Chapter Text
Shane Hollander liked airports because they told the truth.
They were loud, impersonal, efficient machines built to move people through systems. Nobody asked anything of you except that you take your shoes off, keep your liquids in a bag, and don’t block the walkway. Nobody cared if you were tired or nervous or pretending to be fine. You could be a body in motion and that was enough.
By the time the wheels hit the runway in Montréal, Shane had already revised his schedule twice.
Not because anything had gone wrong. Nothing had gone wrong. But revision was how he kept things from going wrong. You anticipated, you adjusted, you controlled variables, and you kept your hands steady on the parts of your life that could be held.
The conference would run Wednesday through Saturday. His role was straightforward: co-chairing a committee tasked with producing a publishable ethics report for the Association—an industry document with long-term implications and, more importantly, long-term visibility. He’d been asked because he was careful. Because he didn’t say things he couldn’t support. Because he didn’t need attention.
He didn’t like attention.
He left the plane with the other passengers and moved with them through the jet bridge. Montréal greeted him with that early-spring indecision: wet cold clinging to everything, the sky a low sheet of pale gray. He slid his carry-on along the tiled floor with a sound that was almost soothing. His phone buzzed with a notification from the conference app—welcome message, venue map, schedule updates. He dismissed it without reading. He already knew where he was supposed to be.
Shane had never been the kind of person who got lost.
The taxi line moved quickly. He gave the driver the hotel name, buckled his seatbelt, and stared out the window without really seeing the city. Montréal always felt like someone else’s memory—beautiful, old, too many stories layered on top of each other. It wasn’t his place. That was the point. He could come here, do the work, leave.
Do the work, leave.
His phone vibrated again. Another notification. He ignored it. He had a rule about not letting his phone tell him how to feel.
When the taxi pulled up to the hotel, Shane paid, thanked the driver, and stepped into the revolving doors with the relief of entering controlled temperature. The lobby smelled like polished wood and citrus. Everything gleamed. Everything had been designed to look effortless.
He checked his watch. Ten minutes early for check-in. Perfect.
The line at the front desk was short. He wheeled his suitcase forward, watching the slow choreography of business travelers: ID out, card down, polite nod, keycard returned. He liked this part, the ritual. You could be anyone in a hotel lobby. You could be no one.
He glanced at the conference signage mounted near the elevators—clean typography, the Association’s logo, arrows pointing to meeting rooms and ballrooms. Underneath it, a row of high-top tables had been set up with pamphlets and tote bags and lanyards, bright as bait.
He didn’t need a tote bag. He already had a notebook. He’d brought his own pens.
He reached into his jacket pocket for his ID.
“Mr. Hollander?”
The voice wasn’t unfamiliar. That was the worst part—how his body recognized it before his mind could deny it.
Shane’s fingers went still against the edge of his wallet. For a moment, he considered the possibility that he’d imagined it. Airports and hotels were loud. Names got spoken all the time.
Then the voice came again, closer now, amused in a way that made the hairs on the back of Shane’s neck lift.
“Hello. You look very… on time.”
Shane turned slowly, like he could control the speed of the moment and therefore its impact.
Ilya Rozanov stood three feet away with a conference lanyard already around his neck, badge swinging against his chest like he’d been born wearing it. He looked exactly like himself and, impossibly, like someone who’d learned a new kind of stillness. The same broad shoulders, the same mouth built for smirking, the same eyes that made Shane feel like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. But there was something else too—an ease under the provocation, as if the jokes weren’t covering fear anymore. As if he’d gotten better at living with whatever had happened.
Shane’s throat tightened. He kept his face neutral.
“Ilya,” he said. His voice came out even. Controlled. Like this was a normal greeting between colleagues.
Ilya’s smile widened by a fraction. “Shane.”
Hearing his name in Ilya’s voice hit like the first drop of cold water down a collar. It shouldn’t have meant anything. Names were names. Shane had been called worse things and better things and none of them had made his chest ache like that.
He reminded himself of the rules. Be polite. Be brief. Be professional.
“How was your flight?” Shane asked.
Ilya blinked, like the question had startled him. Then he laughed softly, the sound warm and mocking at the same time.
“Ah. We are doing this,” Ilya said. “We are strangers in lobby. Good.”
Shane’s fingers tightened around his wallet until the leather bent. “We’re not strangers.”
Ilya’s gaze held his. Something sharpened behind the humor.
“No,” Ilya agreed, still smiling. “Not strangers.”
The pause that followed was too heavy to be a pause. Shane felt it in his shoulders, in the space between his ribs. He couldn’t afford the weight of it here, in public, in a line, under fluorescent lights and the casual attention of strangers.
He looked away first. It was a choice. It felt like failure.
“I should check in,” he said, because movement was safer than stillness.
“Of course,” Ilya said. “You have schedule.”
Shane stepped forward in the line. The woman at the front desk smiled at him with practiced warmth.
“Welcome,” she said. “Name?”
“Hollander,” Shane answered, and felt Ilya behind him like heat.
