was kissing Ilya again, deeper this time, licking into his mouth until they were both breathing hard.
Ilya’s hands found Shane’s hips, pulling him closer until Shane was half in his lap, straddling one of Ilya’s thighs. The pressure was perfect, and Shane couldn’t help but grind down a little, making Ilya groan.
“We should—” Shane started, but Ilya cut him off with another kiss, fierce and claiming.
“We should stay here,” Ilya said against his lips. “I have been thinking about this all night. Watching you across the room, laughing with Hayden, playing with the children. Wanting to touch you but having to be good.”
“You’re never good,” Shane pointed out, but his voice had gone breathy and desperate. Ilya’s hands were under his sweater now, hot against his skin, fingernails scratching lightly at his ribs.
“I am very good right now,” Ilya corrected, his accent thickening the way it always did when he was turned on. “I am making you feel very good, yes?”
“Yes,” Shane admitted, rolling his hips again. He could feel Ilya hard beneath him, could feel his own cock straining against his jeans. “Ilya, please—”
“Please what, sweetheart?” Ilya’s hands slid lower, cupping Shane’s ass and pulling him closer. “Tell me what you want.”
Shane buried his face in Ilya’s neck, breathing him in. “You,” he said simply. “I just want you.”
Ilya made a sound that was almost pained. “You have me,” he said, his voice rough and sincere. “Always, you have me.”
They kissed again, slower this time but no less intense. Shane could taste the promise in it, the forever that they’d never quite managed to say out loud but that lived in every toucj, every glance. Ilya’s hands were reverent as they mapped Shane’s body, like he was something precious, something to be cherished.
“Bed,” Shane managed to gasp when Ilya’s mouth found the sensitive spot below his ear. “We should—bedroom—”
“Cannot wait,” Ilya growled, but he was already standing, his hands under Shane’s thighs as he lifted him. Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist with a startled laugh, holding on as Ilya carried him down the hall, somehow managing not to crash into any walls despite the wine and the distraction of Shane’s mouth on his neck.
They made it to the bedroom through sheer force of will. Ilya deposited Shane on the bed with surprising gentleness, then stood there for a moment, just looking at him. The lamp on the nightstand cast golden light across his features, turning his hair copper and his eyes impossibly blue.
“What?” Shane asked, suddenly self-conscious under that intense gaze.
“You are so beautiful,” Ilya said, and there was no teasing in his voice now, nothing but raw honesty. “Sometimes I look at you and I cannot believe you are mine.”
Shane’s throat tightened. “I’m yours,” he confirmed, reaching up to tug Ilya down onto the bed. “I’m yours, and you’re mine, and I—” The words caught in his throat, too big, too terrifying.
But Ilya understood. He always understood. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he said softly, pressing the words against Shane’s lips like a benediction. “I love you. Moy Shane. My Shane.”
“I love you too,” Shane whispered back, and it felt like the most important thing he’d ever said, more important than any captain’s speech or press conference or carefully crafted public statement. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes.”
“Do not be scared.” Ilya’s hands were gentle as he helped Shane out of his sweater, his shirt, pressing kisses to each new bit of exposed skin. “We have this now. We have each other.”
Shane arched into the touch, letting Ilya undress him with careful reverence. The wine had settled into a warm glow in his veins, making everything feel softer, sweeter, like the whole world had been wrapped in cotton wool. When Ilya’s mouth found his nipple, sucking gently, Shane gasped and threaded his fingers through Ilya’s hair.
“You still have too many clothes on,” Shane complained, tugging at Ilya’s sweater. Ilya pulled back long enough to strip it off, then his undershirt, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, the tattoo on his shoulder that Shane had traced with his tongue a hundred times.
They fumbled with the rest of their clothes, laughing when Shane’s jeans got stuck on his ankle, groaning when Ilya accidentally elbowed Shane in the ribs. It should have been awkward, but instead it was perfect, giddy and real and theirs.