The woman typed. “Yes, Mr. Hollander. We have you for four nights. May I see your ID and a credit card?”
Shane handed them over. His hands didn’t shake. His hands never shook.
Behind him, Ilya hummed as if he was bored. Shane could feel the vibration of it in his spine.
The woman returned his cards and slid a key packet across the counter. “You’re in room 1412. Breakfast is served on the mezzanine—”
“Thank you,” Shane said, cutting her off politely, because if he stayed here too long his composure might start to show strain around the edges.
He picked up his suitcase and stepped away from the desk.
Ilya fell into step beside him without being invited, like he’d always done that. Like he had the right.
Shane kept walking toward the elevators.
“So,” Ilya said, tone bright and casual. “How long you will pretend I am not here?”
Shane pressed the button for the elevator and watched it light up. “I’m not pretending.”
“You are,” Ilya said cheerfully. “It is your favorite hobby. Pretend things are fine. Pretend you are fine. Pretend—”
“Stop,” Shane said quietly.
Ilya stopped speaking. Not because he’d been ordered. Because he’d heard something in Shane’s voice. Something that made him tilt his head, expression shifting into alert attention.
The elevator doors opened with a chime. Shane stepped in. Ilya stepped in after him. There were two other people inside: a middle-aged couple with matching rolling suitcases. They glanced at Shane and Ilya and then looked away with the polite disinterest of people who didn’t want to be perceived.
Shane stood in the corner and faced the doors.
Ilya stood too close.
“You are still doing the thing,” Ilya murmured, low enough that only Shane could hear. “The small voice. The polite face. Like if you keep it tight, it won’t explode.”
Shane’s jaw clenched. He stared at the elevator panel and pressed 14.
“Don’t,” he said.
Ilya’s breath brushed the side of his face as he leaned in slightly. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t do this here,” Shane said, still facing forward.
Ilya was quiet for two floors. Shane’s muscles stayed tense anyway.
When the couple stepped out on the tenth floor, the elevator became suddenly emptier. The air changed.
Ilya spoke again, softer. “Okay.”
The single word made Shane’s chest loosen a fraction. Not because it was agreement. Because it was restraint. Because Ilya—who had never been good at leaving things alone—was choosing, for the moment, to hold back.
Shane didn’t know what to do with that.
The doors opened on the fourteenth floor. Shane stepped out quickly, as if speed could keep him from being followed. It didn’t.
They walked down the hallway together. The carpet was thick enough to mute their footsteps.
Shane stopped at his door and slid the keycard in. The lock flashed green.
He turned to Ilya, because he had to. Because it would be stranger not to. Because if he didn’t address this now it would become a bigger thing later, and later was always worse.
“We’ll see each other at the committee meeting,” Shane said.
Ilya’s smile returned, slower this time. “Yes. We will.”
Shane nodded once. He didn’t offer anything else.
Ilya leaned in, not touching, just close enough that Shane could smell him—soap and something warmer underneath, like skin after winter air.
“You still smell like… laundry,” Ilya said thoughtfully. “Like you are afraid of having smell.”
Shane’s stomach clenched. “Good night, Ilya.”
Ilya’s eyes flicked over his face, as if he was cataloging each controlled line of it for later. “Good night, Shane.”
Shane turned and went into his room without looking back. He shut the door and pressed his forehead against it for one second—exactly one second—and then straightened.
The room was quiet, neutral, expensive. Beige carpet. A desk with a lamp. A bed so tightly made it looked unused. A view of gray city through a wide window.
He set his suitcase down, hung his coat in the closet, and moved through the familiar unpacking routine with the precision of a ritual. Laptop on the desk. Notebook beside it. Charger plugged in. Toiletries lined up on the bathroom counter.
He took a breath. Slow in, slow out.
This was manageable.
It was, he told himself, just a coincidence.
Ilya was here. Shane was here. They would do the work. They would be professional. They would not—
His phone buzzed on the desk.
Shane stared at it for a long moment before picking it up.
A message from the conference app: Welcome, Committee Leads! Your co-chair briefing packet is now available.
He tapped it open, thumb moving automatically. The packet loaded, crisp PDF pages with headings and bullet points. He scanned the first page.
Ethics Task Force Report — Co-Chairs:
Shane Hollander
Ilya Rozanov
Shane’s vision narrowed. His grip tightened on the phone until his knuckles whitened.
No. He’d read the assignment list earlier in the lobby, but he’d assumed it was a mistake. A clerical oversight. Something that would be corrected once people realized the conflict of interest, whatever they considered conflict in this context.
He scrolled down. Agenda. Milestones. Required attendance. Public panel presentation.
Then he saw it.
Mandatory Co-Chair Working Sessions: Daily, 8:00–10:00 a.m. (Room Laurier B)
Mandatory Networking Events: Welcome Reception, Private Leadership Dinner, Panel Q&A
Deliverable Deadline: Saturday, 12:00 p.m.
He felt his pulse in his throat.
His phone buzzed again before he could set it down.
This time it was a calendar invite.
Subject: Co-Chair Working Session — Hollander/Rozanov
Time: Tomorrow, 8:00–10:00 a.m.