Finally, finally, they were both naked, pressed skin to skin, and the laughter died in Shane’s throat because this never stopped being overwhelming, the feeling of Ilya’s body against his, the weight and heat of him.
“How do you want me?” Shane asked, and Ilya’s eyes went dark.
“Want to see your face,” Ilya said, reaching for the bedside drawer where they kept the lube. “Want to watch you when you come.”
Shane nodded, spreading his legs to make room for Ilya between them. He watched as Ilya coated his fingers, watched the concentration on his face as he pressed the first one inside. Shane had taken Ilya so many times now that his body opened easily, welcoming the intrusion, and by the time Ilya had three fingers inside him, Shane was writhing against the sheets, desperate for more.
“Please,” he begged, not even sure what he was asking for. “Ilya, please—”
“I have you,” Ilya soothed, withdrawing his fingers to slick himself up. “I always have you, sweetheart.”
He pressed inside slowly, carefully, watching Shane’s face for any sign of discomfort. But there was none—just pleasure, hot and sweet and perfect as Ilya filled him completely. Shane’s legs wrapped around Ilya’s waist, pulling him deeper, and they both groaned at the sensation.
“Shane,” Ilya breathed, and it sounded like a prayer. He started to move, long slow thrusts that made stars burst behind Shane’s eyelids. “My Shane. My perfect Shane.”
“Yours,” Shane agreed, his hands clutching at Ilya’s shoulders, his back. “All yours.”
They moved together like they’d been doing this for decades instead of years, like they’d mapped every inch of each other’s bodies and knew exactly how to make it good. Ilya’s rhythm was steady and deep, hitting that spot inside Shane that made him see white, and Shane could feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine.
“Touch yourself,” Ilya ordered, and Shane obeyed without thinking, wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking in time with Ilya’s thrusts. “Yes, like that. Want to see you, want to feel you—”
“Close,” Shane gasped. “Ilya, I’m—”
“Come for me,” Ilya said, and it was all the permission Shane needed. His orgasm hit him like a freight train, pleasure washing through him in waves as he spilled over his hand and stomach. Ilya groaned at the sight, his thrusts becoming erratic, and then he was coming too, pressing deep inside Shane as he shuddered through it.
They stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, their bodies still joined. Ilya’s forehead was pressed to Shane’s shoulder, and Shane could feel the rapid beat of his heart.
“I love you,” Shane said again, because he couldn’t say it enough, would never say it enough. “I love you so much.”
Ilya lifted his head, and his eyes were suspiciously bright. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he whispered back, pressing kisses to Shane’s face—his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his lips. “Ya tebya lyublyu, ya tebya lyublyu, ya tebya lyublyu.”
He pulled out carefully and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth to clean them both up. Shane let him, too boneless and sated to do anything but watch as Ilya took care of him with the same gentle reverence he’d shown all night.
When they were clean, Ilya climbed back into bed and pulled Shane against his chest, wrapping the blankets around them both. Shane could hear Ilya’s heartbeat beneath his ear, steady and strong, and he’d never felt safer in his life.
“Best Christmas ever,” Shane murmured, already drifting toward sleep.
Ilya pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “First of many,” he promised. “We will have many Christmases together, you and me. Many years.”
“Promise?” Shane asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“Promise,” Ilya said firmly. “I am not going anywhere, Shane. You are stuck with me now.”
Shane smiled against Ilya’s chest. “Good,” he said. “That’s exactly where I want you.”
They fell asleep like that, wrapped around each other in Shane’s bed at the cottage, while outside the snow continued to fall and Christmas morning crept closer. In the living room, the tree lights still glowed, and under the tree were two small boxes: matching watches that Shane and Ilya would exchange in the morning, laughing at how they’d both had the same idea.
But for now, there was just this: the warmth of Ilya’s body, the sound of his breathing, the certainty that Shane had finally, finally found his home.
And it was perfect.