Location: Laurier B
Note: Attendance required.
Shane stared at the screen until the letters blurred slightly. He swiped away the notification. Another popped up immediately: a group message from Rosie, the project lead, introducing the committee leads and thanking them for their participation.
He read it twice without absorbing it.
His hands stayed steady. His breathing did not.
He set the phone down and sat in the desk chair with careful slowness, like he was afraid sudden movement would cause something to shatter.
This wasn’t a coincidence.
Someone had looked at the list of participants and decided this was fine. Someone had paired him with Ilya intentionally, or at least without concern. Someone had created a structure that would put them in the same rooms, at the same tables, in public and in private, with obligations and visibility and no easy exit.
He should email Rosie. He should request reassignment. He should explain—
Explain what?
That he had once been too close to Ilya? That he had left? That he had hurt him? That he couldn’t do a report because his heart was tangled up in the other co-chair’s voice?
It would be ridiculous. It would be humiliating. It would be unprofessional in the worst way.
Shane closed his eyes.
Control, he reminded himself. Structure.
He opened his laptop and pulled up the report template. He began to work.
He made an outline. He drafted the first paragraph. He wrote in the clean, neutral language he was known for: clear definitions, precise scope, measurable outcomes. He let the words come like steps on stairs.
For twenty minutes, it worked. For twenty minutes, he was just a man doing his job.
Then his phone buzzed again.
A text message. Not from the conference app. From an unknown number.
Shane’s stomach dropped. His thumb hovered over the screen.
He opened it.
Coffee. 6 a.m. You will come.
A location pin followed.
Shane stared at the message until his eyes burned.
He didn’t have Ilya’s number saved anymore.
He had deleted it. He had deleted everything that could summon Ilya with a simple press of a finger. He had erased the evidence of how easily he’d once reached for him.
And yet here it was. Ilya’s voice, through text, sounding exactly like Ilya: an order disguised as a joke disguised as a dare.
Shane’s first impulse was to ignore it.
His second impulse—stronger, more honest—was to comply.
He set the phone down carefully as if it might bite.
He went back to the report. He forced his fingers to move. He wrote another paragraph. Another.
His mind kept slipping, like a tire losing traction on ice, back to the elevator, to the smell of Ilya’s soap, to the way Ilya had said his name like it mattered.
He stopped typing and pressed his palms flat on the desk.
No.
He wasn’t doing this. He wasn’t going to unravel in a hotel room because Ilya was present again. He wasn’t going to let a past mistake infect his work. He wasn’t going to—
His phone buzzed again.
Another text.
I will be there. You will come.
Shane’s breath caught, sharp.
He sat very still. He felt the pull in his chest, the old and familiar ache of being seen and demanded and wanted. He felt, underneath it, the fear: if he went, he would be conceding something. If he went, he would be stepping back into the orbit he had fled. If he went, he would be acknowledging that Ilya still had the power to tilt his entire internal world off its axis with four words and a location pin.
If he didn’t go…
He imagined Ilya sitting alone in a café at six a.m., waiting, smile gone, eyes hard. He imagined the satisfaction Ilya would pretend not to feel at being proven right: Shane disappears. Shane always disappears.
Shane closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.
He picked up his phone again. He stared at the message. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He typed: I can’t.
He deleted it.
He typed: We should keep this professional.
He deleted it.
He typed nothing at all.
He set the phone down and stood. He crossed to the window. He watched the city lights blink on in the gray, distant and impersonal.
He didn’t like attention, but he hated absence more.
Three years ago, he’d told himself leaving quietly had been kinder. That it had spared Ilya the mess of Shane’s uncertainty, Shane’s fear, Shane’s need. That it had been the mature choice, the responsible choice.
He’d told himself a lot of things.
Ilya was here anyway.
And the thing Shane had never been able to control—not really—was the way Ilya made everything feel immediate. Like choices mattered. Like silence was an action, not a neutral space.
Shane turned away from the window and went back to the desk.
He opened his calendar. He created a new event.
Coffee — 6:00 a.m.
He set an alarm for 5:40.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, then hit save.
His chest felt tight, but his hands were steady.
He didn’t reply to Ilya’s text. He didn’t have to. Ilya already knew.
Shane shut the laptop and stood, because there was nothing more he could do tonight without lying to himself. He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and washed his face. He moved through the motions with the same careful control he used for everything else.
In bed, the hotel sheets were too crisp, too clean. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.
He told himself this was still manageable.
He told himself he would get through the conference.
He told himself he could do the work, leave, and go back to his life.
And then, in the dark, his phone lit up one last time—not a message, but another calendar notification pushing through.
Co-Chair Working Session — Hollander/Rozanov.
Tomorrow, 8:00 a.m.
Attendance required.
Shane watched the alert until the screen dimmed again.
He turned his head to the side and closed his eyes.
In the quiet, he could almost hear Ilya’s voice, amused and knowing.
How long you will pretend I am not here?
Shane’s chest rose and fell once, controlled.
He didn’t answer.
But his alarm was set.